[illustration: the so-called delicious, intangible joke] molly make-believe by eleanor hallowell abbott with illustrations by walter tittle new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. * * * * * to my silent partner * * * * * list of illustrations the so-called delicious, intangible joke _frontispiece_ "good enough!" he chuckled every girl like cornelia had to go south sometime between november and march an elderly dame a much-freckled messenger-boy appeared dragging an exceedingly obstreperous fox-terrier "well i'll be hanged," growled stanton, "if i'm going to be strung by any boy!" some poor old worn-out story-writer "maybe she is--'colored,'" he volunteered at last "oh! don't i look--gorgeous!" she stammered "what?" cried stanton, plunging forward in his chair cornelia's mother answered this time he unbuckled the straps of his suitcase and turned the cover backward on the floor "are you a good boy?" she asked "it's only carl," he said * * * * * molly make-believe i the morning was as dark and cold as city snow could make it--a dingy whirl at the window; a smoky gust through the fireplace; a shadow black as a bear's cave under the table. nothing in all the cavernous room, loomed really warm or familiar except a glass of stale water, and a vapid, half-eaten grape-fruit. packed into his pudgy pillows like a fragile piece of china instead of a human being carl stanton lay and cursed the brutal northern winter. between his sturdy, restive shoulders the rheumatism snarled and clawed like some utterly frenzied animal trying to gnaw-gnaw-gnaw its way out. along the tortured hollow of his back a red-hot plaster fumed and mulled and sucked at the pain like a hideously poisoned fang trying to gnaw-gnaw-gnaw its way in. worse than this; every four or five minutes an agony as miserably comic as a crashing blow on one's crazy bone went jarring and shuddering through his whole abnormally vibrant system. in stanton's swollen fingers cornelia's large, crisp letter rustled not softly like a lady's skirts but bleakly as an ice-storm in december woods. cornelia's whole angular handwriting, in fact, was not at all unlike a thicket of twigs stripped from root to branch of every possible softening leaf. "dear carl" crackled the letter, "in spite of your unpleasant tantrum yesterday, because i would not kiss you good-by in the presence of my mother, i am good-natured enough you see to write you a good-by letter after all. but i certainly will not promise to write you daily, so kindly do not tease me any more about it. in the first place, you understand that i greatly dislike letter-writing. in the second place you know jacksonville quite as well as i do, so there is no use whatsoever in wasting either my time or yours in purely geographical descriptions. and in the third place, you ought to be bright enough to comprehend by this time just what i think about 'love-letters' anyway. i have told you once that i love you, and that ought to be enough. people like myself do not change. i may not talk quite as much as other people, but when i once say a thing i mean it! you will never have cause, i assure you, to worry about my fidelity. "i will honestly try to write you every sunday these next six weeks, but i am not willing to literally promise even that. mother indeed thinks that we ought not to write very much at all until our engagement is formally announced. "trusting that your rheumatism is very much better this morning, i am "hastily yours, "cornelia. "p. s. apropos of your sentimental passion for letters, i enclose a ridiculous circular which was handed to me yesterday at the woman's exchange. you had better investigate it. it seems to be rather your kind." as the letter fluttered out of his hand stanton closed his eyes with a twitch of physical suffering. then he picked up the letter again and scrutinized it very carefully from the severe silver monogram to the huge gothic signature, but he could not find one single thing that he was looking for;--not a nourishing paragraph; not a stimulating sentence; not even so much as one small sweet-flavored word that was worth filching out of the prosy text to tuck away in the pockets of his mind for his memory to munch on in its hungry hours. now everybody who knows anything at all knows perfectly well that even a business letter does not deserve the paper which it is written on unless it contains at least one significant phrase that is worth waking up in the night to remember and think about. and as to the lover who does not write significant phrases--heaven help the young mate who finds himself thus mismated to so spiritually commonplace a nature! baffled, perplexed, strangely uneasy, stanton lay and studied the barren page before him. then suddenly his poor heart puckered up like a persimmon with the ghastly, grim shock which a man experiences when he realizes for the first time that the woman whom he loves is not shy, but--_stingy_. with snow and gloom and pain and loneliness the rest of the day dragged by. hour after hour, helpless, hopeless, utterly impotent as though time itself were bleeding to death, the minutes bubbled and dripped from the old wooden clock. by noon the room was as murky as dish-water, and stanton lay and fretted in the messy, sudsy snow-light like a forgotten knife or spoon until the janitor wandered casually in about three o'clock and wrung a piercing little wisp of flame out of the electric-light bulb over the sick man's head, and raised him clumsily out of his soggy pillows and fed him indolently with a sad, thin soup. worst of all, four times in the dreadful interim between breakfast and supper the postman's thrilly footsteps soared up the long metallic stairway like an ecstatically towering high-note, only to flat off discordantly at stanton's door without even so much as a one-cent advertisement issuing from the letter-slide.--and there would be thirty or forty more days just like this the doctor had assured him; and cornelia had said that--perhaps, if she felt like it--she would write--six--times. then night came down like the feathery soot of a smoky lamp, and smutted first the bedquilt, then the hearth-rug, then the window-seat, and then at last the great, stormy, faraway outside world. but sleep did not come. oh, no! nothing new came at all except that particularly wretched, itching type of insomnia which seems to rip away from one's body the whole kind, protecting skin and expose all the raw, ticklish fretwork of nerves to the mercy of a gritty blanket or a wrinkled sheet. pain came too, in its most brutally high night-tide; and sweat, like the smother of furs in summer; and thirst like the scrape of hot sand-paper; and chill like the clammy horror of raw fish. then, just as the mawkish cold, gray dawn came nosing over the house-tops, and the poor fellow's mind had reached the point where the slam of a window or the ripping creak of a floorboard would have shattered his brittle nerves into a thousand cursing tortures--then that teasing, tantalizing little friend of all rheumatic invalids--the morning nap--came swooping down upon him like a sponge and wiped out of his face every single bit of the sharp, precious evidence of pain which he had been accumulating so laboriously all night long to present to the doctor as an incontestable argument in favor of an opiate. whiter than his rumpled bed, but freshened and brightened and deceptively free from pain, he woke at last to find the pleasant yellow sunshine mottling his dingy carpet like a tortoise-shell cat. instinctively with his first yawny return to consciousness he reached back under his pillow for cornelia's letter. out of the stiff envelope fluttered instead the tiny circular to which cornelia had referred so scathingly. it was a dainty bit of gray japanese tissue with the crimson-inked text glowing gaily across it. something in the whole color scheme and the riotously quirky typography suggested at once the audaciously original work of some young art student who was fairly splashing her way along the road to financial independence, if not to fame. and this is what the little circular said, flushing redder and redder and redder with each ingenuous statement: the serial-letter company. comfort and entertainment furnished for invalids, travelers, and all lonely people. real letters from imaginary persons. reliable as your daily paper. fanciful as your favorite story magazine. personal as a message from your best friend. offering all the satisfaction of _receiving_ letters with no possible obligation or even opportunity of answering them. sample list. letters from a japanese fairy. (especially acceptable bi-weekly. to a sick child. fragrant with incense and sandal wood. vivid with purple and orange and scarlet. lavishly interspersed with the most adorable japanese toys that you ever saw in your life.) letters from a little son. (very sturdy. very weekly. spunky. slightly profane.) letters from a little daughter. (quaint. old-fashioned. weekly. daintily dreamy. mostly about dolls.) letters from a banda-sea pirate. (luxuriantly tropical. monthly. salter than the sea. sharper than coral. unmitigatedly murderous. altogether blood-curdling.) letters from a gray-plush squirrel. (sure to please nature irregular. lovers of either sex. pungent with wood-lore. prowly. scampery. deliciously wild. apt to be just a little bit messy perhaps with roots and leaves and nuts.) letters from your favorite (biographically consistent. historical character. historically reasonable. fortnightly. most vivaciously human. really unique.) love letters. (three grades: shy. daily. medium. very intense.) in ordering letters kindly state approximate age, prevalent tastes,--and in case of invalidism, the presumable severity of illness. for price list, etc., refer to opposite page. address all communications to serial letter co. box, etc., etc. as stanton finished reading the last solemn business detail he crumpled up the circular into a little gray wad, and pressed his blond head back into the pillows and grinned and grinned. "good enough!" he chuckled. "if cornelia won't write to me there seem to be lots of other congenial souls who will--cannibals and rodents and kiddies. all the same--" he ruminated suddenly: "all the same i'll wager that there's an awfully decent little brain working away behind all that red ink and nonsense." still grinning he conjured up the vision of some grim-faced spinster-subscriber in a desolate country town starting out at last for the first time in her life, with real, cheery self-importance, rain or shine, to join the laughing, jostling, deliriously human saturday night crowd at the village post-office--herself the only person whose expected letter never failed to come! from squirrel or pirate or hopping hottentot--what did it matter to her? just the envelope alone was worth the price of the subscription. how the pink-cheeked high school girls elbowed each other to get a peep at the post-mark! how the--. better still, perhaps some hopelessly unpopular man in a dingy city office would go running up the last steps just a little, wee bit faster--say the second and fourth mondays in the month--because of even a bought, made-up letter from mary queen of scots that he knew absolutely without slip or blunder would be waiting there for him on his dusty, ink-stained desk among all the litter of bills and invoices concerning--shoe leather. whether 'mary queen of scots' prattled pertly of ancient english politics, or whimpered piteously about dull-colored modern fashions--what did it matter so long as the letter came, and smelled of faded fleur-de-lis--or of darnley's tobacco smoke? altogether pleased by the vividness of both these pictures stanton turned quite amiably to his breakfast and gulped down a lukewarm bowl of milk without half his usual complaint. [illustration: "good enough!" he chuckled] it was almost noon before his troubles commenced again. then like a raging hot tide, the pain began in the soft, fleshy soles of his feet and mounted up inch by inch through the calves of his legs, through his aching thighs, through his tortured back, through his cringing neck, till the whole reeking misery seemed to foam and froth in his brain in an utter frenzy of furious resentment. again the day dragged by with maddening monotony and loneliness. again the clock mocked him, and the postman shirked him, and the janitor forgot him. again the big, black night came crowding down and stung him and smothered him into a countless number of new torments. again the treacherous morning nap wiped out all traces of the pain and left the doctor still mercilessly obdurate on the subject of an opiate. and cornelia did not write. not till the fifth day did a brief little southern note arrive informing him of the ordinary vital truths concerning a comfortable journey, and expressing a chaste hope that he would not forget her. not even surprise, not even curiosity, tempted stanton to wade twice through the fashionable, angular handwriting. dully impersonal, bleak as the shadow of a brown leaf across a block of gray granite, plainly--unforgivably--written with ink and ink only, the stupid, loveless page slipped through his fingers to the floor. after the long waiting and the fretful impatience of the past few days there were only two plausible ways in which to treat such a letter. one way was with anger. one way was with amusement. with conscientious effort stanton finally summoned a real smile to his lips. stretching out perilously from his snug bed he gathered the waste-basket into his arms and commenced to dig in it like a sportive terrier. after a messy minute or two he successfully excavated the crumpled little gray tissue circular and smoothed it out carefully on his humped-up knees. the expression in his eyes all the time was quite a curious mixture of mischief and malice and rheumatism. "after all" he reasoned, out of one corner of his mouth, "after all, perhaps i have misjudged cornelia. maybe it's only that she really doesn't know just what a love-letter ought to be like." then with a slobbering fountain-pen and a few exclamations he proceeded to write out a rather large check and a very small note. "to the serial-letter co." he addressed himself brazenly. "for the enclosed check--which you will notice doubles the amount of your advertised price--kindly enter my name for a six weeks' special 'edition de luxe' subscription to one of your love-letter serials. (any old ardor that comes most convenient) approximate age of victim: . business status: rubber broker. prevalent tastes: to be able to sit up and eat and drink and smoke and go to the office the way other fellows do. nature of illness: the meanest kind of rheumatism. kindly deliver said letters as early and often as possible! "very truly yours, etc." sorrowfully then for a moment he studied the depleted balance in his check-book. "of course" he argued, not unguiltily, "of course that check was just the amount that i was planning to spend on a turquoise-studded belt for cornelia's birthday; but if cornelia's brains really need more adorning than does her body--if this special investment, in fact, will mean more to both of us in the long run than a dozen turquoise belts--." big and bland and blond and beautiful, cornelia's physical personality loomed up suddenly in his memory--so big, in fact, so bland, so blond, so splendidly beautiful, that he realized abruptly with a strange little tucked feeling in his heart that the question of cornelia's "brains" had never yet occurred to him. pushing the thought impatiently aside he sank back luxuriantly again into his pillows, and grinned without any perceptible effort at all as he planned adroitly how he would paste the serial love letters one by one into the gaudiest looking scrap-book that he could find and present it to cornelia on her birthday as a text-book for the "newly engaged" girl. and he hoped and prayed with all his heart that every individual letter would be printed with crimson ink on a violet-scented page and would fairly reek from date to signature with all the joyous, ecstatic silliness that graces either an old-fashioned novel or a modern breach-of-promise suit. so, quite worn out at last with all this unwonted excitement, he drowsed off to sleep for as long as ten minutes and dreamed that he was a--bigamist. the next day and the next night were stale and mean and musty with a drizzling winter rain. but the following morning crashed inconsiderately into the world's limp face like a snowball spiked with icicles. gasping for breath and crunching for foothold the sidewalk people breasted the gritty cold. puckered with chills and goose-flesh, the fireside people huddled and sneezed around their respective hearths. shivering like the ague between his cotton-flannel blankets, stanton's courage fairly raced the mercury in its downward course. by noon his teeth were chattering like a mouthful of cracked ice. by night the sob in his thirsty throat was like a lump of salt and snow. but nothing outdoors or in, from morning till night, was half as wretchedly cold and clammy as the rapidly congealing hot-water bottle that slopped and gurgled between his aching shoulders. it was just after supper when a messenger boy blurted in from the frigid hall with a great gust of cold and a long pasteboard box and a letter. frowning with perplexity stanton's clumsy fingers finally dislodged from the box a big, soft blanket-wrapper with an astonishingly strange, blurry pattern of green and red against a somber background of rusty black. with increasing amazement he picked up the accompanying letter and scanned it hastily. "dear lad," the letter began quite intimately. but it was not signed "cornelia". it was signed "molly"! ii turning nervously back to the box's wrapping-paper stanton read once more the perfectly plain, perfectly unmistakable name and address,--his own, repeated in absolute duplicate on the envelope. quicker than his mental comprehension mere physical embarrassment began to flush across his cheek-bones. then suddenly the whole truth dawned on him: the first installment of his serial-love-letter had arrived. "but i thought--thought it would be type-written," he stammered miserably to himself. "i thought it would be a--be a--hectographed kind of a thing. why, hang it all, it's a real letter! and when i doubled my check and called for a special edition de luxe--i wasn't sitting up on my hind legs begging for real presents!" but "dear lad" persisted the pleasant, round, almost childish handwriting: "dear lad, "i could have _cried_ yesterday when i got your letter telling me how sick you were. yes!--but crying wouldn't 'comfy' you any, would it? so just to send you right-off-quick something to prove that i'm thinking of you, here's a great, rollicking woolly wrapper to keep you snug and warm this very night. i wonder if it would interest you any at all to know that it is made out of a most larksome outlaw up on my grandfather's sweet-meadowed farm,--a really, truly black sheep that i've raised all my own sweaters and mittens on for the past five years. only it takes two whole seasons to raise a blanket-wrapper, so please be awfully much delighted with it. and oh, mr. sick boy, when you look at the funny, blurry colors, couldn't you just please pretend that the tinge of green is the flavor of pleasant pastures, and that the streak of red is the cardinal flower that blazed along the edge of the noisy brook? "goodby till to-morrow, "molly." with a face so altogether crowded with astonishment that there was no room left in it for pain, stanton's lame fingers reached out inquisitively and patted the warm, woolly fabric. "nice old lamb--y" he acknowledged judicially. then suddenly around the corners of his under lip a little balky smile began to flicker. "of course i'll save the letter for cornelia," he protested, "but no one could really expect me to paste such a scrumptious blanket-wrapper into a scrap-book." laboriously wriggling his thinness and his coldness into the black sheep's luxuriant, irresponsible fleece, a bulging side-pocket in the wrapper bruised his hip. reaching down very temperishly to the pocket he drew forth a small lace-trimmed handkerchief knotted pudgily across a brimming handful of fir-balsam needles. like a scorching hot august breeze the magic, woodsy fragrance crinkled through his nostrils. "these people certainly know how to play the game all right," he reasoned whimsically, noting even the consistent little letter "m" embroidered in one corner of the handkerchief. then, because he was really very sick and really very tired, he snuggled down into the new blessed warmth and turned his gaunt cheek to the pillow and cupped his hand for sleep like a drowsy child with its nose and mouth burrowed eagerly down into the expectant draught. but the cup did not fill.--yet scented deep in his curved, empty, balsam-scented fingers lurked--somehow--somewhere--the dregs of a wonderful dream: boyhood, with the hot, sweet flutter of summer woods, and the pillowing warmth of the soft, sunbaked earth, and the crackle of a twig, and the call of a bird, and the drone of a bee, and the great blue, blue mystery of the sky glinting down through a green-latticed canopy overhead. for the first time in a whole, cruel tortuous week he actually smiled his way into his morning nap. when he woke again both the sun and the doctor were staring pleasantly into his face. "you look better!" said the doctor. "and more than that you don't look half so 'cussed cross'." "sure," grinned stanton, with all the deceptive, undauntable optimism of the just-awakened. "nevertheless," continued the doctor more soberly, "there ought to be somebody a trifle more interested in you than the janitor to look after your food and your medicine and all that. i'm going to send you a nurse." "oh, no!" gasped stanton. "i don't need one! and frankly--i can't afford one." shy as a girl, his eyes eluded the doctor's frank stare. "you see," he explained diffidently; "you see, i'm just engaged to be married--and though business is fairly good and all that--my being away from the office six or eight weeks is going to cut like the deuce into my commissions--and roses cost such a horrid price last fall--and there seems to be a game law on diamonds this year; they practically fine you for buying them, and--" the doctor's face brightened irrelevantly. "is she a boston young lady?" he queried. "oh, yes," beamed stanton. "good!" said the doctor. "then of course she can keep some sort of an eye on you. i'd like to see her. i'd like to talk with her--give her just a few general directions as it were." a flush deeper than any mere love-embarrassment spread suddenly over stanton's face. "she isn't here," he acknowledged with barely analyzable mortification. "she's just gone south." "_just_ gone south?" repeated the doctor. "you don't mean--since you've been sick?" stanton nodded with a rather wobbly grin, and the doctor changed the subject abruptly, and busied himself quickly with the least bad-tasting medicine that he could concoct. then left alone once more with a short breakfast and a long morning, stanton sank back gradually into a depression infinitely deeper than his pillows, in which he seemed to realize with bitter contrition that in some strange, unintentional manner his purely innocent, matter-of-fact statement that cornelia "had just gone south" had assumed the gigantic disloyalty of a public proclamation that the lady of his choice was not quite up to the accepted standard of feminine intelligence or affections, though to save his life he could not recall any single glum word or gloomy gesture that could possibly have conveyed any such erroneous impression to the doctor. [illustration: every girl like cornelia had to go south sometime between november and march] "why cornelia _had_ to go south," he reasoned conscientiously. "every girl like cornelia _had_ to go south sometime between november and march. how could any mere man even hope to keep rare, choice, exquisite creatures like that cooped up in a slushy, snowy new england city--when all the bright, gorgeous, rose-blooming south was waiting for them with open arms? 'open arms'! apparently it was only 'climates' that were allowed any such privileges with girls like cornelia. yet, after all, wasn't it just exactly that very quality of serene, dignified aloofness that had attracted him first to cornelia among the score of freer-mannered girls of his acquaintance?" glumly reverting to his morning paper, he began to read and reread with dogged persistence each item of politics and foreign news--each gibbering advertisement. at noon the postman dropped some kind of a message through the slit in the door, but the plainly discernible green one-cent stamp forbade any possible hope that it was a letter from the south. at four o'clock again someone thrust an offensive pink gas bill through the letter-slide. at six o'clock stanton stubbornly shut his eyes up perfectly tight and muffled his ears in the pillow so that he would not even know whether the postman came or not. the only thing that finally roused him to plain, grown-up sense again was the joggle of the janitor's foot kicking mercilessly against the bed. "here's your supper," growled the janitor. on the bare tin tray, tucked in between the cup of gruel and the slice of toast loomed an envelope--a real, rather fat-looking envelope. instantly from stanton's mind vanished every conceivable sad thought concerning cornelia. with his heart thumping like the heart of any love-sick school girl, he reached out and grabbed what he supposed was cornelia's letter. but it was post-marked, "boston"; and the handwriting was quite plainly the handwriting of the serial-letter co. muttering an exclamation that was not altogether pretty he threw the letter as far as he could throw it out into the middle of the floor, and turning back to his supper began to crunch his toast furiously like a dragon crunching bones. at nine o'clock he was still awake. at ten o'clock he was still awake. at eleven o'clock he was still awake. at twelve o'clock he was still awake.... at one o'clock he was almost crazy. by quarter past one, as though fairly hypnotized, his eyes began to rivet themselves on the little bright spot in the rug where the "serial-letter" lay gleaming whitely in a beam of electric light from the street. finally, in one supreme, childish impulse of petulant curiosity, he scrambled shiveringly out of his blankets with many "o--h's" and "o-u-c-h-'s," recaptured the letter, and took it growlingly back to his warm bed. worn out quite as much with the grinding monotony of his rheumatic pains as with their actual acuteness, the new discomfort of straining his eyes under the feeble rays of his night-light seemed almost a pleasant diversion. the envelope was certainly fat. as he ripped it open, three or four folded papers like sleeping-powders, all duly numbered, " a. m.," " a. m.," " a. m.," " a. m." fell out of it. with increasing inquisitiveness he drew forth the letter itself. "dear honey," said the letter quite boldly. absurd as it was, the phrase crinkled stanton's heart just the merest trifle. "dear honey: "there are so many things about your sickness that worry me. yes there are! i worry about your pain. i worry about the horrid food that you're probably getting. i worry about the coldness of your room. but most of anything in the world i worry about your _sleeplessness_. of course you _don't_ sleep! that's the trouble with rheumatism. it's such an old night-nagger. now do you know what i'm going to do to you? i'm going to evolve myself into a sort of a rheumatic nights entertainment--for the sole and explicit purpose of trying to while away some of your long, dark hours. because if you've simply _got_ to stay awake all night long and think--you might just as well be thinking about me, carl stanton. what? do you dare smile and suggest for a moment that just because of the absence between us i cannot make myself vivid to you? ho! silly boy! don't you know that the plainest sort of black ink throbs more than some blood--and the touch of the softest hand is a harsh caress compared to the touch of a reasonably shrewd pen? here--now, i say--this very moment: lift this letter of mine to your face, and swear--if you're honestly able to--that you can't smell the rose in my hair! a cinnamon rose, would you say--a yellow, flat-faced cinnamon rose? not quite so lusciously fragrant as those in your grandmother's july garden? a trifle paler? perceptibly cooler? something forced into blossom, perhaps, behind brittle glass, under barren winter moonshine? and yet--a-h-h! hear me laugh! you didn't really mean to let yourself lift the page and smell it, did you? but what did i tell you? "i mustn't waste too much time, though, on this nonsense. what i really wanted to say to you was: here are four--not 'sleeping potions', but waking potions--just four silly little bits of news for you to think about at one o'clock, and two, and three--and four, if you happen to be so miserable to-night as to be awake even then. "with my love, "molly." whimsically, stanton rummaged around in the creases of the bed-spread and extricated the little folded paper marked, "no. o'clock." the news in it was utterly brief. "my hair is red," was all that it announced. with a sniff of amusement stanton collapsed again into his pillows. for almost an hour then he lay considering solemnly whether a red-headed girl could possibly be pretty. by two o'clock he had finally visualized quite a striking, juno-esque type of beauty with a figure about the regal height of cornelia's, and blue eyes perhaps just a trifle hazier and more mischievous. but the little folded paper marked, "no. o'clock," announced destructively: "my eyes are brown. and i am _very_ little." with an absurdly resolute intention to "play the game" every bit as genuinely as miss serial-letter co. was playing it, stanton refrained quite heroically from opening the third dose of news until at least two big, resonant city clocks had insisted that the hour was ripe. by that time the grin in his face was almost bright enough of itself to illuminate any ordinary page. "i am lame," confided the third message somewhat depressingly. then snugglingly in parenthesis like the tickle of lips against his ear whispered the one phrase: "my picture is in the fourth paper,--if you should happen still to be awake at four o'clock." where now was stanton's boasted sense of honor concerning the ethics of playing the game according to directions? "wait a whole hour to see what molly looked like? well he guessed not!" fumbling frantically under his pillow and across the medicine stand he began to search for the missing "no. o'clock." quite out of breath, at last he discovered it lying on the floor a whole arm's length away from the bed. only with a really acute stab of pain did he finally succeed in reaching it. then with fingers fairly trembling with effort, he opened forth and disclosed a tiny snap-shot photograph of a grim-jawed, scrawny-necked, much be-spectacled elderly dame with a huge gray pompadour. [illustration: an elderly dame] "stung!" said stanton. rheumatism or anger, or something, buzzed in his heart like a bee the rest of the night. fortunately in the very first mail the next morning a postal-card came from cornelia--such a pretty postal-card too, with a bright-colored picture of an inordinately "riggy" looking ostrich staring over a neat wire fence at an eager group of unmistakably northern tourists. underneath the picture was written in cornelia's own precious hand the heart-thrilling information: "we went to see the ostrich farm yesterday. it was really very interesting. c." iii for quite a long time stanton lay and considered the matter judicially from every possible point of view. "it would have been rather pleasant," he mused "to know who 'we' were." almost childishly his face cuddled into the pillow. "she might at least have told me the name of the ostrich!" he smiled grimly. thus quite utterly denied any nourishing cornelia-flavored food for his thoughts, his hungry mind reverted very naturally to the tantalizing, evasive, sweetly spicy fragrance of the 'molly' episode--before the really dreadful photograph of the unhappy spinster-lady had burst upon his blinking vision. scowlingly he picked up the picture and stared and stared at it. certainly it was grim. but even from its grimness emanated the same faint, mysterious odor of cinnamon roses that lurked in the accompanying letter. "there's some dreadful mistake somewhere," he insisted. then suddenly he began to laugh, and reaching out once more for pen and paper, inscribed his second letter and his first complaint to the serial-letter co. "to the serial-letter co.," he wrote sternly, with many ferocious tremors of dignity and rheumatism. "kindly allow me to call attention to the fact that in my recent order of the th inst., the specifications distinctly stated 'love-letters', and _not_ any correspondence whatsoever,--no matter how exhilarating from either a 'gray-plush squirrel' or a 'banda sea pirate' as evidenced by enclosed photograph which i am hereby returning. please refund money at once or forward me without delay a consistent photograph of a 'special edition de luxe' girl. "very truly yours." the letter was mailed by the janitor long before noon. even as late as eleven o'clock that night stanton was still hopefully expecting an answer. nor was he altogether disappointed. just before midnight a messenger boy appeared with a fair-sized manilla envelope, quite stiff and important looking. "oh, please, sir," said the enclosed letter, "oh, please, sir, we cannot refund your subscription money because--we have spent it. but if you will only be patient, we feel quite certain that you will be altogether satisfied in the long run with the material offered you. as for the photograph recently forwarded to you, kindly accept our apologies for a very clumsy mistake made here in the office. do any of these other types suit you better? kindly mark selection and return all pictures at your earliest convenience." before the messenger boy's astonished interest stanton spread out on the bed all around him a dozen soft sepia-colored photographs of a dozen different girls. stately in satin, or simple in gingham, or deliciously hoydenish in fishing-clothes, they challenged his surprised attention. blonde, brunette, tall, short, posing with wistful tenderness in the flickering glow of an open fire, or smiling frankly out of a purely conventional vignette--they one and all defied him to choose between them. "oh! oh!" laughed stanton to himself. "am i to try and separate her picture from eleven pictures of her friends! so that's the game, is it? well, i guess not! does she think i'm going to risk choosing a tom-boy girl if the gentle little creature with the pansies is really herself? or suppose she truly is the enchanting little tom-boy, would she probably write me any more nice funny letters if i solemnly selected her sentimental, moony-looking friend at the heavily draped window?" craftily he returned all the pictures unmarked to the envelope, and changing the address hurried the messenger boy off to remail it. just this little note, hastily scribbled in pencil went with the envelope: "dear serial-letter co.: "the pictures are not altogether satisfactory. it isn't a 'type' that i am looking for, but a definite likeness of 'molly' herself. kindly rectify the mistake without further delay! or refund the money." almost all the rest of the night he amused himself chuckling to think how the terrible threat about refunding the money would confuse and conquer the extravagant little art student. but it was his own hands that did the nervous trembling when he opened the big express package that arrived the next evening, just as his tiresome porridge supper was finished. "ah, sweetheart--" said the dainty note tucked inside the package--"ah, sweetheart, the little god of love be praised for one true lover--yourself! so it is a picture of _me_ that you want? the _real me_! the _truly me_! no mere pink and white likeness? no actual proof even of 'seared and yellow age'? no curly-haired, coquettish attractiveness that the shampoo-lady and the photograph-man trapped me into for that one single second? no deceptive profile of the best side of my face--and i, perhaps, blind in the other eye? not even a fair, honest, every-day portrait of my father's and mother's composite features--but a picture of _myself_! hooray for you! a picture, then, not of my physiognomy, but of my _personality_. very well, sir. here is the portrait--true to the life--in this great, clumsy, conglomerate package of articles that represent--perhaps--not even so much the prosy, literal things that i am, as the much more illuminating and significant things that _i would like to be_. it's what we would 'like to be' that really tells most about us, isn't it, carl stanton? the brown that i have to wear talks loudly enough, for instance, about the color of my complexion, but the forbidden pink that i most crave whispers infinitely more intimately concerning the color of my spirit. and as to my face--_am i really obliged to have a face_? oh, no--o! 'songs without words' are surely the only songs in the world that are packed to the last lilting note with utterly limitless meanings. so in these 'letters without faces' i cast myself quite serenely upon the mercy of your imagination. "what's that you say? that i've simply _got_ to have a face? oh, darn!--well, do your worst. conjure up for me then, here and now, any sort of features whatsoever that please your fancy. only, man of mine, just remember this in your imaginings: gift me with beauty if you like, or gift me with brains, but do not make the crude masculine mistake of gifting me with both. thought furrows faces you know, and after adolescence only inanity retains its heavenly smoothness. beauty even at its worst is a gorgeously perfect, flower-sprinkled lawn over which the most ordinary, every-day errands of life cannot cross without scarring. and brains at their best are only a ploughed field teeming always and forever with the worries of incalculable harvests. make me a little pretty, if you like, and a little wise, but not too much of either, if you value the verities of your vision. there! i say: do your worst! make me that face, and that face only, that you _need the most_ in all this big, lonesome world: food for your heart, or fragrance for your nostrils. only, one face or another--i insist upon having _red hair_! "molly." with his lower lip twisted oddly under the bite of his strong white teeth, stanton began to unwrap the various packages that comprised the large bundle. if it was a "portrait" it certainly represented a puzzle-picture. first there was a small, flat-footed scarlet slipper with a fluffy gold toe to it. definitely feminine. definitely small. so much for that! then there was a sling-shot, ferociously stubby, and rather confusingly boyish. after that, round and flat and tantalizing as an empty plate, the phonograph disc of a totally unfamiliar song--"the sea gull's cry": a clue surely to neither age nor sex, but indicative possibly of musical preference or mere individual temperament. after that, a tiny geographical globe, with kipling's phrase-- "for to admire an' for to see, for to be'old this world so wide-- it never done no good to me, but i can't drop it if i tried!"-- written slantingly in very black ink across both hemispheres. then an empty purse--with a hole in it; a silver-embroidered gauntlet such as horsemen wear on the mexican frontier; a white table-doily partly embroidered with silky blue forget-me-nots--the threaded needle still jabbed in the work--and the small thimble, stanton could have sworn, still warm from the snuggle of somebody's finger. last of all, a fat and formidable edition of robert browning's poems; a tiny black domino-mask, such as masqueraders wear, and a shimmering gilt picture frame inclosing a pert yet not irreverent handmade adaptation of a certain portion of st. paul's epistle to the corinthians: "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not a sense of humor, i am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling symbol. and though i have the gift of prophecy--and all knowledge--so that i could remove mountains, and have not a sense of humor, i am nothing. and though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though i give my body to be burned, and have not a sense of humor it profiteth me nothing. "a sense of humor suffereth long, and is kind. a sense of humor envieth not. a sense of humor vaunteth not itself--is not puffed up. doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil--beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. a sense of humor never faileth. but whether there be unpleasant prophecies they shall fail, whether there be scolding tongues they shall cease, whether there be unfortunate knowledge it shall vanish away. when i was a fault-finding child i spake as a fault-finding child, i understood as a fault-finding child,--but when i became a woman i put away fault-finding things. "and now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three. _but the greatest of these is a sense of humor!_" with a little chuckle of amusement not altogether devoid of a very definite consciousness of being _teased_, stanton spread all the articles out on the bed-spread before him and tried to piece them together like the fragments of any other jig-saw puzzle. was the young lady as intellectual as the robert browning poems suggested, or did she mean simply to imply that she _wished_ she were? and did the tom-boyish sling-shot fit by any possible chance with the dainty, feminine scrap of domestic embroidery? and was the empty purse supposed to be especially significant of an inordinate fondness for phonograph music--or what? pondering, puzzling, fretting, fussing, he dozed off to sleep at last before he even knew that it was almost morning. and when he finally woke again he found the doctor laughing at him because he lay holding a scarlet slipper in his hand. iv the next night, very, very late, in a furious riot of wind and snow and sleet, a clerk from the drug-store just around the corner appeared with a perfectly huge hot-water bottle fairly sizzling and bubbling with warmth and relief for aching rheumatic backs. "well, where in thunder--?" groaned stanton out of his cold and pain and misery. "search me!" said the drug clerk. "the order and the money for it came in the last mail this evening. 'kindly deliver largest-sized hot-water bottle, boiling hot, to mr. carl stanton,... . to-night.'" "oo-w!" gasped stanton. "o-u-c-h! g-e-e!" then, "oh, i wish i could purr!" as he settled cautiously back at last to toast his pains against the blessed, scorching heat. "most girls," he reasoned with surprising interest, "would have sent ice cold violets shrouded in tissue paper. now, how does this special girl know--oh, ouch! o-u-c-h! o-u-c-h--i--t--y!" he crooned himself to sleep. the next night just at supper-time a much-freckled messenger-boy appeared dragging an exceedingly obstreperous fox-terrier on the end of a dangerously frayed leash. planting himself firmly on the rug in the middle of the room, with the faintest gleam of saucy pink tongue showing between his teeth, the little beast sat and defied the entire situation. nothing apparently but the correspondence concerning the situation was actually transferable from the freckled messenger boy to stanton himself. "oh, dear lad," said the tiny note, "i forgot to tell you my real name, didn't i!--well, my last name and the dog's first name are just the same. funny, isn't it? (you'll find it in the back of almost any dictionary.) "with love, "molly. "p. s. just turn the puppy out in the morning and he'll go home all right of his own accord." with his own pink tongue showing just a trifle between his teeth, stanton lay for a moment and watched the dog on the rug. cocking his small, keen, white head from one tippy angle to another, the little terrier returned the stare with an expression that was altogether and unmistakably mirthful. "oh, it's a jolly little beggar, isn't it?" said stanton. "come here, sir!" only a suddenly pointed ear acknowledged the summons. the dog himself did not budge. "come here, i say!" stanton repeated with harsh peremptoriness. palpably the little dog winked at him. then in succession the little dog dodged adroitly a knife, a spoon, a copy of browning's poems, and several other sizable articles from the table close to stanton's elbow. nothing but the dictionary seemed too big to throw. finally with a grin that could not be disguised even from the dog, stanton began to rummage with eye and hand through the intricate back pages of the dictionary. [illustration: a much-freckled messenger-boy appeared dragging an exceedingly obstreperous fox-terrier] "you silly little fool," he said. "won't you mind unless you are spoken to by name?" "aaron--abidel--abel--abiathar--" he began to read out with petulant curiosity, "baldwin--barachias--bruno (oh, hang!) cadwallader--cæsar--caleb (what nonsense!) ephraim--erasmus (how could a girl be named anything like that!) gabriel--gerard--gershom (imagine whistling a dog to the name of gershom!) hannibal--hezekiah--hosea (oh, hell!)" stolidly with unheedful, drooping ears the little fox-terrier resumed his seat on the rug. "ichabod--jabez--joab," stanton's voice persisted, experimentally. by nine o'clock, in all possible variations of accent and intonation, he had quite completely exhausted the alphabetical list as far as "k." and the little dog was blinking himself to sleep on the far side of the room. something about the dog's nodding contentment started stanton's mouth to yawning and for almost an hour he lay in the lovely, restful consciousness of being at least half asleep. but at ten o'clock he roused up sharply and resumed the task at hand, which seemed suddenly to have assumed really vital importance. "laban--lorenzo--marcellus," he began again in a loud, clear, compelling voice. "meredith--" (did the little dog stir? did he sit up?) "meredith? meredith?" the little dog barked. something in stanton's brain flashed. "it is 'merry' for the dog?" he quizzed. "here, merry!" in another instant the little creature had leaped upon the foot of his bed, and was talking away at a great rate with all sorts of ecstatic grunts and growls. stanton's hand went out almost shyly to the dog's head. "so it's 'molly meredith'," he mused. but after all there was no reason to be shy about it. it was the _dog's_ head he was stroking. tied to the little dog's collar when he went home the next morning was a tiny, inconspicuous tag that said "that was easy! the pup's name--and yours--is 'meredith.' funny name for a dog but nice for a girl." the serial-letter co.'s answers were always prompt, even though perplexing. "dear lad," came this special answer. "you are quite right about the dog. and i compliment you heartily on your shrewdness. but i must confess,--even though it makes you very angry with me, that i have deceived you absolutely concerning my own name. will you forgive me utterly if i hereby promise never to deceive you again? why what could i possibly, possibly do with a great solemn name like 'meredith'? my truly name, sir, my really, truly, honest-injun name is 'molly make-believe'. don't you know the funny little old song about 'molly make-believe'? oh, surely you do: "'molly, molly make-believe, keep to your play if you would not grieve! for molly-mine here's a hint for you, things that are true are apt to be blue!' "now you remember it, don't you? then there's something about "'molly, molly make-a-smile, wear it, swear it all the while. long as your lips are framed for a joke, who can prove that your heart is broke?' "don't you love that 'is broke'! then there's the last verse--my favorite: "'molly, molly make-a-beau, make him of mist or make him of snow, long as your dream stays fine and fair, _molly, molly what do you care!_'" "well, i'll wager that her name _is_ 'meredith' just the same," vowed stanton, "and she's probably madder than scat to think that i hit it right." whether the daily overtures from the serial-letter co. proved to be dogs or love-letters or hot-water bottles or funny old songs, it was reasonably evident that something unique was practically guaranteed to happen every single, individual night of the six weeks' subscription contract. like a youngster's joyous dream of chronic christmas eves, this realization alone was enough to put an absurdly delicious thrill of expectancy into any invalid's otherwise prosy thoughts. yet the next bit of attention from the serial-letter co. did not please stanton one half as much as it embarrassed him. wandering socially into the room from his own apartments below, a young lawyer friend of stanton's had only just seated himself on the foot of stanton's bed when an expressman also arrived with two large pasteboard hat-boxes which he straightway dumped on the bed between the two men with the laconic message that he would call for them again in the morning. "heaven preserve me!" gasped stanton. "what is this?" fearsomely out of the smaller of the two boxes he lifted with much rustling snarl of tissue paper a woman's brown fur-hat,--very soft, very fluffy, inordinately jaunty with a blush-pink rose nestling deep in the fur. out of the other box, twice as large, twice as rustly, flaunted a green velvet cavalier's hat, with a green ostrich feather as long as a man's arm drooping languidly off the brim. "holy cat!" said stanton. pinned to the green hat's crown was a tiny note. the handwriting at least was pleasantly familiar by this time. "oh, i say!" cried the lawyer delightedly. with a desperately painful effort at nonchalance, stanton shoved his right fist into the brown hat and his left fist into the green one, and raised them quizzically from the bed. "darned--good-looking--hats," he stammered. "oh, i say!" repeated the lawyer with accumulative delight. crimson to the tip of his ears, stanton rolled his eyes frantically towards the little note. "she sent 'em up just to show 'em to me," he quoted wildly. "just 'cause i'm laid up so and can't get out on the streets to see the styles for myself.--and i've got to choose between them for her!" he ejaculated. "she says she can't decide alone which one to keep!" "bully for her!" cried the lawyer, surprisingly, slapping his knee. "the cunning little girl!" speechless with astonishment, stanton lay and watched his visitor, then "well, which one would you choose?" he asked with unmistakable relief. the lawyer took the hats and scanned them carefully. "let--me--see" he considered. "her hair is so blond--" "no, it's red!" snapped stanton. with perfect courtesy the lawyer swallowed his mistake. "oh, excuse me," he said. "i forgot. but with her height--" "she hasn't any height," groaned stanton. "i tell you she's little." "choose to suit yourself," said the lawyer coolly. he himself had admired cornelia from afar off. the next night, to stanton's mixed feelings of relief and disappointment the "surprise" seemed to consist in the fact that nothing happened at all. fully until midnight the sense of relief comforted him utterly. but some time after midnight, his hungry mind, like a house-pet robbed of an accustomed meal, began to wake and fret and stalk around ferociously through all the long, empty, aching, early morning hours, searching for something novel to think about. by supper-time the next evening he was in an irritable mood that made him fairly clutch the special delivery letter out of the postman's hand. it was rather a thin, tantalizing little letter, too. all it said was, "to-night, dearest, until one o'clock, in a cabbage-colored gown all shimmery with green and blue and september frost-lights, i'm going to sit up by my white birch-wood fire and read aloud to you. yes! honest-injun! and out of browning, too. did you notice your copy was marked? what shall i read to you? shall it be "'if i could have that little head of hers painted upon a background of pale gold.' "or 'shall i sonnet-sing you about myself? do i live in a house you would like to see?' "or 'i am a painter who cannot paint, ----no end to all i cannot do. _yet do one thing at least i can, love a man, or hate a man!_' "or just 'escape me? never, beloved! while i am i, and you are you!' "oh, honey! won't it be fun? just you and i, perhaps, in all this big city, sitting up and thinking about each other. can you smell the white birch smoke in this letter?" [illustration: "well i'll be hanged," growled stanton, "if i'm going to be strung by any boy!"] almost unconsciously stanton raised the page to his face. unmistakably, up from the paper rose the strong, vivid scent--of a briar-wood pipe. "well i'll be hanged," growled stanton, "if i'm going to be strung by any boy!" out of all proportion the incident irritated him. but when, the next evening, a perfectly tremendous bunch of yellow jonquils arrived with a penciled line suggesting, "if you'll put these solid gold posies in your window to-morrow morning at eight o'clock, so i'll surely know just which window is yours, i'll look up--when i go past," stanton most peremptorily ordered the janitor to display the bouquet as ornately as possible along the narrow window-sill of the biggest window that faced the street. then all through the night he lay dozing and waking intermittently, with a lovely, scared feeling in the pit of his stomach that something really rather exciting was about to happen. by surely half-past seven he rose laboriously from his bed, huddled himself into his black-sheep wrapper and settled himself down as warmly as could be expected, close to the draughty edge of the window. v "little and lame and red-haired and brown-eyed," he kept repeating to himself. old people and young people, cab-drivers and jaunty young girls, and fat blue policeman, looked up, one and all with quick-brightening faces at the really gorgeous spring-like flame of jonquils, but in a whole chilly, wearisome hour the only red-haired person that passed was an irish setter puppy, and the only lame person was a wooden-legged beggar. cold and disgusted as he was, stanton could not altogether help laughing at his own discomfiture. "why--hang that little girl! she ought to be s-p-a-n-k-e-d," he chuckled as he climbed back into his tiresome bed. then as though to reward his ultimate good-nature the very next mail brought him a letter from cornelia, and rather a remarkable letter too, as in addition to the usual impersonal comments on the weather and the tennis and the annual orange crop, there was actually one whole, individual, intimate sentence that distinguished the letter as having been intended solely for him rather than for cornelia's dressmaker or her coachman's invalid daughter, or her own youngest brother. this was the sentence: "really, carl, you don't know how glad i am that in spite of all your foolish objections, i kept to my original purpose of not announcing my engagement until after my southern trip. you've no idea what a big difference it makes in a girl's good time at a great hotel like this." this sentence surely gave stanton a good deal of food for his day's thoughts, but the mental indigestion that ensued was not altogether pleasant. not until evening did his mood brighten again. then-- "lad of mine," whispered molly's gentler letter. "lad of mine, _how blond your hair is_!--even across the chin-tickling tops of those yellow jonquils this morning, i almost laughed to see the blond, blond shine of you.--some day i'm going to stroke that hair." (yes!) "p. s. the little dog came home all right." with a gasp of dismay stanton sat up abruptly in bed and tried to revisualize every single, individual pedestrian who had passed his window in the vicinity of eight o'clock that morning. "she evidently isn't lame at all," he argued, "or little, or red-haired, or anything. probably her name isn't molly, and presumably it isn't even 'meredith.' but at least she did go by: and is my hair so very blond?" he asked himself suddenly. against all intention his mouth began to prance a little at the corners. as soon as he could possibly summon the janitor, he despatched his third note to the serial-letter co., but this one bore a distinctly sealed inner envelope, directed, "for molly. personal." and the message in it, though brief was utterly to the point. "couldn't you _please_ tell a fellow who you are?" but by the conventional bed-time hour the next night he wished most heartily that he had not been so inquisitive, for the only entertainment that came to him at all was a jonquil-colored telegram warning him-- "where the apple reddens do not pry, lest we lose our eden--you and i." the couplet was quite unfamiliar to stanton, but it rhymed sickeningly through his brain all night long like the consciousness of an over-drawn bank account. it was the very next morning after this that all the boston papers flaunted cornelia's aristocratic young portrait on their front pages with the striking, large-type announcement that "one of boston's fairest debutantes makes a daring rescue in florida waters. hotel cook capsized from row boat owes his life to the pluck and endurance--etc., etc." with a great sob in his throat and every pulse pounding, stanton lay and read the infinite details of the really splendid story; a group of young girls dallying on the pier; a shrill cry from the bay; the sudden panic-stricken helplessness of the spectators, and then with equal suddenness the plunge of a single, feminine figure into the water; the long hard swim; the furious struggle; the final victory. stingingly, as though it had been fairly branded into his eyes, he saw the vision of cornelia's heroic young face battling above the horrible, dragging-down depths of the bay. the bravery, the risk, the ghastly chances of a less fortunate ending, sent shiver after shiver through his already tortured senses. all the loving thoughts in his nature fairly leaped to do tribute to cornelia. "yes!" he reasoned, "cornelia was made like that! no matter what the cost to herself--no matter what was the price--cornelia would never, never fail to do her _duty_!" when he thought of the weary, lagging, riskful weeks that were still to ensue before he should actually see cornelia again, he felt as though he should go utterly mad. the letter that he wrote to cornelia that night was like a letter written in a man's own heart-blood. his hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the pen. cornelia did not like the letter. she said so frankly. the letter did not seem to her quite "nice." "certainly," she attested, "it was not exactly the sort of letter that one would like to show one's mother." then, in a palpably conscientious effort to be kind as well as just, she began to prattle inkily again about the pleasant, warm, sunny weather. her only comment on saving the drowning man was the mere phrase that she was very glad that she had learned to be a good swimmer. never indeed since her absence had she spoken of missing stanton. not even now, after what was inevitably a heart-racking adventure, did she yield her lover one single iota of the information which he had a lover's right to claim. had she been frightened, for instance--way down in the bottom of that serene heart of hers had she been frightened? in the ensuing desperate struggle for life had she struggled just one little tiny bit harder because stanton was in that life? now, in the dreadful, unstrung reaction of the adventure, did her whole nature waken and yearn and cry out for that one heart in all the world that belonged to her? plainly, by her silence in the matter, she did not intend to share anything as intimate even as her fear of death with the man whom she claimed to love. it was just this last touch of deliberate, selfish aloofness that startled stanton's thoughts with the one persistent, brutally nagging question: after all, was a woman's undeniably glorious ability to save a drowning man the supreme, requisite of a happy marriage? day by day, night by night, hour by hour, minute by minute, the question began to dig into stanton's brain, throwing much dust and confusion into brain-corners otherwise perfectly orderly and sweet and clean. week by week, grown suddenly and morbidly analytical, he watched for cornelia's letters with increasingly passionate hopefulness, and met each fresh disappointment with increasingly passionate resentment. except for the serial-letter co.'s ingeniously varied attentions there was practically nothing to help him make either day or night bearable. more and more cornelia's infrequent letters suggested exquisitely painted empty dishes offered to a starving person. more and more "molly's" whimsical messages fed him and nourished him and joyously pleased him like some nonsensically fashioned candy-box that yet proved brimming full of real food for a real man. fight as he would against it, he began to cherish a sense of furious annoyance that cornelia's failure to provide for him had so thrust him out, as it were, to feed among strangers. with frowning perplexity and real worry he felt the tingling, vivid consciousness of molly's personality begin to permeate and impregnate his whole nature. yet when he tried to acknowledge and thereby cancel his personal sense of obligation to this "molly" by writing an exceptionally civil note of appreciation to the serial-letter co., the serial-letter co. answered him tersely-- "pray do not thank us for the jonquils,--blanket-wrapper, etc., etc. surely they are merely presents from yourself to yourself. it is your money that bought them." and when he had replied briefly, "well, thank you for your brains, then!" the "company" had persisted with undue sharpness, "don't thank us for our brains. brains are our business." vi it was one day just about the end of the fifth week that poor stanton's long-accumulated, long-suppressed perplexity blew up noisily just like any other kind of steam. it was the first day, too, throughout all his illness that he had made even the slightest pretext of being up and about. slippered if not booted, blanket-wrappered if not coated, shaven at least, if not shorn, he had established himself fairly comfortably, late in the afternoon, at his big study-table close to the fire, where, in his low morris chair, with his books and his papers and his lamp close at hand, he had started out once more to try and solve the absurd little problem that confronted him. only an occasional twitch of pain in his shoulder-blade, or an intermittent shudder of nerves along his spine had interrupted in any possible way his almost frenzied absorption in his subject. here at the desk very soon after supper-time the doctor had joined him, and with an unusual expression of leisure and friendliness had settled down lollingly on the other side of the fireplace with his great square-toed shoes nudging the bright, brassy edge of the fender, and his big meerschaum pipe puffing the whole bleak room most deliciously, tantalizingly full of forbidden tobacco smoke. it was a comfortable, warm place to chat. the talk had begun with politics, drifted a little way toward the architecture of several new city buildings, hovered a moment over the marriage of some mutual friend, and then languished utterly. with a sudden narrowing-eyed shrewdness the doctor turned and watched an unwonted flicker of worry on stanton's forehead. "what's bothering you, stanton?" he asked, quickly. "surely you're not worrying any more about your rheumatism?" "no," said stanton. "it--isn't--rheumatism." for an instant the two men's eyes held each other, and then stanton began to laugh a trifle uneasily. "doctor," he asked quite abruptly, "doctor, do you believe that any possible conditions could exist--that would make it justifiable for a man to show a woman's love-letter to another man?" "why--y-e-s," said the doctor cautiously, "i think so. there might be--circumstances--" still without any perceptible cause, stanton laughed again, and reaching out, picked up a folded sheet of paper from the table and handed it to the doctor. "read that, will you?" he asked. "and read it out loud." with a slight protest of diffidence, the doctor unfolded the paper, scanned the page for an instant, and began slowly. "carl of mine. "there's one thing i forgot to tell you. when you go to buy my engagement ring--i don't want any! no! i'd rather have two wedding-rings instead--two perfectly plain gold wedding-rings. and the ring for my passive left hand i want inscribed, 'to be a sweetness more desired than spring!' and the ring for my active right hand i want inscribed, 'his soul to keep!' just that. "and you needn't bother to write me that you don't understand, because you are not expected to understand. it is not man's prerogative to understand. but you are perfectly welcome if you want, to call me crazy, because i am--utterly crazy on just one subject, and _that's you_. why, beloved, if--" "here!" cried stanton suddenly reaching out and grabbing the letter. "here! you needn't read any more!" his cheeks were crimson. the doctor's eyes focused sharply on his face. "that girl loves you," said the doctor tersely. for a moment then the doctor's lips puffed silently at his pipe, until at last with an almost bashful gesture, he cried out abruptly: "stanton, somehow i feel as though i owed you an apology, or rather, owed your fiancée one. somehow when you told me that day that your young lady had gone gadding off to florida and--left you alone with your sickness, why i thought--well, most evidently i have misjudged her." stanton's throat gave a little gasp, then silenced again. he bit his lips furiously as though to hold back an exclamation. then suddenly the whole perplexing truth burst forth from him. "that isn't from my fiancée!" he cried out. "that's just a professional love-letter. i buy them by the dozen,--so much a week." reaching back under his pillow he extricated another letter. "_this_ is from my fiancée," he said. "read it. yes, do." "aloud?" gasped the doctor. stanton nodded. his forehead was wet with sweat. "dear carl, "the weather is still very warm. i am riding horseback almost every morning, however, and playing tennis almost every afternoon. there seem to be an exceptionally large number of interesting people here this winter. in regard to the list of names you sent me for the wedding, really, carl, i do not see how i can possibly accommodate so many of your friends without seriously curtailing my own list. after all you must remember that it is the bride's day, not the groom's. and in regard to your question as to whether we expect to be home for christmas and could i possibly arrange to spend christmas day with you--why, carl, you are perfectly preposterous! of course it is very kind of you to invite me and all that, but how could mother and i possibly come to your rooms when our engagement is not even announced? and besides there is going to be a very smart dance here christmas eve that i particularly wish to attend. and there are plenty of christmases coming for you and me. "cordially yours, "cornelia. "p. s. mother and i hope that your rheumatism is much better." "that's the girl who loves me," said stanton not unhumorously. then suddenly all the muscles around his mouth tightened like the facial muscles of a man who is hammering something. "i mean it!" he insisted. "i mean it--absolutely. that's the--girl--who--loves--me!" silently the two men looked at each other for a second. then they both burst out laughing. "oh, yes," said stanton at last, "i know it's funny. that's just the trouble with it. it's altogether too funny." out of a book on the table beside him he drew the thin gray and crimson circular of the serial-letter co. and handed it to the doctor. then after a moment's rummaging around on the floor beside him, he produced with some difficulty a long, pasteboard box fairly bulging with papers and things. "these are the--communications from my make-believe girl," he confessed grinningly. "oh, of course they're not all letters," he hurried to explain. "here's a book on south america.--i'm a rubber broker, you know, and of course i've always been keen enough about the new england end of my job, but i've never thought anything so very special about the south american end of it. but that girl--that make-believe girl, i mean--insists that i ought to know all about south america, so she sent me this book; and it's corking reading, too--all about funny things like eating monkeys and parrots and toasted guinea-pigs--and sleeping outdoors in black jungle-nights under mosquito netting, mind you, as a protection against prowling panthers.--and here's a queer little newspaper cutting that she sent me one blizzardy sunday telling all about some big violin maker who always went out into the forests himself and chose his violin woods from the _north_ side of the trees. casual little item. you don't think anything about it at the moment. it probably isn't true. and to save your soul you couldn't tell what kind of trees violins are made out of, anyway. but i'll wager that never again will you wake in the night to listen to the wind without thinking of the great storm-tossed, moaning, groaning, slow-toughening forest trees--learning to be violins!... and here's a funny little old silver porringer that she gave me, she says, to make my 'old gray gruel taste shinier.' and down at the bottom of the bowl--the ruthless little pirate--she's taken a knife or a pin or something and scratched the words, 'excellent child!'--but you know i never noticed that part of it at all till last week. you see i've only been eating down to the bottom of the bowl just about a week.--and here's a catalogue of a boy's school, four or five catalogues in fact that she sent me one evening and asked me if i please wouldn't look them over right away and help her decide where to send her little brother. why, man, it took me almost all night! if you get the athletics you want in one school, then likelier than not you slip up on the manual training, and if they're going to schedule eight hours a week for latin, why where in creation--?" shrugging his shoulders as though to shrug aside absolutely any possible further responsibility concerning, "little brother," stanton began to dig down deeper into the box. then suddenly all the grin came back to his face. "and here are some sample wall papers that she sent me for 'our house'," he confided, flushing. "what do you think of that bronze one there with the peacock feathers?--say, old man, think of a library--and a cannel coal fire--and a big mahogany desk--and a red-haired girl sitting against that paper! and this sun-shiny tint for a breakfast-room isn't half bad, is it?--oh yes, and here are the time-tables, and all the pink and blue maps about colorado and arizona and the 'painted desert'. if we can 'afford it,' she writes, she 'wishes we could go to the painted desert on our wedding trip.'--but really, old man, you know it isn't such a frightfully expensive journey. why if you leave new york on wednesday--oh, hang it all! what's the use of showing you any more of this nonsense?" he finished abruptly. with brutal haste he started cramming everything back into place. "it is nothing but nonsense!" he acknowledged conscientiously; "nothing in the world except a boxful of make-believe thoughts from a make-believe girl. and here," he finished resolutely, "are my own fiancée's thoughts--concerning me." out of his blanket-wrapper pocket he produced and spread out before the doctor's eyes five thin letters and a postal-card. "not exactly thoughts concerning _you_, even so, are they?" quizzed the doctor. stanton began to grin again. "well, thoughts concerning the weather, then--if that suits you any better." twice the doctor swallowed audibly. then, "but it's hardly fair--is it--to weigh a boxful of even the prettiest lies against five of even the slimmest real, true letters?" he asked drily. "but they're not lies!" snapped stanton. "surely you don't call anything a lie unless not only the fact is false, but the fancy, also, is maliciously distorted! now take this case right before us. suppose there isn't any 'little brother' at all; suppose there isn't any 'painted desert', suppose there isn't any 'black sheep up on a grandfather's farm', suppose there isn't _anything_; suppose, i say, that every single, individual fact stated is _false_--what earthly difference does it make so long as the _fancy_ still remains the truest, realest, dearest, funniest thing that ever happened to a fellow in his life?" "oh, ho!" said the doctor. "so that's the trouble is it! it isn't just rheumatism that's keeping you thin and worried looking, eh? it's only that you find yourself suddenly in the embarrassing predicament of being engaged to one girl and--in love with another?" "n--o!" cried stanton frantically. "n--o! that's the mischief of it--the very mischief! i don't even know that the serial-letter co. _is_ a girl. why it might be an old lady, rather whimsically inclined. even the oldest lady, i presume, might very reasonably perfume her note-paper with cinnamon roses. it might even be a boy. one letter indeed smelt very strongly of being a boy--and mighty good tobacco, too! and great heavens! what have i got to prove that it isn't even an old man--some poor old worn out story-writer trying to ease out the ragged end of his years?" [illustration: some poor old worn-out story-writer] "have you told your fiancée about it?" asked the doctor. stanton's jaw dropped. "have i told my fiancée about it?" he mocked. "why it was she who sent me the circular in the first place! but, 'tell her about it'? why, man, in ten thousand years, and then some, how could i make any sane person understand?" "you're beginning to make me understand," confessed the doctor. "then you're no longer sane," scoffed stanton. "the crazy magic of it has surely then taken possession of you too. why how could i go to any sane person like cornelia--and cornelia is the most absolutely, hopelessly sane person you ever saw in your life--how could i go to anyone like that, and announce: 'cornelia, if you find any perplexing change in me during your absence--and your unconscious neglect--it is only that i have fallen quite madly in love with a person'--would you call it a person?--who doesn't even exist. therefore for the sake of this 'person who doesn't exist', i ask to be released." "oh! so you do ask to be released?" interrupted the doctor. "why, no! certainly not!" insisted stanton. "suppose the girl you love does hurt your feelings a little bit now and then, would any man go ahead and give up a real flesh-and-blood sweetheart for the sake of even the most wonderful paper-and-ink girl whom he was reading about in an unfinished serial story? would he, i say--would he?" "y-e-s," said the doctor soberly. "y-e-s, i think he would, if what you call the 'paper-and-ink girl' suggested suddenly an entirely new, undreamed-of vista of emotional and spiritual satisfaction." "but i tell you 'she's' probably a boy!" persisted stanton doggedly. "well, why don't you go ahead and find out?" quizzed the doctor. "find out?" cried stanton hotly. "find out? i'd like to know how anybody is going to find out, when the only given address is a private post-office box, and as far as i know there's no sex to a post-office box. find out? why, man, that basket over there is full of my letters returned to me because i tried to 'find out'. the first time i asked, they answered me with just a teasing, snubbing telegram, but ever since then they've simply sent back my questions with a stern printed slip announcing, "your letter of ---- is hereby returned to you. kindly allow us to call your attention to the fact that we are not running a correspondence bureau. our circular distinctly states, etc." "sent you a printed slip?" cried the doctor scoffingly. "the love-letter business must be thriving. very evidently you are by no means the only importunate subscriber." "oh, thunder!" growled stanton. the idea seemed to be new to him and not altogether to his taste. then suddenly his face began to brighten. "no, i'm lying," he said. "no, they haven't always sent me a printed slip. it was only yesterday that they sent me a rather real sort of letter. you see," he explained, "i got pretty mad at last and i wrote them frankly and told them that i didn't give a darn who 'molly' was, but simply wanted to know _what_ she was. i told them that it was just gratitude on my part, the most formal, impersonal sort of gratitude--a perfectly plausible desire to say 'thank you' to some one who had been awfully decent to me these past few weeks. i said right out that if 'she' was a boy, why we'd surely have to go fishing together in the spring, and if 'she' was an old man, the very least i could do would be to endow her with tobacco, and if 'she' was an old lady, why i'd simply be obliged to drop in now and then of a rainy evening and hold her knitting for her." "and if 'she' were a girl?" probed the doctor. stanton's mouth began to twitch. "then heaven help me!" he laughed. "well, what answer did you get?" persisted the doctor. "what do you call a realish sort of letter?" with palpable reluctance stanton drew a gray envelope out of the cuff of his wrapper. "i suppose you might as well see the whole business," he admitted consciously. there was no special diffidence in the doctor's manner this time. his clutch on the letter was distinctly inquisitive, and he read out the opening sentences with almost rhetorical effect. "oh, carl dear, you silly boy, why do you persist in hectoring me so? don't you understand that i've got only a certain amount of ingenuity anyway, and if you force me to use it all in trying to conceal my identity from you, how much shall i possibly have left to devise schemes for your amusement? why do you persist, for instance, in wanting to see my face? maybe i haven't got any face! maybe i lost my face in a railroad accident. how do you suppose it would make me feel, then, to have you keep teasing and teasing.--oh, carl! "isn't it enough for me just to tell you once for all that there is an insuperable obstacle in the way of our ever meeting. maybe i've got a husband who is cruel to me. maybe, biggest obstacle of all, i've got a husband whom i am utterly devoted to. maybe, instead of any of these things, i'm a poor, old wizened-up, shut-in, tossing day and night on a very small bed of very big pain. maybe worse than being sick i'm starving poor, and maybe, worse than being sick or poor, i am most horribly tired of myself. of course if you are very young and very prancy and reasonably good-looking, and still are tired of yourself, you can almost always rest yourself by going on the stage where--with a little rouge and a different colored wig, and a new nose, and skirts instead of trousers, or trousers instead of skirts, and age instead of youth, and badness instead of goodness--you can give your ego a perfectly limitless number of happy holidays. but if you were oldish, i say, and pitifully 'shut in', just how would you go to work, i wonder, to rest your personality? how for instance could you take your biggest, grayest, oldest worry about your doctor's bill, and rouge it up into a radiant, young joke? and how, for instance, out of your lonely, dreary, middle-aged orphanhood are you going to find a way to short-skirt your rheumatic pains, and braid into two perfectly huge pink-bowed pigtails the hair that you _haven't got_, and caper round so ecstatically before the foot-lights that the old gentleman and lady in the front seat absolutely swear you to be the living image of their 'long lost amy'? and how, if the farthest journey you ever will take again is the monotonous hand-journey from your pillow to your medicine bottle, then how, for instance, with map or tinsel or attar of roses, can you go to work to solve even just for your own satisfaction the romantic, shimmering secrets of--morocco? "ah! you've got me now, you think? all decided in your mind that i am an aged invalid? i didn't say so. i just said 'maybe'. likelier than not i've saved my climax for its proper place. how do you know,--for instance, that i'm not a--'cullud pusson'?--so many people are." without signature of any sort, the letter ended abruptly then and there, and as though to satisfy his sense of something left unfinished, the doctor began at the beginning and read it all over again in a mumbling, husky whisper. "maybe she is--'colored'," he volunteered at last. "very likely," said stanton perfectly cheerfully. "it's just those occasional humorous suggestions that keep me keyed so heroically up to the point where i'm actually infuriated if you even suggest that i might be getting really interested in this mysterious miss molly! you haven't said a single sentimental thing about her that i haven't scoffed at--now have you?" "n--o," acknowledged the doctor. "i can see that you've covered your retreat all right. even if the author of these letters should turn out to be a one-legged veteran of the war of , you still could say, 'i told you so'. but all the same, i'll wager that you'd gladly give a hundred dollars, cash down, if you could only go ahead and prove the little girl's actual existence." stanton's shoulders squared suddenly but his mouth retained at least a faint vestige of its original smile. "you mistake the situation entirely," he said. "it's the little girl's non-existence that i am most anxious to prove." then utterly without reproach or interference, he reached over and grabbed a forbidden cigar from the doctor's cigar case, and lighted it, and retreated as far as possible into the gray film of smoke. it was minutes and minutes before either man spoke again. then at last after much crossing and re-crossing of his knees the doctor asked drawlingly, "and when is it that you and cornelia are planning to be married?" "next april," said stanton briefly. "u--m--m," said the doctor. after a few more minutes he said, "u--m--m," again. [illustration: "maybe she is--'colored,'" he volunteered at last] the second "u--m--m" seemed to irritate stanton unduly. "is it your head that's spinning round?" he asked tersely. "you sound like a dutch top!" the doctor raised his hands cautiously to his forehead. "your story does make me feel a little bit giddy," he acknowledged. then with sudden intensity, "stanton, you're playing a dangerous game for an engaged man. cut it out, i say!" "cut what out?" said stanton stubbornly. the doctor pointed exasperatedly towards the big box of letters. "cut those out," he said. "a sentimental correspondence with a girl who's--more interesting than your fiancée!" "w-h-e-w!" growled stanton, "i'll hardly stand for that statement." "well, then lie down for it," taunted the doctor. "keep right on being sick and worried and--." peremptorily he reached out both hands towards the box. "here!" he insisted. "let's dump the whole mischievous nonsense into the fire and burn it up!" with an "ouch," of pain stanton knocked the doctor's hands away. "burn up my letters?" he laughed. "well, i guess not! i wouldn't even burn up the wall papers. i've had altogether too much fun out of them. and as for the books, the browning, etc.--why hang it all, i've gotten awfully fond of those books!" idly he picked up the south american volume and opened the fly-leaf for the doctor to see. "carl from his molly," it said quite distinctly. "oh, yes," mumbled the doctor. "it looks very pleasant. there's absolutely no denying that it looks very pleasant. and some day--out of an old trunk, or tucked down behind your library encyclopedias--your wife will discover the book and ask blandly, 'who was molly? i don't remember your ever saying anything about a "molly".--just someone you used to know?' and your answer will be innocent enough: 'no, dear, _someone whom i never knew_!' but how about the pucker along your spine, and the awfully foolish, grinny feeling around your cheek-bones? and on the street and in the cars and at the theaters you'll always and forever be looking and searching, and asking yourself, 'is it by any chance possible that this girl sitting next to me now--?' and your wife will keep saying, with just a barely perceptible edge in her voice, 'carl, do you know that red-haired girl whom we just passed? you stared at her so!' and you'll say, 'oh, no! i was merely wondering if--' oh yes, you'll always and forever be 'wondering if'. and mark my words, stanton, people who go about the world with even the most innocent chronic question in their eyes, are pretty apt to run up against an unfortunately large number of wrong answers." "but you take it all so horribly seriously," protested stanton. "why you rave and rant about it as though it was actually my affections that were involved!" "your affections?" cried the doctor in great exasperation. "your affections? why, man, if it was only your affections, do you suppose i'd be wasting even so much as half a minute's worry on you? but it's your _imagination_ that's involved. that's where the blooming mischief lies. affection is all right. affection is nothing but a nice, safe flame that feeds only on one special kind of fuel,--its own particular object. you've got an 'affection' for cornelia, and wherever cornelia fails to feed that affection it is mercifully ordained that the starved flame shall go out into cold gray ashes without making any further trouble whatsoever. but you've got an 'imagination' for this make-believe girl--heaven help you!--and an 'imagination' is a great, wild, seething, insatiate tongue of fire that, thwarted once and for all in its original desire to gorge itself with realities, will turn upon you body and soul, and lick up your crackling fancy like so much kindling wood--and sear your common sense, and scorch your young wife's happiness. nothing but cornelia herself will ever make you want--cornelia. but the other girl, the unknown girl--why she's the face in the clouds, she's the voice in the sea; she's the glow of the sunset; she's the hush of the june twilight! every summer breeze, every winter gale, will fan the embers! every thumping, twittering, twanging pulse of an orchestra, every--. oh, stanton, i say, it isn't the ghost of the things that are dead that will ever come between you and cornelia. there never yet was the ghost of any lost thing that couldn't be tamed into a purring household pet. but--the--ghost--of--a--thing--that--you've--never--yet--found? _that_, i tell you, is a very different matter!" pounding at his heart, and blazing in his cheeks, the insidious argument, the subtle justification, that had been teeming in stanton's veins all the week, burst suddenly into speech. "but i gave cornelia the _chance_ to be 'all the world' to me," he protested doggedly, "and she didn't seem to care a hang about it! great scott, man! are you going to call a fellow unfaithful because he hikes off into a corner now and then and reads a bit of browning, for instance, all to himself--or wanders out on the piazza some night all sole alone to stare at the stars that happen to bore his wife to extinction?" "but you'll never be able to read browning again 'all by yourself'," taunted the doctor. "whether you buy it fresh from the presses or borrow it stale and old from a public library, you'll never find another copy as long as you live that doesn't smell of cinnamon roses. and as to 'star-gazing' or any other weird thing that your wife doesn't care for--you'll never go out alone any more into dawns or darknesses without the very tingling conscious presence of a wonder whether the 'other girl' _would_ have cared for it!" "oh, shucks!" said stanton. then, suddenly his forehead puckered up. "of course i've got a worry," he acknowledged frankly. "any fellow's got a worry who finds himself engaged to be married to a girl who isn't keen enough about it to want to be all the world to him. but i don't know that even the most worried fellow has any real cause to be scared, as long as the girl in question still remains the only flesh-and-blood girl on the face of the earth whom he wishes _did_ like him well enough to want to be 'all the world' to him." "the only 'flesh-and-blood' girl?" scoffed the doctor. "oh, you're all right, stanton. i like you and all that. but i'm mighty glad just the same that it isn't my daughter whom you're going to marry, with all this 'molly make-believe' nonsense lurking in the background. cut it out, stanton, i say. cut it out!" "cut it out?" mused stanton somewhat distrait. "cut it out? what! molly make-believe?" under the quick jerk of his knees the big box of letters and papers and things brimmed over in rustling froth across the whole surface of the table. just for a second the muscles in his throat tightened a trifle. then, suddenly he burst out laughing--wildly, uproariously, like an excited boy. "cut it out?" he cried. "but it's such a joke! can't you see that it's nothing in the world except a perfectly delicious, perfectly intangible joke?" "u--m--m," reiterated the doctor. in the very midst of his reiteration, there came a sharp rap at the door, and in answer to stanton's cheerful permission to enter, the so-called "delicious, intangible joke" manifested itself abruptly in the person of a rather small feminine figure very heavily muffled up in a great black cloak, and a rose-colored veil that shrouded her nose and chin bluntly like the nose and chin of a face only half hewed out as yet from a block of pink granite. "it's only molly," explained an undeniably sweet little alto voice. "am i interrupting you?" vii jumping to his feet, the doctor stood staring wildly from stanton's amazed face to the perfectly calm, perfectly accustomed air of poise that characterized every movement of the pink-shrouded visitor. the amazement in fact never wavered for a second from stanton's blush-red visage, nor the supreme serenity from the lady's whole attitude. but across the doctor's startled features a fearful, outraged consciousness of having been deceived, warred mightily with a consciousness of unutterable mirth. advancing toward the fireplace with a rather slow-footed, hesitating gait, the little visitor's attention focused suddenly on the cluttered table and she cried out with unmistakable delight. "why, what are you people doing with all my letters and things?" then climbing up on the sturdy brass fender, she thrust her pink, impenetrable features right into the scared, pallid face of the shabby old clock and announced pointedly, "it's almost half-past seven. and i can stay till just eight o'clock!" when she turned around again the doctor was gone. with a tiny shrug of her shoulders, she settled herself down then in a big, high-backed chair before the fire and stretched out her overshoed toes to the shining edge of the fender. as far as any apparent self-consciousness was concerned, she might just as well have been all alone in the room. convulsed with amusement, yet almost paralyzed by a certain stubborn, dumb sort of embarrassment, nothing on earth could have forced stanton into making even an indefinite speech to the girl until she had made at least one perfectly definite and reasonably illuminating sort of speech to him. biting his grinning lips into as straight a line as possible, he gathered up the scattered pages of the evening paper and attacked them furiously with scowling eyes. after a really dreadful interim of silence, the mysterious little visitor rose in a gloomy, discouraged kind of way, and climbing up again on the narrow brass fender, peered once more into the face of the clock. "it's twenty minutes of eight, now," she announced. into her voice crept for the first time the faintest perceptible suggestion of a tremor. "it's twenty minutes of eight--now--and i've got to leave here exactly at eight. twenty minutes is a rather--a rather stingy little bit out of a whole--lifetime," she added falteringly. then, and then only did stanton's nervousness break forth suddenly into one wild, uproarious laugh that seemed to light up the whole dark, ominous room as though the gray, sulky, smoldering hearth-fire itself had exploded into iridescent flame. chasing close behind the musical contagion of his deep guffaws followed the softer, gentler giggle of the dainty pink-veiled lady. by the time they had both finished laughing it was fully quarter of eight. "but you see it was just this way," explained the pleasant little voice--all alto notes again. cautiously a slim, unringed hand burrowed out from the somber folds of the big cloak, and raised the pink mouth-mumbling veil as much as half an inch above the red-lipped speech line. "you see it was just this way. you paid me a lot of money--all in advance--for a six weeks' special edition de luxe love-letter serial. and i spent your money the day i got it; and worse than that i owed it--long before i even got it! and worst of all, i've got a chance now to go home to-morrow for all the rest of the winter. no, i don't mean that exactly. i mean i've found a chance to go up to vermont and have all my expenses paid--just for reading aloud every day to a lady who isn't so awfully deaf. but you see i still owe you a week's subscription--and i can't refund you the money because i haven't got it. and it happens that i can't run a fancy love-letter business from the special house that i'm going to. there aren't enough resources there--and all that. so i thought that perhaps--perhaps--considering how much you've been teasing and teasing to know who i was--i thought that perhaps if i came here this evening and let you really see me--that maybe, you know--maybe, not positively, but just _maybe_--you'd be willing to call that equivalent to one week's subscription. _would you?_" in the sharp eagerness of her question she turned her shrouded face full-view to stanton's curious gaze, and he saw the little nervous, mischievous twitch of her lips at the edge of her masking pink veil resolve itself suddenly into a whimper of real pain. yet so vivid were the lips, so blissfully, youthfully, lusciously carmine, that every single, individual statement she made seemed only like a festive little announcement printed in red ink. "i guess i'm not a very--good business manager," faltered the red-lipped voice with incongruous pathos. "indeed i know i'm not because--well because--the serial-letter co. has 'gone broke! bankrupt', is it, that you really say?" with a little mockingly playful imitation of a stride she walked the first two fingers of her right hand across the surface of the table to stanton's discarded supper dishes. "oh, please may i have that piece of cold toast?" she asked plaintively. no professional actress on the stage could have spoken the words more deliciously. even to the actual crunching of the toast in her little shining white teeth, she sought to illustrate as fantastically as possible the ultimate misery of a bankrupt person starving for cold toast. stanton's spontaneous laughter attested his full appreciation of her mimicry. "but i tell you the serial-letter co. _has_ 'gone broke'!" she persisted a trifle wistfully. "i guess--i guess it takes a man to really run a business with any sort of financial success, 'cause you see a man never puts anything except his head into his business. and of course if you only put your head into it, then you go right along giving always just a little wee bit less than 'value received'--and so you can't help, sir, making a profit. why people would think you were plain, stark crazy if you gave them even one more pair of poor rubber boots than they'd paid for. but a woman! well, you see my little business was a sort of a scheme to sell sympathy--perfectly good sympathy, you know--but to sell it to people who really needed it, instead of giving it away to people who didn't care anything about it at all. and you have to run that sort of business almost entirely with your heart--and you wouldn't feel decent at all, unless you delivered to everybody just a little tiny bit more sympathy than he paid for. otherwise, you see you wouldn't be delivering perfectly good sympathy. so that's why--you understand now--that's why i had to send you my very own woolly blanket-wrapper, and my very own silver porringer, and my very own sling-shot that i fight city cats with,--because, you see, i had to use every single cent of your money right away to pay for the things that i'd already bought for other people." "for other people?" quizzed stanton a bit resentfully. "oh, yes," acknowledged the girl; "for several other people." then, "did you like the idea of the 'rheumatic nights entertainment'?" she asked quite abruptly. "did i like it?" cried stanton. "did i _like_ it?" with a little shrugging air of apology the girl straightened up very stiffly in her chair. "of course it wasn't exactly an original idea," she explained contritely. "that is, i mean not original for you. you see, it's really a little club of mine--a little subscription club of rheumatic people who can't sleep; and i go every night in the week, an hour to each one of them. there are only three, you know. there's a youngish lady in boston, and a very, very old gentleman out in brookline, and the tiniest sort of a poor little sick girl in cambridge. sometimes i turn up just at supper-time and jolly them along a bit with their gruels. sometimes i don't get around till ten or eleven o'clock in the great boo-black dark. from two to three in the morning seems to be the cruelest, grayest, coldest time for the little girl in cambridge.... and i play the banjo decently well, you know, and sing more or less--and tell stories, or read aloud; and i most always go dressed up in some sort of a fancy costume 'cause i can't seem to find any other thing to do that astonishes sick people so much and makes them sit up so bravely and look so shiny. and really, it isn't such dreadfully hard work to do, because everything fits together so well. the short skirts, for instance, that turn me into such a jolly prattling great-grandchild for the poor old gentleman, make me just a perfectly rational, contemporaneous-looking play-mate for the small cambridge girl. i'm so very, very little!" "only, of course," she finished wryly; "only, of course, it costs such a horrid big lot for costumes and carriages and things. that's what's 'busted' me, as the boys say. and then, of course, i'm most dreadfully sleepy all the day times when i ought to be writing nice things for my serial-letter co. business. and then one day last week--" the vivid red lips twisted oddly at one corner. "one night last week they sent me word from cambridge that the little, little girl was going to die--and was calling and calling for the 'gray-plush squirrel lady'. so i hired a big gray squirrel coat from a furrier whom i know, and i ripped up my muff and made me the very best sort of a hot, gray, smothery face that i could--and i went out to cambridge and sat three hours on the footboard of a bed, cracking jokes--and nuts--to beguile a little child's death-pain. and somehow it broke my heart--or my spirit--or something. somehow i think i could have stood it better with my own skin face! anyway the little girl doesn't need me any more. anyway, it doesn't matter if someone did need me!... i tell you i'm 'broke'! i tell you i haven't got one single solitary more thing to give! it isn't just my pocket-book that's empty: it's my head that's spent, too! it's my heart that's altogether stripped! _and i'm going to run away! yes, i am!_" jumping to her feet she stood there for an instant all out of breath, as though just the mere fancy thought of running away had almost exhausted her. then suddenly she began to laugh. "i'm so tired of making up things," she confessed; "why, i'm so tired of making up grandfathers, i'm so tired of making up pirates, i'm so tired of making-up lovers--that i actually cherish the bill collector as the only real, genuine acquaintance whom i have in boston. certainly there's no slightest trace of pretence about him!... excuse me for being so flippant," she added soberly, "but you see i haven't got any sympathy left even for myself." "but for heaven's sake!" cried stanton, "why don't you let somebody help you? why don't you let me--" "oh, you _can_ help me!" cried the little red-lipped voice excitedly. "oh, yes, indeed you can help me! that's why i came here this evening. you see i've settled up now with every one of my creditors except you and the youngish boston lady, and i'm on my way to her house now. we're reading oriental fairy stories together. truly i think she'll be very glad indeed to release me from my contract when i offer her my coral beads instead, because they are dreadfully nice beads, my real, unpretended grandfather carved them for me himself.... but how can i settle with you? i haven't got anything left to settle with, and it might be months and months before i could refund the actual cash money. so wouldn't you--couldn't you please call my coming here this evening an equivalent to one week's subscription?" [illustration: "oh! don't i look--gorgeous!" she stammered] wriggling out of the cloak and veil that wrapped her like a chrysalis she emerged suddenly a glimmering, shimmering little oriental figure of satin and silver and haunting sandalwood--a veritable little incandescent rainbow of spangled moonlight and flaming scarlet and dark purple shadows. great, heavy, jet-black curls caught back from her small piquant face by a blazing rhinestone fillet,--cheeks just a tiny bit over-tinted with rouge and excitement,--big, red-brown eyes packed full of high lights like a startled fawn's,--bold in the utter security of her masquerade, yet scared almost to death by the persistent underlying heart-thump of her unescapable self-consciousness,--altogether as tantalizing, altogether as unreal, as a vision out of the arabian nights, she stood there staring quizzically at stanton. "_would_ you call it--an--equivalent? _would_ you?" she asked nervously. then pirouetting over to the largest mirror in sight she began to smooth and twist her silken sash into place. somewhere at wrist or ankle twittered the jingle of innumerable bangles. "oh! don't i look--gorgeous!" she stammered. "o--h--h!" viii everything that was discreet and engaged-to-be-married in stanton's conservative make-up exploded suddenly into one utterly irresponsible speech. "you little witch!" he cried out. "you little beauty! for heaven's sake come over here and sit down in this chair where i can look at you! i want to talk to you! i--" pirouetting once more before the mirror, she divided one fleet glance between admiration for herself and scorn for stanton. "oh, yes, i felt perfectly sure that you'd insist upon having me 'pretty'!" she announced sternly. then courtesying low to the ground in mock humility, she began to sing-song mischievously: "so molly, molly made-her-a-face, made it of rouge and made it of lace. long as the rouge and the lace are fair, oh, mr. man, what do you care?" "you don't need any rouge or lace to make _you_ pretty!" stanton fairly shouted in his vehemence. "anybody might have known that that lovely, little mind of yours could only live in a--" "nonsense!" the girl interrupted, almost temperishly. then with a quick, impatient sort of gesture she turned to the table, and picking up book after book, opened it and stared in it as though it had been a mirror. "oh, maybe my mind is pretty enough," she acknowledged reluctantly. "but likelier than not, my face is not becoming--to me." crossing slowly over to stanton's side she seated herself, with much jingling, rainbow-colored, sandalwood-scented dignity, in the chair that the doctor had just vacated. "poor dear, you've been pretty sick, haven't you?" she mused gently. cautiously then she reached out and touched the soft, woolly cuff of his blanket-wrapper. "did you really like it?" she asked. stanton began to smile again. "did i really like it?" he repeated joyously. "why, don't you know that if it hadn't been for you i should have gone utterly mad these past few weeks? don't you know that if it hadn't been for you--don't you know that if--" a little over-zealously he clutched at the tinsel fringe on the oriental lady's fan. "don't you know--don't you know that i'm--engaged to be married?" he finished weakly. the oriental lady shivered suddenly, as any lady might shiver on a november night in thin silken clothes. "engaged to be married?" she stammered. "oh, yes! why--of course! most men are! really unless you catch a man very young and keep him absolutely constantly by your side you cannot hope to walk even into his friendship--except across the heart of some other woman." again she shivered and jingled a hundred merry little bangles. "but why?" she asked abruptly, "why, if you're engaged to be married, did you come and--buy love-letters of me? my love-letters are distinctly for lonely people," she added severely. "how dared you--how dared you go into the love-letter business in the first place?" quizzed stanton dryly. "and when it comes to asking personal questions, how dared you send me printed slips in answer to my letters to you? printed slips, mind you!... how many men are you writing love-letters to, anyway?" the oriental lady threw out her small hands deprecatingly. "how many men? only two besides yourself. there's such a fad for nature study these days that almost everybody this year has ordered the 'gray-plush squirrel' series. but i'm doing one or two 'japanese fairies' for sick children, and a high school history class out in omaha has ordered a weekly epistle from william of orange." "hang the high school class out in omaha!" said stanton. "it was the love-letters that i was asking about." "oh, yes, i forgot," murmured the oriental lady. "just two men besides yourself, i said, didn't i? well one of them is a life convict out in an illinois prison. he's subscribed for a whole year--for a fortnightly letter from a girl in killarney who has got to be named 'katie'. he's a very, very old man, i think, but i don't even know his name 'cause he's only a number now--' '--or something like that. and i have to send all my letters over to killarney to be mailed--oh, he's awfully particular about that. and it was pretty hard at first working up all the geography that he knew and i didn't. but--pshaw! you're not interested in killarney. then there's a new york boy down in ceylon on a smelly old tea plantation. his people have dropped him, i guess, for some reason or other; so i'm just 'the girl from home' to him, and i prattle to him every month or so about the things he used to care about. it's easy enough to work that up from the social columns in the new york papers--and twice i've been over to new york to get special details for him; once to find out if his mother was really as sick as the sunday paper said, and once--yes, really, once i butted in to a tea his sister was giving, and wrote him, yes, wrote him all about how the moths were eating up the big moose-head in his own front hall. and he sent an awfully funny, nice letter of thanks to the serial-letter co.--yes, he did! and then there's a crippled french girl out in the berkshires who is utterly crazy, it seems, about the 'three musketeers', so i'm d'artagnan to her, and it's dreadfully hard work--in french--but i'm learning a lot out of that, and--" "there. don't tell me any more!" cried stanton. then suddenly the pulses in his temples began to pound so hard and so loud that he could not seem to estimate at all just how loud he was speaking. "who are you?" he insisted. "who are you? tell me instantly, i say! _who are you anyway?_" the oriental lady jumped up in alarm. "i'm no one at all--to you," she said coolly, "except just--molly make-believe." something in her tone seemed to fairly madden stanton. "you shall tell me who you are!" he cried. "you shall! i say you shall!" plunging forward he grabbed at her little bangled wrists and held them in a vise that sent the rheumatic pains shooting up his arms to add even further frenzy to his brain. "tell me who you are!" he grinned. "you shan't go out of here in ten thousand years till you've told me who you are!" frightened, infuriated, quivering with astonishment, the girl stood trying to wrench her little wrists out of his mighty grasp, stamping in perfectly impotent rage all the while with her soft-sandalled, jingling feet. "i won't tell you who i am! i won't! i won't!" she swore and reswore in a dozen different staccato accents. the whole daring passion of the orient that costumed her seemed to have permeated every fiber of her small being. then suddenly she drew in her breath in a long quivering sigh. staring up into her face, stanton gave a little groan of dismay, and released her hands. "why, molly! molly! you're--crying," he whispered. "why, little girl! why--" backing slowly away from him, she made a desperate effort to smile through her tears. "now you've spoiled everything," she said. "oh no, not--everything," argued stanton helplessly from his chair, afraid to rise to his feet, afraid even to shuffle his slippers on the floor lest the slightest suspicion of vehemence on his part should hasten that steady, backward retreat of hers towards the door. already she had re-acquired her cloak and overshoes and was groping out somewhat blindly for her veil in a frantic effort to avoid any possible chance of turning her back even for a second on so dangerous a person as himself. "yes, everything," nodded the small grieved face. yet the tragic, snuffling little sob that accompanied the words only served to add a most entrancing, tip-nosed vivacity to the statement. "oh, of course i know," she added hastily. "oh, of course i know perfectly well that i oughtn't to have come alone to your rooms like this!" madly she began to wind the pink veil round and round and round her cheeks like a bandage. "oh, of course i know perfectly well that it wasn't even remotely proper! but don't you think--don't you think that if you've always been awfully, awfully strict and particular with yourself about things all your life, that you might have risked--safely--just one little innocent, mischievous sort of a half hour? especially if it was the only possible way you could think of to square up everything and add just a little wee present besides? 'cause nothing, you know, that you can _afford_ to give ever seems exactly like giving a really, truly present. it's got to hurt you somewhere to be a 'present'. so my coming here this evening--this way--was altogether the bravest, scariest, unwisest, most-like-a-present-feeling-thing that i could possibly think of to do--for you. and even if you hadn't spoiled everything, i was going away to-morrow just the same forever and ever and ever!" cautiously she perched herself on the edge of a chair, and thrust her narrow, gold-embroidered toes into the wide, blunt depths of her overshoes. "forever and ever!" she insisted almost gloatingly. "not forever and _ever_!" protested stanton vigorously. "you don't think for a moment, do you, that after all this wonderful, jolly friendship of ours, you're going to drop right out of sight as though the earth had opened?" even the little quick, forward lurch of his shoulders in the chair sent the girl scuttling to her feet again, one overshoe still in her hand. just at the edge of the door-mat she turned and smiled at him mockingly. really it had been a long time since she had smiled. "surely you don't think that you'd be able to recognize me in my street clothes, do you?" she asked bluntly. stanton's answering smile was quite as mocking as hers. "why not?" he queried. "didn't i have the pleasure of choosing your winter hat for you? let me see,--it was brown, with a pink rose--wasn't it? i should know it among a million." with a little shrug of her shoulders she leaned back against the door and stared at him suddenly out of her big red-brown eyes with singular intentness. "well, _will_ you call it an equivalent to one week's subscription?" she asked very gravely. some long-sleeping devil of mischief awoke in stanton's senses. "equivalent to one whole week's subscription?" he repeated with mock incredulity. "a whole week--seven days and nights? oh, no! no! no! i don't think you've given me, yet, more than about--four days' worth to think about. just about four days' worth, i should think." pushing the pink veil further and further back from her features, with plainly quivering hands, the girl's whole soul seemed to blaze out at him suddenly, and then wince back again. then just as quickly a droll little gleam of malice glinted in her eyes. "oh, all right then," she smiled. "if you really think i've given you only four days' and nights' worth of thoughts--here's something for the fifth day and night." very casually, yet still very accurately, her right hand reached out to the knob of the door. "to cancel my debt for the fifth day," she said, "do you really 'honest-injun' want to know who i am? i'll tell you! first, you've seen me before." "what?" cried stanton, plunging forward in his chair. something in the girl's quick clutch of the door-knob warned him quite distinctly to relax again into his cushions. "yes," she repeated triumphantly. "and you've talked with me too, as often as twice! and moreover you've danced with me!" tossing her head with sudden-born daring she reached up and snatched off her curly black wig, and shook down all around her such a great, shining, utterly glorious mass of mahogany colored hair that stanton's astonishment turned almost into faintness. "what?" he cried out. "what? you say i've seen you before? talked with you? waltzed with you, perhaps? never! i haven't! i tell you i haven't! i never saw that hair before! if i had, i shouldn't have forgotten it to my dying day. why--" with a little wail of despair she leaned back against the door. "you don't even remember me _now_?" she mourned. "oh dear, dear, dear! and i thought _you_ were so beautiful!" then, woman-like, her whole sympathy rushed to defend him from her own accusations. "oh, well, it was at a masquerade party," she acknowledged generously, "and i suppose you go to a great many masquerades." heaping up her hair like so much molten copper into the hood of her cloak, and trying desperately to snare all the wild, escaping tendrils with the softer mesh of her veil, she reached out a free hand at last and opened the door just a crack. "and to give you something to think about for the sixth day and night," she resumed suddenly, with the same strange little glint in her eyes, "to give you something to think about the sixth day, i'll tell you that i really was hungry--when i asked you for your toast. i haven't had anything to eat to-day; and--" [illustration: "what?" cried stanton, plunging forward in his chair] before she could finish the sentence stanton had sprung from his chair, and stood trying to reason out madly whether one single more stride would catch her, or lose her. "and as for something for you to think about the seventh day and night," she gasped hurriedly. already the door had opened to her hand and her little figure stood silhouetted darkly against the bright, yellow-lighted hallway, "here's something for you to think about for _twenty_-seven days and nights!" wildly her little hands went clutching at the woodwork. "i didn't know you were engaged to be married," she cried out passionately, "and i _loved_ you--_loved_ you--_loved_ you!" then in a flash she was gone. ix with absolute finality the big door banged behind her. a minute later the street door, four flights down, rang out in jarring reverberation. a minute after that it seemed as though every door in every house on the street slammed shrilly. then the charred fire-log sagged down into the ashes with a sad, puffing sigh. then a whole row of books on a loosely packed shelf toppled over on each other with soft jocose slaps. crawling back into his morris chair with every bone in his body aching like a magnetized wire-skeleton charged with pain, stanton collapsed again into his pillows and sat staring--staring into the dying fire. nine o'clock rang out dully from the nearest church spire; ten o'clock, eleven o'clock followed in turn with monotonous, chiming insistency. gradually the relaxing steam-radiators began to grunt and grumble into a chill quietude. gradually along the bare, bleak stretches of unrugged floor little cold draughts of air came creeping exploringly to his feet. and still he sat staring--staring into the fast graying ashes. "oh, glory! glory!" he said. "think what it would mean if all that wonderful imagination were turned loose upon just one fellow! even if she didn't love you, think how she'd play the game! and if she did love you--oh, lordy; lordy! lordy!" towards midnight, to ease the melancholy smell of the dying lamp, he drew reluctantly forth from his deepest blanket-wrapper pocket the little knotted handkerchief that encased the still-treasured handful of fragrant fir-balsam, and bending groaningly forward in his chair sifted the brittle, pungent needles into the face of the one glowing ember that survived. instantly in a single dazzling flash of flame the tangible forest symbol vanished in intangible fragrance. but along the hollow of his hand,--across the edge of his sleeve,--up from the ragged pile of books and papers,--out from the farthest, remotest corners of the room, lurked the unutterable, undestroyable sweetness of all forests since the world was made. almost with a sob in his throat stanton turned again to the box of letters on his table. by dawn the feverish, excited sleeplessness in his brain had driven him on and on to one last, supremely fantastic impulse. writing to cornelia he told her bluntly, frankly, "dear cornelia: "when i asked you to marry me, you made me promise very solemnly at the time that if i ever changed my mind regarding you i would surely tell you. and i laughed at you. do you remember? but you were right, it seems, and i was wrong. for i believe that i have changed my mind. that is:--i don't know how to express it exactly, but it has been made very, very plain to me lately that i do not by any manner of means love you as little as you need to be loved. "in all sincerity, "carl." to which surprising communication cornelia answered immediately; but the 'immediately' involved a week's almost maddening interim, "dear carl: "neither mother nor i can make any sense whatsoever out of your note. by any possible chance was it meant to be a joke? you say you do not love me 'as little' as i need to be loved. you mean 'as much', don't you? carl, what do you mean?" laboriously, with the full prospect of yet another week's agonizing strain and suspense, stanton wrote again to cornelia. "dear cornelia: "no, i meant 'as little' as you need to be loved. i have no adequate explanation to make. i have no adequate apology to offer. i don't think anything. i don't hope anything. all i know is that i suddenly believe positively that our engagement is a mistake. certainly i am neither giving you all that i am capable of giving you, nor yet receiving from you all that i am capable of receiving. just this fact should decide the matter i think. "carl." cornelia did not wait to write an answer to this. she telegraphed instead. the message even in the telegraph operator's handwriting looked a little nervous. "do you mean that you are tired of it?" she asked quite boldly. with miserable perplexity stanton wired back. "no, i couldn't exactly say that i was tired of it." cornelia's answer to that was fluttering in his hands within twelve hours. "do you mean that there is someone else?" the words fairly ticked themselves off the yellow page. it was twenty-four hours before stanton made up his mind just what to reply. then, "no, i couldn't exactly say there is anybody else," he confessed wretchedly. cornelia's mother answered this time. the telegram fairly rustled with sarcasm. "you don't seem to be very sure about anything," said cornelia's mother. somehow these words brought the first cheerful smile to his lips. "no, you're quite right. i'm not at all sure about anything," he wired almost gleefully in return, wiping his pen with delicious joy on the edge of the clean white bed-spread. then because it is really very dangerous for over-wrought people to try to make any noise like laughter, a great choking, bitter sob caught him up suddenly, and sent his face burrowing down like a night-scared child into the safe, soft, feathery depths of his pillow--where, with his knuckles ground so hard into his eyes that all his tears were turned to stars, there came to him very, very slowly, so slowly in fact that it did not alarm him at all, the strange, electrifying vision of the one fact on earth that he _was_ sure of: a little keen, luminous, brown-eyed face with a look in it, and a look for him only--so help him god!--such as he had never seen on the face of any other woman since the world was made. was it possible?--was it really possible? suddenly his whole heart seemed to irradiate light and color and music and sweet smelling things. [illustration: cornelia's mother answered this time] "oh, molly, molly, molly!" he shouted. "i want _you_! i want _you_!" in the strange, lonesome days that followed, neither burly flesh-and-blood doctor nor slim paper sweetheart tramped noisily over the threshold or slid thuddingly through the letter-slide. no one apparently was ever coming to see stanton again unless actually compelled to do so. even the laundryman seemed to have skipped his usual day; and twice in succession the morning paper had most annoyingly failed to appear. certainly neither the boldest private inquiry nor the most delicately worded public advertisement had proved able to discover the whereabouts of "molly make-believe," much less succeeded in bringing her back. but the doctor, at least, could be summoned by ordinary telephone, and cornelia and her mother would surely be moving north eventually, whether stanton's last message hastened their movements or not. in subsequent experience it seemed to take two telephone messages to produce the doctor. a trifle coolly, a trifle distantly, more than a trifle disapprovingly, he appeared at last and stared dully at stanton's astonishing booted-and-coated progress towards health. "always glad to serve you--professionally," murmured the doctor with an undeniably definite accent on the word 'professionally'. "oh, cut it out!" quoted stanton emphatically. "what in creation are you so stuffy about?" "well, really," growled the doctor, "considering the deception you practised on me--" "considering nothing!" shouted stanton. "on my word of honor, i tell you i never consciously, in all my life before, ever--ever--set eyes upon that wonderful little girl, until that evening! i never knew that she even existed! i never knew! i tell you i never knew--_anything_!" as limply as any stout man could sink into a chair, the doctor sank into the seat nearest him. "tell me instantly all about it," he gasped. "there are only two things to tell," said stanton quite blithely. "and the first thing is what i've already stated, on my honor, that the evening we speak of was actually and positively the first time i ever saw the girl; and the second thing is, that equally upon my honor, i do not intend to let it remain--the last time!" "but cornelia?" cried the doctor. "what about cornelia?" almost half the sparkle faded from stanton's eyes. "cornelia and i have annulled our engagement," he said very quietly. then with more vehemence, "oh, you old dry-bones, don't you worry about cornelia! i'll look out for cornelia. cornelia isn't going to get hurt. i tell you i've figured and reasoned it all out very, very carefully; and i can see now, quite plainly, that cornelia never really loved me at all--else she wouldn't have dropped me so accidentally through her fingers. why, there never was even the ghost of a clutch in cornelia's fingers." "but you loved _her_," persisted the doctor scowlingly. it was hard, just that second, for stanton to lift his troubled eyes to the doctor's face. but he did lift them and he lifted them very squarely and steadily. "yes, i think i did--love cornelia," he acknowledged frankly. "the very first time that i saw her i said to myself. 'here is the end of my journey,' but i seem to have found out suddenly that the mere fact of loving a woman does not necessarily prove her that much coveted 'journey's end.' i don't know exactly how to express it, indeed i feel beastly clumsy about expressing it, but somehow it seems as though it were cornelia herself who had proved herself, perfectly amiably, no 'journey's end' after all, but only a way station not equipped to receive my particular kind of a permanent guest. it isn't that i wanted any grand fixings. oh, can't you understand that i'm not finding any fault with cornelia. there never was any slightest pretence about cornelia. she never, never even in the first place, made any possible effort to attract me. can't you see that cornelia _looks_ to me to-day exactly the way that she looked to me in the first place; very, amazingly, beautiful. but a traveler, you know, cannot dally indefinitely to feed his eyes on even the most wonderful view while all his precious lifelong companions,--his whims, his hobbies, his cravings, his yearnings,--are crouching starved and unwelcome outside the door. "and i can't even flatter myself," he added wryly; "i can't even flatter myself that my--going is going to inconvenience cornelia in the slightest; because i can't see that my coming has made even the remotest perceptible difference in her daily routine. anyway--" he finished more lightly, "when you come right down to 'mating', or 'homing', or 'belonging', or whatever you choose to call it, it seems to be written in the stars that plans or no plans, preferences or no preferences, initiatives or no initiatives, we belong to those--and to those only, hang it all!--who happen to love _us_ most!" fairly jumping from his chair the doctor snatched hold of stanton's shoulder. "who happen to love _us_ most?" he repeated wildly. "love _us_? _us_? for heaven's sake, who's loving you _now_?" utterly irrelevantly, stanton brushed him aside, and began to rummage anxiously among the books on his table. "do you know much about vermont?" he asked suddenly. "it's funny, but almost nobody seems to know anything about vermont. it's a darned good state, too, and i can't imagine why all the geographies neglect it so." idly his finger seemed to catch in a half open pamphlet, and he bent down casually to straighten out the page. "area in square miles-- , ," he read aloud musingly. "principal products--hay, oats, maple-sugar--" suddenly he threw down the pamphlet and flung himself into the nearest chair and began to laugh. "maple-sugar?" he ejaculated. "maple-sugar? oh, glory! and i suppose there are some people who think that maple-sugar is the sweetest thing that ever came out of vermont!" the doctor started to give him some fresh advice--but left him a bromide instead. x though the ensuing interview with cornelia and her mother began quite as coolly as the interview with the doctor, it did not happen to end even in hysterical laughter. it was just two days after the doctor's hurried exit that stanton received a formal, starchy little note from cornelia's mother notifying him of their return. except for an experimental, somewhat wobbly-kneed journey or two to the edge of the public garden he had made no attempts as yet to resume any outdoor life, yet for sundry personal reasons of his own he did not feel over-anxious to postpone the necessary meeting. in the immediate emergency at hand strong courage was infinitely more of an asset than strong knees. filling his suitcase at once with all the explanatory evidence that he could carry, he proceeded on cab-wheels to cornelia's grimly dignified residence. the street lamps were just beginning to be lighted when he arrived. as the butler ushered him gravely into the beautiful drawing room he realized with a horrid sinking of the heart that cornelia and her mother were already sitting there waiting for him with a dreadful tight lipped expression on their faces which seemed to suggest that though he was already fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment they had been waiting for him there since early dawn. the drawing room itself was deliciously familiar to him; crimson-curtained, green carpeted, shining with heavy gilt picture frames and prismatic chandeliers. often with posies and candies and theater-tickets he had strutted across that erstwhile magic threshold and fairly lolled in the big deep-upholstered chairs while waiting for the silk-rustling advent of the ladies. but now, with his suitcase clutched in his hand, no armenian peddler of laces and ointments could have felt more grotesquely out of his element. indolently cornelia's mother lifted her lorgnette and gazed at him skeptically from the spot just behind his left ear where the barber had clipped him too short, to the edge of his right heel that the bootblack had neglected to polish. apparently she did not even see the suitcase but, "oh, are you leaving town?" she asked icily. only by the utmost tact on his part did he finally succeed in establishing tête-à-tête relations with cornelia herself; and even then if the house had been a tower ten stories high, cornelia's mother, rustling up the stairs, could not have swished her skirts any more definitely like a hissing snake. in absolute dumbness stanton and cornelia sat listening until the horrid sound died away. then, and then only, did cornelia cross the room to stanton's side and proffer him her hand. the hand was very cold, and the manner of offering it was very cold, but stanton was quite man enough to realize that this special temperature was purely a matter of physical nervousness rather than of mental intention. slipping naturally into the most conventional groove either of word or deed, cornelia eyed the suitcase inquisitively. "what are you doing?" she asked thoughtlessly. "returning my presents?" "you never gave me any presents!" said stanton cheerfully. "why, didn't i?" murmured cornelia slowly. around her strained mouth a smile began to flicker faintly. "is that why you broke it off?" she asked flippantly. "yes, partly," laughed stanton. then cornelia laughed a little bit, too. after this stanton lost no possible time in getting down to facts. stooping over from his chair exactly after the manner of peddlers whom he had seen in other people's houses, he unbuckled the straps of his suitcase, and turned the cover backward on the floor. cornelia followed every movement of his hand with vaguely perplexed blue eyes. "surely," said stanton, "this is the weirdest combination of circumstances that ever happened to a man and a girl--or rather, i should say, to a man and two girls." quite accustomed as he now was to the general effect on himself of the whole unique adventure with the serial-letter co. his heart could not help giving a little extra jump on this, the verge of the astonishing revelation that he was about to make to cornelia. "here," he stammered, a tiny bit out of breath, "here is the small, thin, tissue-paper circular that you sent me from the serial-letter co. with your advice to subscribe, and there--" pointing earnestly to the teeming suitcase,--"there are the minor results of--having taken your advice." in cornelia's face the well-groomed expression showed sudden signs of immediate disorganization. snatching the circular out of his hand she read it hurriedly, once, twice, three times. then kneeling cautiously down on the floor with all the dignity that characterized every movement of her body, she began to poke here and there into the contents of the suitcase. [illustration: he unbuckled the straps of his suitcase and turned the cover backward on the floor] "the 'minor results'?" she asked soberly. "why yes," said stanton. "there were several things i didn't have room to bring. there was a blanket-wrapper. and there was a--girl, and there was a--" cornelia's blonde eyebrows lifted perceptibly. "a girl--whom you didn't know at all--sent you a blanket-wrapper?" she whispered. "yes!" smiled stanton. "you see no girl whom i knew--very well--seemed to care a hang whether i froze to death or not." "o--h," said cornelia very, very slowly, "o--h." her eyes had a strange, new puzzled expression in them like the expression of a person who was trying to look outward and think inward at the same time. "but you mustn't be so critical and haughty about it all," protested stanton, "when i'm really trying so hard to explain everything perfectly honestly to you--so that you'll understand exactly how it happened." "i should like very much to be able to understand exactly how it happened," mused cornelia. gingerly she approached in succession the roll of sample wall-paper, the maps, the time-tables, the books, the little silver porringer, the intimate-looking scrap of unfinished fancy-work. one by one stanton explained them to her, visualizing by eager phrase or whimsical gesture the particularly lonesome and susceptible conditions under which each gift had happened to arrive. at the great pile of letters cornelia's hand faltered a trifle. "how many did i write you?" she asked with real curiosity. "five thin ones, and a postal-card," said stanton almost apologetically. choosing the fattest looking letter that she could find, cornelia toyed with the envelope for a second. "would it be all right for me to read one?" she asked doubtfully. "why, yes," said stanton. "i think you might read one." after a few minutes she laid down the letter without any comment. "would it be all right for me to read another?" she questioned. "why, yes," cried stanton. "let's read them all. let's read them together. only, of course, we must read them in order." almost tenderly he picked them up and sorted them out according to their dates. "of course," he explained very earnestly, "of course i wouldn't think of showing these letters to any one ordinarily; but after all, these particular letters represent only a mere business proposition, and certainly this particular situation must justify one in making extraordinary exceptions." one by one he perused the letters hastily and handed them over to cornelia for her more careful inspection. no single associate detail of time or circumstance seemed to have eluded his astonishing memory. letter by letter, page by page he annotated: "that was the week you didn't write at all," or "this was the stormy, agonizing, god-forsaken night when i didn't care whether i lived or died," or "it was just about that time, you know, that you snubbed me for being scared about your swimming stunt." breathless in the midst of her reading cornelia looked up and faced him squarely. "how could any girl--write all that nonsense?" she gasped. it wasn't so much what stanton answered, as the expression in his eyes that really startled cornelia. "nonsense?" he quoted deliberatingly. "but i like it," he said. "it's exactly what i like." "but i couldn't possibly have given you anything like--that," stammered cornelia. "no, i know you couldn't," said stanton very gently. for an instant cornelia turned and stared a bit resentfully into his face. then suddenly the very gentleness of his smile ignited a little answering smile on her lips. "oh, you mean," she asked with unmistakable relief; "oh, you mean that really after all it wasn't your letter that jilted me, but my temperament that jilted you?" "exactly," said stanton. cornelia's whole somber face flamed suddenly into unmistakable radiance. "oh, that puts an entirely different light upon the matter," she exclaimed. "oh, now it doesn't hurt at all!" rustling to her feet, she began to smooth the scowly-looking wrinkles out of her skirt with long even strokes of her bright-jeweled hands. "i think i'm really beginning to understand," she said pleasantly. "and truly, absurd as it sounds to say it, i honestly believe that i care more for you this moment than i ever cared before, but--" glancing with acute dismay at the cluttered suitcase on the floor, "but i wouldn't marry you now, if we could live in the finest asylum in the land!" shrugging his shoulders with mirthful appreciation stanton proceeded then and there to re-pack his treasures and end the interview. just at the edge of the threshold cornelia's voice called him back. "carl," she protested, "you are looking rather sick. i hope you are going straight home." "no, i'm not going straight home," said stanton bluntly. "but here's hoping that the 'longest way round' will prove even yet the very shortest possible route to the particular home that, as yet, doesn't even exist. i'm going hunting, cornelia, hunting for molly make-believe; and what's more, i'm going to find her if it takes me all the rest of my natural life!" xi driving downtown again with every thought in his head, every plan, every purpose, hurtling around and around in absolute chaos, his roving eyes lit casually upon the huge sign of a detective bureau that loomed across the street. white as a sheet with the sudden new determination that came to him, and trembling miserably with the very strength of the determination warring against the weakness and fatigue of his body, he dismissed his cab and went climbing up the first narrow, dingy stairway that seemed most liable to connect with the brain behind the sign-board. it was almost bed-time before he came down the stairs again, yet, "i think her name is meredith, and i think she's gone to vermont, and she has the most wonderful head of mahogany-colored hair that i ever saw in my life," were the only definite clues that he had been able to contribute to the cause. in the slow, lagging week that followed, stanton did not find himself at all pleased with the particular steps which he had apparently been obliged to take in order to ferret out molly's real name and her real city address, but the actual audacity of the situation did not actually reach its climax until the gentle little quarry had been literally tracked to vermont with detectives fairly baying on her trail like the melodramatic bloodhounds that pursue "eliza" across the ice. "red-headed party found at woodstock," the valiant sleuth had wired with unusual delicacy and caution. "denies acquaintance, boston, everything, positively refuses interview, temper very bad, sure it's the party," the second message had come. the very next northward-bound train found stanton fretting the interminable hours away between boston and woodstock. across the sparkling snow-smothered landscape his straining eyes went plowing on to their unknown destination. sometimes the engine pounded louder than his heart. sometimes he could not even seem to hear the grinding of the brakes above the dreadful throb-throb of his temples. sometimes in horrid, shuddering chills he huddled into his great fur-coat and cursed the porter for having a disposition like a polar bear. sometimes almost gasping for breath he went out and stood on the bleak rear platform of the last car and watched the pleasant, ice-cold rails go speeding back to boston. all along the journey little absolutely unnecessary villages kept bobbing up to impede the progress of the train. all along the journey innumerable little empty railroad-stations, barren as bells robbed of their own tongues, seemed to lie waiting--waiting for the noisy engine-tongue to clang them into temporary noise and life. was his quest really almost at an end? was it--was it? a thousand vague apprehensions tortured through his mind. and then, all of a sudden, in the early, brisk winter twilight, woodstock--happened! climbing out of the train stanton stood for a second rubbing his eyes at the final abruptness and unreality of it all. woodstock! what was it going to mean to him? woodstock! everybody else on the platform seemed to be accepting the astonishing geographical fact with perfect simplicity. already along the edge of the platform the quaint, old-fashioned yellow stage-coaches set on runners were fast filling up with utterly serene passengers. a jog at his elbow made him turn quickly, and he found himself gazing into the detective's not ungenial face. "say," said the detective, "were you going up to the hotel first? well you'd better not. you'd better not lose any time. she's leaving town in the morning." it was beyond human nature for the detective man not to nudge stanton once in the ribs. "say," he grinned, "you sure had better go easy, and not send in your name or anything." his grin broadened suddenly in a laugh. "say," he confided, "once in a magazine i read something about a lady's 'piquant animosity'. that's her! and _cute_? oh, my!" five minutes later, stanton found himself lolling back in the quaintest, brightest, most pumpkin-colored coach of all, gliding with almost magical smoothness through the snow-glazed streets of the little narrow, valley-town. "the meredith homestead?" the driver had queried. "oh, yes. all right; but it's quite a journey. don't get discouraged." a sense of discouragement regarding long distances was just at that moment the most remote sensation in stanton's sensibilities. if the railroad journey had seemed unhappily drawn out, the sleigh-ride reversed the emotion to the point of almost telescopic calamity: a stingy, transient vista of village lights; a brief, narrow, hill-bordered road that looked for all the world like the aisle of a toy-shop, flanked on either side by high-reaching shelves where miniature house-lights twinkled cunningly; a sudden stumble of hoofs into a less-traveled snow-path, and then, absolutely unavoidable, absolutely unescapable, an old, white colonial house with its great solemn elm trees stretching out their long arms protectingly all around and about it after the blessed habit of a hundred years. nervously, and yet almost reverently, stanton went crunching up the snowy path to the door, knocked resonantly with a slim, much worn old brass knocker, and was admitted promptly and hospitably by "mrs. meredith" herself--molly's grandmother evidently, and such a darling little grandmother, small, like molly; quick, like molly; even young, like molly, she appeared to be. simple, sincere, and oh, so comfortable--like the fine old mahogany furniture and the dull-shining pewter, and the flickering firelight, that seemed to be everywhere. "good old stuff!" was stanton's immediate silent comment on everything in sight. it was perfectly evident that the little old lady knew nothing whatsoever about stanton, but it was equally evident that she suspected him of being neither a highwayman nor a book agent, and was really sincerely sorry that molly had "a headache" and would be unable to see him. "but i've come so far," persisted stanton. "all the way from boston. is she very ill? has she been ill long?" the little old lady's mind ignored the questions but clung a trifle nervously to the word boston. "boston?" her sweet voice quavered. "boston? why you look so nice--surely you're not that mysterious man who has been annoying mollie so dreadfully these past few days. i told her no good would ever come of her going to the city." "annoying molly?" cried stanton. "annoying _my_ molly? i? why, it's to prevent anybody in the whole wide world from ever annoying her again about--anything, that i've come here now!" he persisted rashly. "and don't you see--we had a little misunderstanding and--" into the little old lady's ivory cheek crept a small, bright, blush-spot. "oh, you had a little misunderstanding," she repeated softly. "a little quarrel? oh, is that why molly has been crying so much ever since she came home?" very gently she reached out her tiny, blue-veined hand, and turned stanton's big body around so that the lamp-light smote him squarely on his face. "are you a good boy?" she asked. "are you good enough for--my--little molly?" impulsively stanton grabbed her small hands in his big ones, and raised them very tenderly to his lips. [illustration: "are you a good boy?" she asked] "oh, little molly's little grandmother," he said; "nobody on the face of this snow-covered earth is good enough for your molly, but won't you give me a chance? couldn't you please give me a chance? now--this minute? is she so very ill?" "no, she's not so very ill, that is, she's not sick in bed," mused the old lady waveringly. "she's well enough to be sitting up in her big chair in front of her open fire." "big chair--open fire?" quizzed stanton. "then, are there two chairs?" he asked casually. "why, yes," answered the little-grandmother in surprise. "and a mantelpiece with a clock on it?" he probed. the little-grandmother's eyes opened wide and blue with astonishment. "yes," she said, "but the clock hasn't gone for forty years!" "oh, great!" exclaimed stanton. "then won't you please--please--i tell you it's a case of life or death--won't you _please_ go right upstairs and sit down in that extra big chair--and not say a word or anything but just wait till i come? and of course," he said, "it wouldn't be good for you to run upstairs, but if you could hurry just a little i should be _so_ much obliged." as soon as he dared, he followed cautiously up the unfamiliar stairs, and peered inquisitively through the illuminating crack of a loosely closed door. the grandmother as he remembered her was dressed in some funny sort of a dullish purple, but peeping out from the edge of one of the chairs he caught an unmistakable flutter of blue. catching his breath he tapped gently on the woodwork. round the big winged arm of the chair a wonderful, bright aureole of hair showed suddenly. "come in," faltered molly's perplexed voice. all muffled up in his great fur-coat he pushed the door wide open and entered boldly. "it's only carl," he said. "am i interrupting you?" the really dreadful collapsed expression on molly's face stanton did not appear to notice at all. he merely walked over to the mantelpiece, and leaning his elbows on the little cleared space in front of the clock, stood staring fixedly at the time-piece which had not changed its quarter-of-three expression for forty years. "it's almost half-past seven," he announced pointedly, "and i can stay till just eight o'clock." only the little grandmother smiled. almost immediately: "it's twenty minutes of eight now!" he announced severely. "my, how time flies!" laughed the little grandmother. when he turned around again the little grandmother had fled. but molly did not laugh, as he himself had laughed on that faraway, dreamlike evening in his rooms. instead of laughter, two great tears welled up in her eyes and glistened slowly down her flushing cheeks. "what if this old clock hasn't moved a minute in forty years?" whispered stanton passionately, "it's such a _stingy_ little time to eight o'clock--even if the hands never get there!" then turning suddenly to molly he held out his great strong arms to her. "oh, molly, molly!" he cried out beseechingly, "i love you! and i'm free to love you! won't you please come to me?" [illustration: "it's only carl," he said] sliding very cautiously out of the big, deep chair, molly came walking hesitatingly towards him. like a little wraith miraculously tinted with bronze and blue she stopped and faced him piteously for a second. then suddenly she made a little wild rush into his arms and burrowed her small frightened face in his shoulder. "oh, carl, sweetheart!" she cried. "i can really love you now? love you, carl--love you! and not have to be just molly make-believing any more!" the end. +------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note | | | | obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. for a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | | | text printed using the greek alphabet in the original book | | is shown as follows: [greek: logos]. | | | | superscript text in the original book is shown as follows: | | w^ch | +------------------------------------------------------------+ a letter book a letter book selected with an introduction on the history and art of letter-writing by george saintsbury london g. bell and sons, ltd. new york: harcourt, brace and co. preface when my publishers were good enough to propose that i should undertake this book, they were also good enough to suggest that the introduction should be of a character somewhat different from that of a school-anthology, and should attempt to deal with the art of letter-writing, and the nature of the letter, as such. i formed a plan accordingly, by which the letters, and their separate prefatory notes, might be as it were illustrations to the introduction, which was intended in turn to be a guide to them. having done this with a proper _pourvu que dieu lui prête vie_ referring to both book and author, i thought it well to look up next what had been done in the way before me, at least to the extent of what the london library could provide me in circumstances of enforced abstinence from the museum and from "bodley." from its catalogue i selected a curious eighteenth-century _art of letter writing_, and four nineteenth and earliest twentieth century books--roberts's _history of letter writing_ ( ) with pickering's ever-beloved title-page and his beautiful clear print; the _littérature epistolaire_ of barbey d'aurevilly--a critic never to be neglected though always to be consulted with eyes wide open and brain alert; finally, two essays in dr. jessopp's _studies by a recluse_ and in the _men and letters_ of mr. herbert paul, once a very frequent associate of mine. the title of the first mentioned book speaks it pretty thoroughly. "the art of letter writing: divided into two parts. the first: containing rules and directions for writing letters on all sorts of subjects [_this line as well as several others is rubricked_] with a variety of examples equally elegant and instructive. the second: a collection of letters on the most interesting occasions of life in which are inserted--the proper method of addressing persons of all ranks; some necessary orthographical directions, the right forms of message for cards; and thoughts upon a multiplicity of subjects; the whole composed upon an entirely new plan--chiefly calculated for the instruction of youth, but may be [_sic_] of singular service to gentlemen, ladies and all others who are desirous to attain the true style and manner of a polite epistolary intercourse." may our own little book have no worse fortune! mr. roberts's avowedly restricts itself to the fifth century as a _terminus ad quem_, though it professes to start "from the earliest times," and its seven hundred pages deal very honestly and fully with their subjects. the essays of dr. jessopp and mr. paul are of course merely essays, of a score or two of pages: though the first is pretty wide in its scope. there would be nothing but good to be said of either, if both had not been, not perhaps blasphemous but parsimonious of praise, towards "our lady of the rocks." it cannot be too often or too solemnly laid down that an adoration of madame de sévigné as a letter-writer is not crotchet or fashion or affectation--is no result of merely taking authority on trust. the more one reads her, and the more one reads others, the more convinced should one be of her absolute non-pareility in almost every kind of genuine letter (as apart from letters that are really pamphlets or speeches or sermons) except pure love-letters, of which we have none from her. as for _littérature epistolaire_, it is a collection of some two dozen reviews of various modern reprints of letters by distinguished writers--mostly but not all french. the author has throughout used the letters he is considering almost wholly as tell-tales of character, not as examples of art: and therefore he does not, except in possible glances, require further attention, though the book is full of interesting things. its judgment of one of our greatest, and one of the greatest of all, letter-writers--horace walpole--is too severe, but not, like macaulay's, superficially insistent on superficial defects, and ought not to be neglected by anyone who studies the subject. if, however, there was no need to rely on any of these books, they did nothing to hinder in the peculiar way in which i had feared some hindrance. for it is a nuisance to find that somebody else has done something in the precise way in which you have planned doing it. i have not yet encountered that nuisance here. dr. jessopp's general plan is most like mine--indeed some similarity was unavoidable: but the two are not identical, and i had planned mine before i knew anything about his. so with this prelude let us go to business, only premising further that the object, unlike that of the anonymous augustan, is not to "give rules and instructions for writing good letters," except in the way (which far excels all rules and instructions) of showing how good letters have been written. let us also modestly trust that the collection may deal with some "interesting occasions of life" and contain "thoughts on a [fair] multiplicity of subjects." having been, as above observed, unable during the composition of this book to visit london or oxford, i have had to rely occasionally on friendly assistance. i owe particular thanks (as indeed i have owed them at almost any time these forty years) to the rev. william hunt, d.litt., honorary fellow of trinity college, oxford: and i am also indebted to miss elsie hitchcock for some kind aid at the museum given me through the intermediation of professor ker. besides the thanks given to mr. lloyd osbourne, mr. kipling and dr. williamson in the text in reference to certain new or almost new letters, we owe very sincere gratitude for permission to reprint the following important matters: _his honour judge parry._ two letters from "letters from dorothy osborne to sir william temple." _messrs. douglas & foulis._ a letter to joanna baillie, from "familiar letters of sir walter scott." _messrs. longmans, green & co._ two letters from mrs. carlyle's "letters and memorials," and one letter from sir g. o. trevelyan's "life and letters of lord macaulay." _messrs. macmillan & co., ltd._ three letters from "the letters of charles dickens"; one letter by fitzgerald and one by thomas carlyle, from "letters and literary remains of edward fitzgerald"; one letter from "charles kingsley: his letters and memories of his life"; and two extracts from "further records, - ," by frances anne kemble. _mr. john murray._ one letter from "the letters of elizabeth barrett browning." george saintsbury. royal crescent, bath, _october, _. contents page preface v introduction on the history and art of letter-writing i. ancient history. ii. letters in english--before . iii. the eighteenth century. iv. nineteenth century letters--early. v. nineteenth century letters--later. vi. some special kinds of letter. vii. conclusion. appendix to introduction: greek letters--synesius (i) to his brother--preparations to meet raiders. (ii) to hypatia--longing but unable to come to her. latin letters--pliny accepts a brief for a lady. letters of the "dark" ages--sidonius apollinaris the exploits of ecdicius. early mediaeval (twelfth century) letter duchess of burgundy to king louis vii.--matchmaking. english letters the "paston" letters . a channel fight. . margery is willing. roger ascham . "up the rhine." . nostalgia for cambridge. lady mary sidney . have you no room at court? george clifford, earl of cumberland . a death-bed letter. john donne - . letters to magdalen lady herbert. james howell . "long melford for ever." . the white bird. john evelyn . how to take care of ears, eyes and brains. dorothy osborne . a discourse of flying, and several other things. . some testimonies of kindness. jonathan swift . letter-hunger. lady mary wortley-montagu . directions for running away with her. philip dormer stanhope, earl of chesterfield . some manners that make a gentleman. george ballard . the wickedness of reviewers. thomas gray . romanities and plain english. . kent, rousseau, lord chatham, etc. horace walpole (and w. m. thackeray) . what horace wrote. . what horace might have written. tobias george smollett . of johnson, and johnson's frank--to wilkes. william cowper . about a greenhouse. sydney smith . vegetation, stagnation, and assassination. . his "hotel." hasty judgments deprecated. sir walter scott . authors and morals. samuel taylor coleridge . from spinosa to go_b_win through things in general. robert southey - . the _lingo grande_. charles lamb . a sigh for solitude. george gordon, lord byron . of pictures, and sepulture, and his daughters. percy bysshe shelley . of pictures only. john keats . a voyage, and the _quarterly_ and charmian. the carlyles . thomas on _latrappism_. . jane welsh on her travels. . jane welsh on the blessings of photography. thomas babington macaulay . outfits, and election dinners. miss berry and lady holland. thomas lovell beddoes . stage-coach tricks, and stage-play ghosts. elizabeth barrett browning . an extended honey-moon. edward fitzgerald . of bath, and oxford, and some immortals. francis anne kemble . a ghost in flannel. . bakespearism. william makepeace thackeray . as himself. . in character. charles dickens . straight dealing with the personages of _nicholas nickleby_. . advice to an innocent in london. . mr. and mrs. harris. charles kingsley . _tom brown's schooldays_; pike fishing; and a pretty thing with garth's. john ruskin . the servant question. robert louis balfour stevenson . john gibson lockhart, and an umbrella. introduction the history and art of letter writing i ancient history on letter-writing, as on most things that can themselves be written and talked about, there are current many _clichés_--stock and banal sayings that express, or have at some time expressed, a certain amount of truth. the most familiar of these for a good many years past has been that the penny post has killed it. whether revival of the twopenny has caused it to exhibit any kind of corresponding resurrectionary symptoms is a matter which cannot yet be pronounced upon. but it may be possible to avoid these _clichés_, or at any rate to make no more than necessary glances at them, in composing this little paper, which aims at being a discussion of the letter as a branch of literature, no less than an introduction to the specimens of the kind which follow. if, according to a famous dictum, "everything has been said," it follows that every definition must have been already made. therefore, no doubt, somebody has, or many bodies have, before now defined or at least described the letter as that kind of communication of thought or fact to another person which most immediately succeeds the oral, and supplies the claims of absence. you want to tell somebody something; but he or she is not, as they used to say "by," or perhaps there are circumstances (and circum_standers_) which or who make speech undesirable; so you "write." at first no doubt, you used signs or symbols like the feather with which wildrake let cromwell's advent be known in _woodstock_--a most ingenious device for which, by the way, the recipients were scantly grateful. but when reading and writing came by nature, you availed yourself of these nature's gifts, not always, it is to be feared, regarding the interconnection of the two sufficiently. there is probably more than one person living who has received a reply beginning "dear so-and-so, thanks for your interesting and _partially legible_ epistle," or words to that effect. but that is a part of the matter which lies outside our range. on the probable general fact, however, some observations may be less frivolously based. if this were a sentimental age, as some ages in the past have been, one might assume that, as the first portrait is supposed to have been a silhouette of the present beloved, drawn on her shadow with a charcoaled stick, so the same, or another implement may have served (on what substitute for paper anybody pleases) to communicate with her when absent. but the silliness of this age--though far be it from us to dispute its possession of so prevailing a quality--does not take the form--at least _this_ form--of sentiment. [sidenote: the beginnings] there is, moreover, nothing silly or sentimental, though of course there is something that may be controverted, in saying that except for purely "business" purposes (which are as such alien from art and have nothing to do with any but a part, and a rather sophisticated part, of nature) the less the letter-writer forgets that he is merely substituting pen for tongue the better. of course, the instruments and the circumstances being different, the methods and canons of the proceedings will be different too. in the letter there is no interlocutor; and there is no possibility of what we may call accompanying it with personal illustrations[ ] and demonstrations, if necessary or agreeable. but still it may be laid down, with some confidence, that the more the spoken word is heard in a letter the better, and the less that word is heard--the more it gives way to "book"-talk--the worse. indeed this is not likely to be denied, though there remain as usual almost infinite possibilities of differences in personal opinion as to what constitutes the desirable mixture of variation and similarity between a conversation and a letter. let us, before discussing this or saying anything more about the principles, say something about the history of this, at best so delightful, at worst so undelightful art. for if history, in the transferred sense of particular books called "histories," is rather apt to be false: nothing but history in the wider and higher sense will ever lead us to truth. the future is unknown and unknowable. the present is turning to past even as we are trying to know it. only the past itself abides our knowledge. [sidenote: biblical examples] of the oldest existing examples of epistolary correspondence, except those contained in the bible, the present writer knows little or nothing. for, except a vanished smattering of hebrew, he "has" no oriental tongue; he has never been much addicted to reading translations, and even if he had been so has had little occasion to draw him to such studies, and much to draw him away from them. there certainly appear to be some beautiful specimens of the more passionate letter writing in ancient if not exactly pre-christian chinese, and probably in other tongues--but it is ill talking of what one does not know. in the scriptures themselves letters do not come early, and the "token" period probably lasted long. isaac does not even send a token with jacob to validate his suit for a daughter of laban. but one would have enjoyed a letter from ishmael to his half-brother, when his daughter was married to esau, who was so much more like a son of ishmael himself than of the amiable husband of rebekah. she, by the way, had herself been fetched in an equally unlettered transaction. it would of course be impossible, and might be regarded as improper, to devote much space here to the sacred epistolographers. but one may wonder whether many people have appreciated the humour of the two epistles of the great king ahasuerus-artaxerxes, the first commanding and the second countermanding the massacre of the jews--epistles contained in the septuagint "rest of the book of esther" (see our apocrypha), instead of the mere dry summaries which had sufficed for "the hebrew and the chaldee." the exact authenticity of these fuller texts is a matter of no importance, but their substance, whether it was the work of a persian civil servant or of a greek-jew rhetorician, is most curious. whosoever it was, he knew king's speeches and communications from "my lords" and such like things, very well indeed; and the contrast of the mention in the first letter of "aman who excelled in wisdom among us and was approved for his constant good will and steadfast fidelity" with "the wicked wretch aman--a stranger received of us ... his falsehood and cunning"--the whole of both letters being carefully attuned to the respective key-notes--is worthy of any one of the best ironists from aristophanes to the late mr. traill. between these two extremes of the pentateuch and the apocrypha there is, as has been remarked by divers commentators, not much about letters in the bible. it is not auspicious that among the exceptions come david's letter commanding the betrayal of uriah, and a little later jezebel's similar prescription for the judicial murder of naboth. there is, however, some hint of that curious attractiveness which some have seen in "the king's daughter all glorious within--" and without (as the higher criticism interprets the forty-fifth psalm) in the bland way with which she herself stipulates that the false witnesses shall be "sons of belial." there is a book (once much utilised as a school prize) entitled _the history of inventions_. i do not know whether there is a "dictionary of attributed inventors." if there were it would contain some queer examples. one of the queerest is fathered (for we only have it at second hand) on hellanicus, a greek writer of respectable antiquity--the peloponnesian war-time--and respectable repute for book-making in history, chronology, etc. it attributes the invention of letters--_i.e._ "epistolary correspondence"--to atossa--not mr. matthew arnold's persian cat but--the persian queen, daughter of cyrus, wife of cambyses and darius, mother of xerxes, and in more than her queenly status a sister to jezebel. atossa had not a wholly amiable reputation, but she was assuredly no fool: and if, to borrow a famous phrase, it had been necessary to invent letters, there is no known reason why she might not have done it. but it is perfectly certain that she did not, and no one who combines, as all true scholars should endeavour to combine, an unquenchable curiosity to know what can be known and is worth knowing with a placid resignation to ignorance of what cannot be known and would not be worth knowing--need in the least regret the fact that we do not know who did. there are said to be egyptian letters of immense antiquity and high development; but once more, i do not profess direct knowledge of them, and once more i hold that of what a man does not possess direct knowledge, of that he should not write. besides, for practical purposes, all our literature begins with greek: so to greek let us turn. we have a fair bulk of letters in that language. hercher's _epistolographi graeci_ is a big volume, and would not be a small one, if you cut out the latin translations. but it is unfortunate that nearly the whole, like the majority of later greek literature, is the work of that special class called rhetoricians--a class for which, though our term "book-makers" may be a little too derogatory, "men of letters" is rarely (it is sometimes) applicable, as we use it when we mean to be complimentary. these letters are still close to "speech," thus meeting in a fashion our initial requirement, but they are close to the speech of the "orator"--of the sophisticated speaker to the public--not to that of genuine conversation. in fact in some cases it would require only the very slightest change to make those exercitations of the rhetors which are not called "epistles" definite letters in form, while some of the best known and characteristic of their works are so entitled. [sidenote: the rhetoricians] it was unfortunate for the greeks, as it would seem, and for us more certainly, that letter-writing was so much affected by these "rhetoricians." this curious class of persons has perhaps been too much abused: and there is no doubt that very great writers came out of them--to mention one only in each division--lucian among the extremely profane, and st. augustine among the greatest and most intellectual of divines. but though their habitual defects are to be found abundantly enough in modern society, these defects are, with us, as a rule distributed among different classes; while anciently they were united in this one. we have our journalists, our book-makers (literary, not sporting), our platform and parliamentary palaverers, our popular entertainers; and we also have our pedagogues, scholastic and collegiate, our scientific and other lecturers, etc. but the rhetorician of old was a jack of all these trades; and he too frequently combined the triviality, unreality, sophistry and catch-pennyism of the one division with the priggishness, the lack of tact and humour, and above all the pseudo-scientific tendency to generalisation, classification and, to use a familiar word, "pottering" of the other. in particular he had a mania in his more serious moods for defining and sub-defining things and putting them into pigeon-holes under the sub-definitions. thus the so-called demetrius phalereus, who (or a false namesake of his) has left us a capital _general_ remark (to be given presently) on letter-writing, elaborately divides its kinds, with prescriptions for writing each, into "friendly," "commendatory," "reproving," "objurgatory," "consolatory," "castigatory," "admonishing," "threatening," "vituperatory," "laudatory," "persuasive," "begging," "questioning," "answering," "allegorical," "explanatory," "accusing," "defending," "congratulatory," "ironic" and "thankful," while the neo-platonist, proclus, is responsible for, or at least has attributed to him, a list of nearly double the length, including most of those given above and adding many. of these last, "love-letters" is the most important, and "mixed" the _canniest_, for it practically lets in everything. this way, of course, except for purely business purposes--where established forms save time, trouble and possible litigation--no possible good lies; and indeed the impossibility thereof is clearly enough indicated in the above-glanced-at general remark of demetrius (or whoever it was) himself. in fact the principle of this remark and its context in the work called "of interpretation," which it is more usual now to call, perhaps a little rashly, "of style," is so different from the catalogue of types that they can hardly come from the same author. "you _can_ from this, as well as from all other kinds of writing, discern the character of the writer; indeed from none other can you discern it so well." those who know a little of the history of criticism will see how this anticipates the most famous and best definitions of style itself, as being "the very man," and they may perhaps also think worthy of notice another passage in the same context where the author finds fault with a rather "fine" piece of an epistle as "not the way a man would talk to his friend," and even goes on to use the most familiar greek word for talking--[greek: lalein]--in the same connection. [sidenote: alciphron. julian] of such "talking with a friend" we have unfortunately very few examples--hardly any at all--from older greek. the greater collections--not much used in schools or colleges now but well enough known to those who really know greek literature--of alciphron, aristaenetus, philostratus and (once most famous of all) phalaris are--one must not perhaps say obvious, since men of no little worth were once taken in by them but--pretty easily discoverable counterfeits. they are sometimes, more particularly those of philostratus, interesting and even beautiful;[ ] they have been again sometimes at least supposed, particularly those of alciphron, to give us, from the fact that they were largely based upon lost comedies, etc., information which we should otherwise lack; and in many instances (aristaenetus is perhaps here the chief) they must have helped towards that late greek creation of the romance to which we owe so much. nor have we here much if anything to do with such questions as the morality of personating dead authors, or that of laying traps for historians. it is enough that they do not give us, except very rarely, good letters: and that even these exceptions are not in any probability _real_ letters, real written "confabulations of friends" at all. almost the first we have deserving such a description are those of the emperor julian in the fourth century of that christ for whom he had such an unfortunate hatred; the most copious and thoroughly genuine perhaps those of bishop synesius a little later. of these julian's are a good deal affected by the influence of rhetoric, of which he was a great cultivator: and the peculiar later platonism of synesius fills a larger proportion of his than some frivolous persons might wish. julian is even thought to have "written for publication," as latin epistolers of distinction had undoubtedly done before him. nevertheless it is pleasant to read the apostate when he is not talking imperial or anti-christian "shop," but writing to his tutor, the famous sophist and rhetorician libanius, about his travels and his books and what not, in a fashion by no means very unlike that in which a young oxford graduate might write to an undonnish don. it is still pleasanter to find synesius telling his friends about the very thin wine and very thick honey of cyrenaica; making love ("camouflaged," as they say to-day, under philosophy) to hypatia, and condescending to mention dogs, horses and hunting now and then. but it is unfortunately undeniable that the bulk of this department of greek literature is spurious to begin with, and uninteresting, even if spuriousness be permitted to pass. the letters of phalaris--once famous in themselves, again so as furnishing one of the chief battle-grounds in the "ancient and modern" quarrel, and never to be forgotten because of their connection with swift's _battle of the books_--are as dull as ditchwater in matter, and utterly destitute of literary distinction in style. * * * * * [sidenote: roman letter-writing] it is a rule, general and almost universal, that every branch of latin literature is founded on, and more or less directly imitative of greek. even the satire, which the romans relied upon to prove that they could originate, is more apparently than really an invention. also, though this may be more disputable, because much more a matter of personal taste, there were very few such branches in which the pupils equalled, much fewer in which they surpassed, their masters. but in both respects letter-writing may be said to be an exception. unless we have been singularly unlucky in losing better greek letters than we have, and extraordinarily fortunate in fate's selection of the latin letters that have come down to us, the romans, though they were eager students of rhetoric, and almost outwent their teachers in composing the empty things called declamations, seem to have allowed this very practice to drain off mere verbosity, and to have written letters about matters which were worth pen, ink, paper and (as we should say) postage. we have in greek absolutely no such letters from the flourishing time of the literature as those of cicero, of pliny[ ] and even of seneca--while as we approach the "dark" ages julian and synesius in the older language cannot touch sidonius apollinaris or perhaps cassiodorus[ ] in the younger. of course all these are beyond reasonable doubt genuine, while the greek letters attributed to plato, socrates and other great men are almost without doubt and without exception spurious. but there is very little likelihood that the greeks of the great times wrote many "matter-ful" letters at all. they lived in small communities, where they saw each other daily and almost hourly; they took little interest in the affairs of other communities unless they were at war with them, and when they did travel there were very few means of international communication. women write the best letters, and get the best letters written to them: but it is doubtful whether greek women, save persons of a certain class and other exceptions in different ways like sappho and diotima,[ ] ever wrote at all. the romans, after their early period, were not merely a larger and ever larger community full of the most various business, and constantly extending their presence and their sway; but, by their unique faculty of organisation, they put every part of their huge world in communication with every other part. here also we lack women's letters; but we are, as above remarked, by no means badly off for those of men. there have even been some audacious heretics who have preferred cicero's letters to his speeches and treatises; seneca, the least attractive of those before mentioned, put well what the poet wordsworth called in his own poems "extremely va_loo_able thoughts"; one of the keenest of mathematicians and best of academic and general business men known to the present writer, the late professor chrystal of edinburgh, made a special favourite of pliny; and if people can find nothing worse to say against sidonius than that he wrote in contemporary, and not in what was for his time archaic, latin, his case will not look bad in the eyes of sensible men. [sidenote: sidonius] sidonius, like synesius, was a christian, and, though the observation may seem no more logical than fluellen's about macedon and monmouth, besides being in more doubtful taste, there would seem to be some connection between the spread of christianity and that of letter-writing. at any rate they synchronise, despite or perhaps because of the deficiency of formal literature during the "dark" ages. it is not really futile to point out that a very large part of the new testament consists of "epistles," and that by no means the whole of these epistles is occupied by doctrinal or hortatory matter. even that which is so, often if not always, partakes of the character of a "live" letter to an extent which makes the so-called letters of the greek rhetoricians mere school exercises. and st. paul's allusions to his journeys, his salutations, his acknowledgment of presents, his reference to the cloak and the books with its anxious "but especially the parchments," and his excellent advice to timothy about beverages, are all the purest and most genuine matter for mail-bags. so is st. peter's very gentleman-like (as it has been termed) retort to his brother apostle; and so are both the second and the third of st. john. indeed it is not fanciful to suggest that the account of the voyage which finishes the "acts," and other parts of that very delightful book, are narratives much more of the kind one finds in letters than of the formally historical sort. however this may be, it is worth pointing out that the distrust of other pagan kinds of literature which the fathers manifested so strongly, and which was inherited from them by the clergy of the "dark," and to some extent the middle ages, clearly could not extend to the practice of the apostles. if from the dark ages themselves we have not very many, it must be remembered that from them we have little literature at all: while from the close of that period and the beginning of the next we have one of the most famous of all correspondences, the letters of abelard and heloise. of the intrinsic merit of these long-and far-famed compositions, as displaying character, there have been different opinions--one of the most damaging attacks on them may be found in barbey d'aurevilly's already mentioned book. but their influence has been lasting and enormous: and even if it were to turn out that they are forgeries, they are certainly early forgeries, and the person who forged them knew extremely well what he was about. there is no room here to survey, even in selection, the letter-crop of the middle ages; and from henceforward we must speak mainly, if not wholly (for some glances abroad may be permitted), of _english_ letters.[ ] but the ever-increasing bonds of union--even of such union in disunion as war--between different european nations, and the developments of more complex civilisation, of more general education and the like--all tended and wrought in the same direction. ii letters in english--before exceptions have sometimes been taken to the earliest collection of genuine private letters, not official communications written in or inspired by latin--which we possess in english. "the paston letters" have been, from opposite sides, accused of want of literary form and of not giving us interesting enough details in substance. the objections in either case[ ] are untenable, and in both rather silly. in the first place "literary form" in the fifteenth century was exceedingly likely to be bad literary form, and we are much better off without it. unless sir thomas malory had happened to be chaplain at oxnead, or sir john fortescue had occupied there something like the position of mr. tulkinghorn in _bleak house_, we should not have got much "literature" from any known prose-writer of the period. nor was it wanted. as for interestingness of matter, the people who expect newspaper-correspondent fine writing about the wars of the roses may be disappointed; but some of us who have had experience of that dialect from the russells of the crimea through the forbeses of to the chroniclers of armageddon the other day will probably not be very unhappy. the paston letters are simply genuine family correspondence--of a genuineness all the more certain because of their commonplaceness. it is impossible to conceive anything further from the initial type of the greek rhetorical "letter" of which we have just been saying something. they are not, to any but an excessively "high-browed" and high-flying person, uninteresting: but the chief point about them is their solidity and their satisfaction, in their own straightforward unvarnished way, of the test we started with. when margaret paston and the rest write, it is because they have something to say to somebody who cannot be actually spoken to. and that something is said. [sidenote: ascham] the next body of letters--ascham's--which seems to call for notice here is of the next century. it has not a few points of appeal, more than one of which concern us very nearly. most of the writers of the paston letters were, though in some cases of good rank and fairly educated, persons entirely unacademic in character, and their society was that of the last trouble and convulsion through which the early middle ages struggled into the renaissance, so long delayed with us. ascham was one of our chief representatives of the renaissance itself--that is to say, of a type at once scholarly and man-of-the-worldly, a courtier and a diplomatist as well as a "don" and a man of letters; a sportsman as well as a schoolmaster. and while from all these points of view his letters have interest, there is one thing about them which is perhaps more interesting to us than any other: and that is the fact that while he begins to write in latin--the all but mother-tongue of all scholars of the time, and the universal language of the educated, even when not definitely scholarly, throughout europe--he exchanges this for english latterly, in the same spirit which prompted his famous expression of reasons for writing the _toxophilus_ in our own and his own tongue. there is indeed a double attraction, which has not been always or often noticed, in this change of practice. everybody has seen how important it is, not merely as resisting the general delusion of contemporary scholars that the vernaculars were things unsafe, "like to play the bankrupt with books," but as protesting by anticipation against the continuance of this error which affected bacon and hobbes, and was not entirely without hold even on such a magician in english as browne. but perhaps everybody has not seen how by implication it acknowledges the peculiar character of the genuine letter--that, though it may be a work of art, it should not be one of artifice--that it is a matter of "business _or_ bosoms," not of study or display. contemporary with these letters of ascham, and going on to the end of the century and the closely coincident end of the reign of elizabeth, we have a considerable bulk of letter-writing of more or less varied kinds. the greatest men of letters of the time--to the disgust of one, but not wholly so to that of another, class of "scholar"--give us little. spenser is the most considerable exception: and his correspondence with gabriel harvey, though it is personal to a certain extent and on gabriel's side sufficiently character-revealing, is really of the hybrid kind, partaking rather more of pamphlet or essay than of letter proper. indeed a good part of that very remarkable pamphlet-literature of this time, which has perhaps scarcely yet received its due share of attention, takes the letter-form: but is mostly even farther from genuine letter-writing than the correspondence of "immerito" and "master g. h." we have of course more of harvey's; we have laments from others, such as lyly and googe, about their disappointments as courtiers; we have a good deal of state correspondence. there are some, not very many, agreeable letters of strictly private character in whole or part, the pleasantest of all perhaps being some of sir philip sydney's mother, lady mary dudley. others are from time to time being made public, such as those in dr. williamson's recent book on the admiral-earl of cumberland. as far as mere bulk goes, elizabethan epistolography would take no small place, just as it would claim no mean one in point of interest. but in an even greater degree than its successor (_v. inf._) this _corpus_ would expose itself to the criticism that the time for perfect letter-writing was not quite yet, in this day of so much that was perfect, that the style was not quite the right style, the knack not yet quite achieved. and if the present writer--who swore fealty to elizabethan literature a full third of a century ago after informal allegiance for nearly as long a time earlier--admits some truth in this, there probably is some. the letters included in it attract us more for the matter they contain than for the manner in which they contain it: and when this is the case no branch of literature has perfected itself in art. [sidenote: the seventeenth century] the position of the seventeenth century in england with regard to letter-writing has been the subject of rather different opinions. the bulk of its contributions is of course very considerable: and some of the groups are of prominent importance, the most singular, if not the most excellent, being cromwell's, again to be mentioned. as in other cases and departments this century offers a curious "split" between its earlier part which declines--not in goodness but like human life in vitality--from, but still preserves the character of, the pure elizabethan, and its later, which grows up again--not in goodness but simply in the same vitality--towards the augustan. this relationship is sufficiently illustrated in the actual letters. the great political importance of the civil war of course reflects itself in them. indeed it may almost be said that for some time letters are wholly concerned with such things, though of course there are partial exceptions, such as those of dorothy osborne--"mild dorothea" as she afterwards became, though there is no mere mildness of the contemptuous meaning in her correspondence. in most remarkable contrast to these stand the somewhat earlier letters of james howell--our first examples perhaps of letters "written for publication" in the fullest sense, very agreeably varied in subject and great favourites with a good many people, notably thackeray--but only in part (if at all) genuine private correspondence. not a few men otherwise distinguished in literature wrote letters--sometimes in curious contrast with other productions of theirs. the most remarkable instance of this, but an instance easily comprehensible, is that of samuel pepys. only a part of pepys' immense correspondence has ever been printed, but there is no reason to expect from the remainder--whether actually extant, mislaid or lost--anything better than the examples which are now accessible, and which are for the most part the very opposite in every respect of the famous and delectable diary. they are perfectly "proper," and for the most part extremely dull; while propriety is certainly not the most salient characteristic of the diary; and the diarist manages, in the most eccentric manner, to communicate interest not merely to things more specially regarded as "interesting," but to his accounts and his ailments, his business and his political history. his contemporary and rather patronising friend evelyn keeps his performances less far apart from each other: but is certainly, though a representative, not a great letter-writer, and the few that we have of pepys' patronised fellow-cantabrigian dryden are of no great mark, though not superfluous. in the earlier part of the century latin had not wholly shaken off its control as the epistolary language; and it was not till quite the other end that english itself became supple and docile enough for the purposes of the letter-writer proper. it was excellent for such things as formal dedications, semi-historical narratives, and the like. and it could, as in sir thomas browne's, supply another contrast, much more pleasing than that referred to above, of domestic familiarity with a most poetical transcendence of style in published work. yet, as was the case with the novel, the letter, to gain perfection, still wanted something easier than the grand style of the seventeenth century and more polished than its familiar style. iii the eighteenth century [sidenote: the eighteenth century] but whatever may be the position of the seventeenth in respect of letter-writing it is impossible for anything but sheer ignorance, hopeless want of critical discernment, or idle paradox to mistake, in the direction of belittlement, that of the eighteenth. by common consent of all opinion worth attention that century was, in the two european literatures which were equally free from crudity and decadence--french and english--the very palmiest day of the art. everybody wrote letters: and a surprising number of people wrote letters well. our own three most famous epistolers of the male sex, horace walpole, gray and cowper--belong wholly to it; and "lady mary"--our most famous she-ditto--belongs to it by all but her childhood; as does chesterfield, whom some not bad judges would put not far if at all below the three men just mentioned. the rise of the novel in this century is hardly more remarkable than the way in which that novel almost wedded itself--certainly joined itself in the most frequent friendship--to the letter-form. but perhaps the excellence of the choicer examples in this time is not really more important than the abundance, variety and popularity of its letters, whether good, indifferent, or bad. to use one of the informal superlatives sanctioned by familiar custom it was the "letterwritingest" of ages from almost every point of view. in its least as in its most dignified moods it even overflowed into verse if not into poetry as a medium. serious epistles had--of course on classical models--been written in verse for a long time. but now in england more modern patterns, and especially anstey's _new bath guide_, started the fashion of actual correspondence in doggerel verse with no thought of print--a practice in which persons as different as madame d'arblay's good-natured but rather foolish father, and a poet and historian like southey indulged; and which did not become obsolete till victorian times, if then. at the present moment one does not remember an exact equivalent in england to the story of two good writers in french if not french writers[ ] living in the same house, meeting constantly during the day, yet exchanging letters, and not short ones, before breakfast. but very likely there is or was one, and more than one. for those no doubt estimable persons who are not content with facts but must have some explanations of them, it is less difficult to supply such things than is sometimes the case. one--the attainment at last of a "middle" style neither grand nor vulgar--has already been glanced at. it has been often and quite truly observed that there are sentences, passages, paragraphs, almost whole letters in horace walpole and lady mary wortley montagu, in fanny burney and in cowper, which no one would think old-fashioned at the present day in any context where modern slang did not suggest itself as natural. but this was by no means the only predisposing cause, though perhaps most of the others were, in this way or that, connected with it. both in france and in england literature and social matters generally were in something like what political economists call "the stationary state" till (as rather frequently happens with such apparently stationary states) the smoothness changed to the niagara of the french revolution, and the rapids of the quarter-century war. there were no great poets:[ ] and even verse-writers were rarely grand: but there was a greater diffusion of competent writing faculty than had been seen before or perhaps--for all the time, talk, trouble, and money spent on "education,"--has been since. new divisions and departments of interest were accumulating--not merely in literature itself[ ] (as to which, if people's ideas were rather limited, they _had_ ideas), but in the arts which were in some cases practised almost for the first time and in all taken more seriously, in foreign and home politics, commerce, manufactures, all manner of things. people were by no means so apt to stay in the same place as they had been: and when friends were in different places they had much easier means of communicating with each other. nor should it be forgotten that the more elaborate system of ceremonial manners which then prevailed, but which has been at first gradually, and latterly with a run, breaking down for the last hundred years, had an important influence on letter-writing. one does not of course refer merely to elaborate formulas of beginning and ending--such as make even the greatest praisers of times past among us smile a little when they find dr. johnson addressing his own step-daughter as "dear madam," and being her "most humble servant" though in the course of the letter he may use the most affectionate and intimate expressions. but the manners of yester-year made it obligatory to make your letters--unless they were merely what were called "cards" of invitation, message, etc.--to some extent _substantive_. you gave the news of the day, if your correspondent was not likely to know it; the news of the place, especially if you were living in a university town or a cathedral city. if you had read a book you very often criticised it: if you had been to any kind of entertainment you reported on it, etc. etc. of course all this is still done by people who really do write real letters: but it is certainly done by a much smaller proportion of letter-writers than was the case two hundred, one hundred, or even fifty years ago. the newspaper has probably done more to kill letters than any penny post, halfpenny postcard or even sixpenny telegram could do. nor perhaps have we yet mentioned the most powerful destructive agent of all, and that is the ever increasing want of leisure. the dulness of modern jack, in letters as elsewhere, arises from the fact that when he is not at work he is too desperately set on playing to have time for anything else. the augustans are not usually thought god-like: but they have this of gods, that they "lived _easily_." there is perhaps still something to be said as to the apparently almost pre-established harmony between the eighteenth century and letter-writing. it concerns what has been called the "_peace_ of the augustans"; the at least comparative freedom alike from the turmoil of passion and the most riotous kinds of fun. tragedy may be very fine in letters, as it may be anywhere: but it is in them the most dangerous,[ ] most rarely successful and most frequently failed-in of all motives--again as it is everywhere. comedy in letters is good: but it should be fairly "genteel" comedy, such as this age excelled in--not roaring farce. an "excruciatingly funny" letter runs the risk of being excruciating in a sadly literal sense. now the men of good queen anne and the first three georges were not given to excess, in these ways at any rate; and there are few better examples of the happy mean than the best of their letters. the person who is bored by any one of those sets which have been mentioned must bring the boredom with him--as, by the way, complainers of that state of suffering do much oftener than they wot of. nor is much less to be said of scores of less famous epistolers of the time, from the generation of berkeley and byrom to that of scott and southey. [sidenote: swift] to begin with swift, it is a scarcely disputable fact that opinions about this giant of english literature--not merely as to his personal character, though perhaps this has had more to do with the matter than appears on the surface, but as to his exact literary value--have differed almost incomprehensibly. johnson thought, or at least affected to think, that _a tale of a tub_ could not be swift's, because it was too good for him, and that "tom davies might have written _the conduct of the allies_": while on the other hand thackeray, indulging in the most extravagant denunciation of swift as a man, did the very fullest, though not in the least too full, homage to his genius. but one does not know many things more surprising in the long list of contradictory criticisms of man and genius alike, than mr. herbert paul's disapproval of the _journal to stella_ as letters while admitting its excellence as "narrative."[ ] to other judges these are some of the most perfect letters in existence, some of the most absolutely genuine and free from the slightest taint of writing for publication; some of the most extraordinarily blended of intense intimacy which is neither ridiculous nor productive of the shame-faced feeling that you ought not to have heard it; and full of that dealing with matters less intimate but still interesting to both correspondents which displays the "narrative" excellence conceded by this acute critic. it must of course be remembered that these "journal-letters" are by no means swift's only proofs of his epistolary expertness. the vanessa ones perhaps display a little of the hopelessly enigmatic character which spreads like a mist over the whole of that ill-starred relationship: but they make all the more useful contrast to the "wholeheartedness"--one may even use that word in reference to the little bit of what we may call constructive deception as to "the other person"--of those to her rival.[ ] those to pope (of which so shabby a use was made by their strangely constituted recipient), to bolingbroke and others are among the best of friendly letters: and the curious batch to the duchess of queensberry might be classed with those "court-paying" letters of man to woman which are elsewhere more particularly noted. but the "stella" or "stella-cum-dingley" division (if that most singular of value-completing zeros is to be brought in) is a thing by itself. perhaps appreciating or not appreciating the "little language" is a matter very largely of personal constitution, and the failure to appreciate is (like colour-blindness or other physical deficiencies) a thing to be sorry for, not to condemn. but one might have thought that even if what we may call "feeling" of this were absent there would be an intellectual understanding of the way in which it completes the whole-heartedness just mentioned--the manner in which the writer deals with politics, society, letters, the common ways of life, and his own passion--this last sometimes in the fore-sometimes in the background, but never far off. other letters, from horace walpole's downwards, may contain a panorama of life as brilliant as these give, or more brilliant. yet it is too frequently a panorama or a puppet show, or at the best a marvellously acted but somewhat bloodless drama. on the other hand, the pure passion-letters lack as a rule this many-sidedness. with swift we get both. seldom has any collection shown us more varied interests. but through it all there is an anticipation of the knell of this commerce of his--"only a woman's hair"--and that hair threads, in subtle fashion, the whole of the journal, turning the panorama to something felt as well as seen, and the puppet-show to realities of flesh and blood. that this magical transforming element is wanting in a most remarkable pair of contemporaries, chesterfield and "lady mary," has been generally allowed; though a strong fight has been made by some of her sisters for "my lady" and though the soundest criticism allows that "my lord" did not so much lack as dissemble heart and even sometimes showed the heart he had. it would be out of our proper line to discuss such questions here at any length. it may be enough to warn readers who have not yet had time to look into the matter for themselves that pope's coarse attacks on lady mary and johnson's fine rhetorical rebuff of chesterfield were unquestionably outbursts of hurt personal pride. horace walpole made hits at both for reasons which we may call personal at second-hand, because the one was a friend of his sister-in-law and the other an enemy of his father. as for dickens' caricature of "sir john chester" in _barnaby rudge_ it is not so much a caricature as a sheer and inexcusable libel. anyhow, the letters of the earl and the lady are exceedingly good reading. persons of no advanced years who have been introduced to them in the twentieth century have been known to find them positively captivating: and their attractions are, not merely as between the two but even in each case by itself, singularly various. lady mary's forte--perhaps in direct following of her great forerunner and part namesake, marie de sévigné, though she spoke inadvisedly of her--lies in description of places and manners, and in literary criticism.[ ] her accounts of her turkish journey in earlier days, and of some scenes in italy later, of her court and other experiences, etc., rank among the best things of the kind in english; and her critical acuteness, assisted as it was by no small possession of what might almost be called scholarship, was most remarkable for her time. also, she does all these things naturally--with that naturalness at which--when they possess it at all--women are so much better than men. people say a lady can never pass a glass without looking at herself. (one thinks by the way one has seen men do that.) but after all what the glass gives is a reflection and record of nature: and women learn to see it in others as well as in themselves. [sidenote: chesterfield] few english writers have suffered more injustice in popular estimation than chesterfield. even putting aside the abuse by which, as above mentioned, johnson showed (on fluellen's principles convincingly) that he had more in common with the goddess juno than the j in both their names--that is to say an _insanabile vulnus_ of vanity--there remain sources of mistakes and prejudice which have been all too freely tapped. the miscellaneous letters--which show sides of him quite different from those most in evidence throughout the "letters to his son"--are rarely read: these latter have been, at least once and probably oftener, made into a schoolbook for translation into other languages--an office by no means likely to conciliate affection. and even when they are not suspected of positive immorality there is a too general idea that they are frivolously and trivially didactic--the sort of thing that mr. turveydrop the elder might have written on deportment--if he had had brains enough. yet again, unbiassed appreciation of them has been hampered by all sorts of idle controversies as to the kind of man that young stanhope actually turned out to be--a point of merely gossiping importance in any case, and, whatever be the facts of this one, having no more to do with the merit of the letters than the other fact that some people make mistakes in their accounts after having learnt the multiplication table has to do with the value of that composition. as a matter of relevant fact the letters--except (and even here the accusations against them are much exaggerated) from the point of view of very severe morality in regard to one or two points--perhaps no more than one--are full of sound advice, clear common-sense, and ripe experience of the world. the manners they recommend are not those of any but a very exceptional "dancing master," they are those of a gentleman. the temper that they inculcate and that they exhibit in the inculcator is positively kindly and relatively correct. both these and the other batch of "letters to his godson" and successor in the earldom (the lord chesterfield for forging whose name dr. dodd was hanged) show the most curious and unusual pains on the part of a man admitted to be in the highest degree a man of the world, and sometimes accused of being nothing else, to make himself intelligible and agreeable to young--at first very young--boys. in his letters to older folk, both men and women, qualities for which there was no room in the others arise--the thoughts of a statesman and a philosopher, the feelings of a being quite different from the callous, frivolous, sometimes "insolent"[ ] worldling who has been so often put in the place of the real chesterfield. and independently of all this there is present in all these letters--though most attractively in those to his son--a power of literary expression which would have made the fortune of any professional writer of the time. if chesterfield's literary taste was too often decided by the fashionable limitations of this time, it was, within those limitations, accomplished: and it was accompanied, as mere taste very often is not, by no small command of literary production. he could and did write admirable light verse; his wit in conversation is attested in the most final fashion by his enemy horace walpole, and some of the passages in the letters where he indulges in description or even dialogue are by no means unworthy of the best genteel comedy of the time. but he could also, as was said of someone else, be "nobly serious," as in his "character" writing and elsewhere. his few contributions to the half-developed periodical literature of his day show how valuable he would have been to the more advanced review or magazine of the nineteenth century: and if he had chosen to write memoirs they would probably have been among the best in english.[ ] now the memoir and the letter are perhaps the most straitly and intimately connected forms of literature. [sidenote: horace walpole] horace walpole--like his two contemporaries, fellow-members of english aristocratic society, acquaintances and objects of aversion just discussed--has been the subject of very various opinions. johnson (of whom he himself spoke with ignorant contempt and who did not know his letters, but did know some of his now half-forgotten published works) dismissed him with good-natured belittlement. macaulay made him the subject of some of the most unfortunately exaggerated of those antitheses of blame and praise which, in the long run, have done the writer more harm than his subjects. to take one example less likely to be known to english readers, the wayward and prejudiced, but often very acute french critic already mentioned, barbey d'aurevilly, though he admits horace's _esprit_ pronounces it _un fruit brillant, amer, et glacé_. there are undoubtedly many things to be said against him as a man--if you take the "letters-a-telltale-of-character" view, especially so. he was certainly spiteful, and he had the particularly awkward--though from one point of view not wholly unamiable--peculiarity of being what may be called spiteful at second hand. to stand up for your friends at the proper time and in the proper place is the duty, and should be the pleasure, of every gentleman. but to bite and for the most part, if not almost always, to _back_-bite your friends' supposed enemies--often when they have done nothing adverse to those friends on the particular occasion--is the act at the best of an intempestively officious person, at the worst of a cur. and horace was always doing this in regard to all sorts of people--his abuse of johnson himself, of chesterfield and lady mary, of fielding and others, having no personal excuse or reason whatsoever. his taste in collecting, building, etc., is not a matter in which men of other times should be too ready to throw stones, for taste in all such matters at almost all times, however sure a stronghold it may seem to those who occupy it, is the most brittle of glass-houses to others. he had also a considerable touch of almost original genius in important kinds of literature, as _the mysterious mother_ and _the castle of otranto_ showed--a touch which undoubtedly helped him in his letters. but of critical power he had nothing at all; and his knowledge (save, perhaps in art) was anything but extensive and still less accurate. politically he was a mere baby, all the eighty years of his life; though he passed many of them in the house of commons and might have passed several in the house of lords, had he chosen to attend it. when he was young he was a theoretical republican rejoicing in the execution of charles i.: when he was old the french revolution was to him anathema and he was horrified at the execution of louis xvi. he was incapable of sustaining, perhaps of understanding, an argument: everything with him was a matter, as the defamers of women say it is with them, of personal and arbitrary fancy, prejudice, or whim. but all this does not prevent him from being one of the best letter-writers in the english language: and if you take bulk of work along with variety of subject; maintenance of interest and craftsmanship as well as bulk, perhaps the very best of all. the latest standard edition of his letters, to which additions are still being made, is in sixteen well-filled volumes, and there are probably few readers of good taste and fair knowledge who would object if it could be extended to sixty. there is perhaps no body of epistles except madame de sévigné's own--which horace fervently admired and, assisted perhaps by the feminine element in his own nature, copied assiduously--exhibiting the possible charm of letter-writing more distinctly or more copiously. to examine the nature of this charm a little cannot be irrelevant in such an introduction as this: and from what has just been said it would seem that these letters will form as good a specimen for examination as any. they are not very much "mannerised": indeed, nobody but thackeray, in the wonderful chapter of _the virginians_ where horace is made to describe his first interview with one of the heroes, has ever quite imitated them. their style, though recognisable at once, is not a matter so much of phrase as of attitude. his revelations of character--his own that is to say, for horace was no conjuror with any one else's--are constant but not deeply drawn. he cannot, or at least does not, give a plot of any kind: every letter is a sort of _review_ of the subject--larger or smaller--from the really masterly accounts of the trial of the jacobite lords after the "forty-five" to the most trivial notices of people going to see "strawberry"; of remarkable hands at cards; of patty blount (pope's patty) in her autumn years passing his windows with her gown tucked up because of the rain. art and letters appear; travelling and visiting; friendship and society; curious belated love-making with the miss berrys; scandal (a great deal of it); charity (a little, but more than the popular conception of horace allows for); the court-calendar, club life, almost all manner of things except religion (though it is said horace had an early touch of methodism) and really serious thought of any kind, form the budget of his letter-bag. and it is all handled with the most unexpected equality of success. there is of course nothing very "arresting." cooking chickens in a sort of picnic with madcap ladies, and expecting "the dish to fly about our ears" is perhaps the most exciting incident[ ] of the sixteen volumes and seven or eight thousand pages. but everywhere there is interest; and that of a kind that does not stale itself. the fact would seem to be that the art of letter-writing is a sort of mosaic or macédoine of nearly all departments of the general art of literature. you want constant touches of the art narrative, and not very seldom some of the art dramatic. always you want that of conversation--subtly differentiated. occasionally, though in the ordinary letter not very often, you want argument: much oftener description. pathos, tenderness, etc., are more exceptionally required: and it is, in modern times at least, generally accepted that in the letter consolatory, that almost greatest of shakespearian magic phrases, "the rest is silence" should never be forgotten and very quickly applied. wit is welcome, if it be well managed: but that is a pretty constant proviso in regard to the particular element. perhaps the greatest negative caution of all is that the letter should not be _obviously_ "written for publication." now the curious thing about walpole is that his letters were, pretty certainly in some cases (those to mann) and not improbably in nearly all, written with some view to publication if only of a limited sort, and yet that the intention is rarely prominent to an offensive degree. even if we did not know the curious and disgusting tricks that pope played with his, we should be certain that he was always thinking of the possibility of somebody else than the reader to whom they were addressed reading them. with nearly an equal presumption as to the fact in the case of horace (though to do him justice he did not indulge in any ignoble tricks with them) this fact rarely occurs and never offends. an unkind critic with a turn for rather obvious epigram might say that the man's nature was so artificial that his artifice seems natural. if so, all the more credit to him as an artificer. and another feather in his cap is that, although you can hardly ever mistake the writer, his letters take a slight but sufficient colour of difference according to the personality of the recipient. he does not write to montagu exactly as he writes to mann; to gray as to mason; to lady upper-ossory as to earlier she-correspondents. so once more, though there are large and important possible subjects for letters on which "horry" does not write at all, it is questionable whether, everything being counted in that he has, and no unfair offsets allowed for what he does not attempt, we have in english any superior to him as a letter-writer. [sidenote: gray] the case of another famous eighteenth-century epistoler--walpole's schoolfellow and except for the time of a quarrel (the blame of which horace rather generously took upon himself but in which there were doubtless faults on both sides)[ ] life-long friend--is curiously different. gray was a poet, while walpole, save for a touch of fantastic imagination, had nothing of poetry in him and could not, as some who are not poets can, even appreciate it. in more than one other intellectual gift he soared above horace. he was essentially a scholar, while his friend was as essentially a sciolist. he even combined the scientific with the literary temperament to a considerable extent: and thus was enabled to display an orderliness of thought by no means universal in men of letters, and (at least according to common estimation) positively rare in poets. his tastes were as various as his friend's: but instead of being a mere bundle of casual likings and dislikings, they were aesthetically conceived and connected. he was not exactly an amiable person: indeed, though there was less spitefulness in him than in horace there was, perhaps, more positive "bad blood." as for the feature in his character, or at least conduct, that impressed itself so much on mr. matthew arnold--that he "never spoke out"--it might be thought, if it really existed, to have been rather fatal to letter-writing, in which a sense of constraint and "keeping back" is one of the very last things to be desired. and some of the positive characteristics and accomplishments above enumerated (not the poetry--poets have usually been good epistolers) might not seem much more suitable. as a matter of fact, however, gray _is_ a good letter-writer--a very good letter-writer indeed. his letters, as might be expected from what has been said, carry much heavier metal than horace's; but in another sense they are not in the least heavy. they are very much less in bulk than those of the longer lived and more "scriblative" though hardly more leisured writer:[ ] and--as not a defect but a consequence of the quality just attributed to them--they do not quite carry the reader along with them in that singular fashion which distinguishes the others. but no one save a dunce can find them dull: and their variety is astonishing when one remembers that the writer was, for great part of his life, a kind of recluse. he touches almost everything except love (one wonders whether there were any unpublished, and feels pretty sure that there must have been some unwritten, letters to miss speed which would have filled the gap) and with a result of artistic success even more decided than that assigned to goldsmith's versatility by gray's enemy or at least "incompatible" johnson.[ ] his letters of travel are admirable: his accounts of public affairs, though sometimes extremely prejudiced, very clever; those of university society and squabbles among the very best that we have in english; those touching "the picturesque" extremely early and remarkably clear-sighted; those touching literature among the least one-sided of their time. if there are, as observed or hinted above, some unamiable touches, his persistent protection of the poor creature mason; his general attitude to his friends the whartons; and his communications with younger men like norton nicholls and bonstetten, go far to remove, or, at least, to counterbalance, the impression. this last division indeed, and the letters to mason, emphasize what is evident enough in almost all, a freedom on his part (which from some things in his character and history we might not altogether have expected) from a fault than which hardly any is more disagreeable in letters. this is the manifestation of what is called, in various more or less familiar terms, "giving oneself airs," "side," "patronising," etc. he may sometimes come near this pitfall of "intellectuals," but he never quite slips into it, being probably preserved by that sense of humour which he certainly possessed, though he seldom gave vent to it in verse and not very often in prose. taking them altogether, gray's letters may be said to have few superiors in the combination of intellectual weight and force with "pastime" interest. to some of course they may be chiefly or additionally interesting because of such light as they throw or withhold on a rather problematic character, but this, like the allegory in spenser according to hazlitt, "won't bite" anyone who lets it alone. they are extremely good letters to read: and the more points of interest they provide for any reader the better for that reader himself. once more too, they illustrate the principle laid down at the beginning of this paper. they are good letters because they are, with the usual subtle difference necessary, like very good talk, recorded.[ ] [sidenote: cowper] nor is there any more doubt about the qualifications of the fifth of our selected eighteenth-century letter-writers. cowper's poetry has gone through not very strongly marked but rather curious variations of critical estimate. like all transition writers he was a little too much in front of the prevailing taste of his own time, and a little too much behind that of the time immediately succeeding. there may have been a very brief period, before the great romantic poets of the early nineteenth century became known, when he "drove" young persons like marianne dashwood "wild": but marianne dashwoods and their periods succeed and do not resemble each other.[ ] he had probably less hold on this time--when he had the best chance of popularity--than crabbe, one of his own group, while he was destitute of the extraordinary appeals--which might be altogether unrecognised for a time but when felt are unmistakable--of the other two, burns and blake, of the poets of the seventeen-eighties. his religiosity was a doubtful "asset" as people say nowadays: and even his pathetic personal history had its awkward side. but as to his letters there has hardly at any time, since they became known, existed a difference of opinion among competent judges. there may be some unfortunates for whom they are too "mild": but we hardly reckon as arbiters of taste the people for whom even brandy is too mild unless you empty the cayenne cruet into it. moreover the "tea-pot pieties" (as a poet-critic who ought to have known better once scornfully called them) make no importunate appearance in the bulk of the correspondence: while as regards the madness this supplies one of the most puzzling and perhaps not the least disquieting of "human documents." a reader may say--by no means in his haste, but after consideration--not merely "where is the slightest sign of insanity in these?" but "how on earth did it happen that the writer of these _ever_ went mad?" even with the assistance of newton, and teedon, and, one has to say, mrs. unwin. for among the characteristics of cowper's letters at their frequent and pretty voluminous best, are some that seem not merely inconsistent with insanity, but likely to be positive antidotes to and preservatives from it. there is a quiet humour--not of the fantastic kind which, as in charles lamb, forces us to admit the possibility of near alliance to _over_-balance of mind--but _counter_-balancing, antiseptic, _salt_. there is abundant if not exactly omnipresent common-sense; excellent manners; an almost total absence in that part of the letters which we are now considering of selfishness, and a total absence of ill-nature.[ ] it is no business of ours here to embark on the problem, "what was the dram of eale" that ruined all this and more "noble substance" in cowper? though there is not much doubt about the agency and little about the principal agents that effected the mischief. but it is quite relevant to point out that all the good things noticed are things distinctly and definitely good for letter-writing. and sometimes one cannot help regretfully wondering whether, if he--who dealt so admirably with such interests as were open to him--had had more and wider ones to deal with, _we_ should not have had still more varied and still more delightful letters, and _he_ would have escaped the terrible fate that fell on him. for although cowper was the reverse of selfish in the ordinary sense, he was intensely self-centred, and his life gave too much opportunity for that excessive self-concentration which is the very hotbed of mental disease. it is not a little surprising from this point of view, and it perhaps shows how imperative the letter-writing faculty is when it is possessed--that cowper's letters are as good as they are: while that point of view also helps us to understand why they are sometimes not so good. of all the floating thoughts we find upon the surface of the mind, as he himself very happily sums up the subjects of letter-writing, there are few in his case which are of more unequal value than his criticisms. cowper had more than one of the makings of a critic, and a very important critic. he was, or at any rate had been once, something of a scholar; he helped to effect and (which is not always or perhaps even often the case) helped _knowingly_ to effect, one of the most epoch-making changes in english literature. but for the greater part of his life he read very little; he had little chance of anything like literary discussion with his peers; and accordingly his critical remarks are random, uncoordinated, and mostly a record of what struck him at the moment in the way of like and dislike, agreement or disagreement. but then there is nothing that we go for to cowper as a letter-writer so little as for things of this kind: and even things of this kind take the benefit of what coleridge happily called--and what everybody has since wisely followed coleridge in calling--his "divine chit-chat." as with walpole--though with that difference of idiosyncrasy which all the best things have from one another--it does not in the least matter what, among mundane affairs at least, cowper was talking about. if his conversation--and some of the few _habitués_ of olney say it was--was anything like his letter-writing, it is no wonder that people sat over even breakfast for an hour to "satisfy sentiment not appetite" as they said with that slight touch of priggishness which has been visited upon them heavily, but which perhaps had more to do with their merits than more mannerless periods will allow. and not even walpole's show to quite the same degree, that extraordinary power of making anything interesting--of entirely transcending the subject--which belongs to the letter-writer in probably a greater measure than to any man-of-letters in the other sense, except the poet. the matter which these letters have to chronicle is often the very smallest of small beer. the price, conveyance and condition of the fish his correspondents buy for him or give him (cowper was very fond of fish and lived, before railways, in the heart of the midlands); one of the most uneventful of picnics; hares and hair (one of his most characteristic pieces of quietly ironic humour is a brief descant on wigs with a suggestion that fashion should decree the cutting off of people's own legs and the substitution of artificial ones); the height of chairs and candlesticks--anything will do. he remarks gravely somewhere, "what nature expressly designed me for, i have never been able to conjecture; i seem to myself so universally disqualified for the common and customary occupations and amusements of mankind." perhaps poetry--at least poetry of the calibre of "yardley oak," and "the castaway," of "boadicea" and the "royal george" in one division; of "john gilpin" in the other, may not be quite properly classed among the "common and customary occupations of mankind." but letter-writing might without great impropriety be so classed: and there cannot be the slightest doubt that nature intended cowper for a letter-writer. whether he writes "the passages and events of the day as well as of the night are little better than dreams" or "an almost general cessation of egg-laying among the hens has made it impossible for mrs. unwin to enterprise a cake" one has (but perhaps a little more vividly) that agreeable sensation which at one time visited tennyson's northern farmer. one "thinks he's said what he ought to 'a said" in the exact manner in which he ought to have said it. [sidenote: minors] it is however most important to remember that these five are only, as it were, commanding officers of the great army, representative of the very numerous constituents, who do the service and enjoy the franchise of letter-writing in the eighteenth century. there is hardly a writer of distinction in any other kind whose letters are not noteworthy; and there are very numerous letter-writers of interest who are scarcely distinguished in any other way. perhaps fielding disappoints us most in this section by the absence of correspondence, all the more so that the "voyage to lisbon" is practically letter-stuff of the best. from smollett also we might have more--especially more like his letter to wilkes on the subject of the supposed impressment of johnson's negro servant frank, which we hope to give here. sterne's character would certainly be better if his astonishing daughter had suppressed some of his epistles, but it would be much less distinct, and they are often, if sometimes discreditably so, amusing if not edifying. the vast mass of richardson's correspondence would correspond in another sense to the volume of his novels. we have letters from berkeley at the beginning and others from gibbon at the end--these last peculiarly valuable, because, as sometimes but not perhaps very often happens, they do not merely illustrate but supplement and complete the published work. from ladies, courtly, domestic, literary and others, we have shelves--and cases--and almost libraries full; from the lively chat of the lepels and bellendens and howards of the early georgian time to those copious and unstudied but never dull, compositions which fanny burney poured forth to "susan and fredy," to maria allen and to "daddy crisp" and a score of others; those of the montagu circle; the documents upon which some have based aspersion and others defence of mrs. thrale; and the prose utterances of the "swan of lichfield," otherwise miss seward.[ ] there are shenstone's letters for samples of one kind and those of the revd. mr. warner (the supposed original of thackeray's parson sampson) for another and very different one. even outside the proper and real "mail-bag" letter all sorts of writings--travels, pamphlets, philosophical and theological arguments, almost everything--throw themselves into the letter form. to come back to that with which we began there is no doubt that the eighteenth century is the century of the letter with us. iv nineteenth century letters. early [sidenote: early nineteenth century groups] there is, however, not the slightest intention of suggesting here that the art of letter-writing died with the century in which it flourished so greatly. in the first place, periods of literary art seldom or never "die" in a moment like a tropical sunset; and, in the second, the notion that centennial years necessarily divide such periods, as well as the centuries in which they appear, is an unhistorical delusion. there have been dates in our history-- was one of them--where something of the kind seems to have happened: but they are very rare. most ships of literature at such times are fortunately what is called in actual ships "clinker-built"--that is to say overlappingly--and except at this has never been so much the case as two hundred years later and one hundred ago. when the eighteenth century closed, wordsworth, coleridge, scott and southey were men approaching more or less closely, thirty years of age. landor, hazlitt, lamb and moore were at least, and some of them well, past the conventional "coming of age"; de quincey, byron and shelley were boys and even keats was more than an infant. in the first mentioned of these groups there was still very marked eighteenth-century idiosyncrasy; in the second some; and it was by no means absent from byron though hardly present at all in most respects as regards shelley and keats. certainly in none of the groups, and only in one or two individuals, is there much if any shortcoming as concerns letter-writing. wordsworth indeed makes no figure as a letter-writer, and nobody who has appreciated his other work would expect him to do so. the first requisite of the letter-writer is "freedom"--in a rather peculiar sense of that word, closest to the way in which it has been employed by some religious sects. wordsworth could _preach_--nearly always in a manner deserving respect and sometimes in one commanding almost infinite admiration; but when the letter-writer begins to preach he is in danger of the waste-paper basket or the fire. coleridge's letters are fairly numerous and sometimes very good: but more than one of his weaknesses appears in them. the excellence of scott's, though always discoverable in lockhart, was perhaps never easily appreciable till they were separately collected and published not very many years ago. it may indeed be suggested that the "life and letters" system, though very valuable as regards the "life" is apt a little to obscure the excellence of the "letters" themselves. of this particular collection it is not too much to say that while it threw not the least stain on the character of one of the most faultless (one singular and heavily punished lapse excepted) of men of letters, it positively enhanced our knowledge of the variety of his literary powers. perhaps however the best of letter-writers amongst these four protagonists of the great romantic revival in england (the inevitable attempt sometimes made now to quarrel with that term is as inevitably silly) is the least good poet. southey's letters, never yet fully but very voluminously published, have not been altogether fortunate in their fashion of publication. there have been questionings about the propriety of "selected" works; but there surely can be little doubt that in the case of letters a certain amount of selection is not only justifiable but almost imperative. everyone at all addicted to correspondence must know that in writing to different people on the same or closely adjacent days, if "anything has" in the common phrase "happened" he is bound to repeat himself. he may, if he has the sense of art, take care to vary his phrase even though he knows that no two letters will have the same reader; but he cannot vary his matter much. southey's letters, in the two collections by his son and his son-in-law, were edited without due regard to this: and the third--those to caroline bowles, his second wife--might have been "thinned" in a different way. but the bulk of interesting matter is still very large and the quality of the presentation is excellent. if anyone fears to plunge into some dozen volumes let him look at the "cats" and the "statues" of greta hall, printed at the end of the _doctor_, but both in form and nature letters. he will not hesitate much longer, if he knows good letter-stuff when he sees it.[ ] [sidenote: landor] most of the second group wrote letters worth reading, but only one of them reaches the first rank in the art; it is true that he is among the first _of_ the first. the letters of landor supply not the least part of that curious problem which is presented by his whole work. they naturally give less room than the _apices_ of his regular prose and of his poetry for that marvellous perfection of style and phrase which is allowed even by those who complain of a want of substance in him. and another complaint of his "aloofness" affects them in two ways rather damagingly. when it is present it cuts at the root of one of the chief interests of letters, which is intimacy. when it is absent, and landor presents himself in his well-known character of an angry baby (as for instance when he remarked of the bishop who did not do something he wanted, that "god alone is great enough for him [walter savage landor] to ask anything of _twice_") he becomes merely--or perhaps to very amiable folk rather painfully--ridiculous. de quincey and hazlitt diverted a good deal of what might have been utilised as mere letter-writing faculty into their very miscellaneous work for publication. moore could write very good letters himself: but is perhaps most noted and notable in connection with the subject as being one of the earliest and best "life-and-letters" craftsmen in regard to byron. but none of these restrictions or provisos is requisite, or could for a moment be thought of, in reference to charles lamb. of him, as of hardly any other writer of great excellence (perhaps thackeray is most like him in this way) it can be said that if we had nothing but his letters we should almost be able to detect the qualities which he shows in his regular works. some of the _essays of elia_ and his other miscellanies are or pretend to be actual letters. certainly not a few of his letters would seem not at all strange and by no means unable to hold up their heads, if they had appeared as essays of that singularly fortunate italian who had his name taken, _not_ in vain but in order to be titular author of some of the choicest things in literature. indeed that unique combination of bookishness and native fancy which makes the "eliesque" quality is obviously as well suited to the letter as to the essay, and would require but a stroke or two of the pen, in addition or deletion, to produce examples of either. one often feels as if it must have been, as the saying goes, a toss-up whether the _london magazine_ or some personal friend got a particular composition; whether it was issued to the public direct or waited for serjeant talfourd to collect and edit it. the two english writers whom, on very different sides of course, lamb most resembles, and whom he may be said to have copied (of course as genius copies) most, are sterne and sir thomas browne. but between the actual letters and the actual works of these two, themselves, there is a great difference, while (as has just been noted) in lamb's case there is none. the reason of course is that though sir thomas is one of our very greatest authors and the reverend yorick not by any means unplaced in the running for greatness, both are in the highest degree artificial: while lamb's way of writing, complex as it is, necessitating as it must have done not a little reading and (as would seem almost necessary) not a little practice, seems to run as naturally as a child's babble. the very tricks--mechanical dots, dashes, aposiopeses--which offend us now and then in sterne; the unfamiliar latinisms which frighten some and disgust others in browne, drop from lamb's lips or pen like the pearls of the fairy story. unless you are born out of sympathy with elia, you never think about them as tricks at all. now this naturalness--it can hardly be said too often here--is the one thing needful in letters. the different forms of it may be as various and as far apart from each other as those of the other nature in flora or fauna, on mountain and sea, in field and town. but if it is there, all is right. [sidenote: byron] there are few more interesting groups in the population of our subject than that formed by the three poets whom we mentioned last when classifying the epistolers of the early nineteenth century. there is hardly one of them who has not been ranked by some far from contemptible judgments among our greatest as poets; and merely as letter-writers they have been put correspondingly high by others or the same. it is rather curious that the most contested as to his place as a poet has been, as a rule, allowed it most easily as a letter-writer. the enormous vogue which byron's verse at once attained both at home and abroad--has at home if not abroad (where reputations of poets often depend upon extra-poetical causes) long ceased to be undisputed: indeed has chiefly been sustained by spasmodic and not too successful exertions of individuals. it was never, of course, paralleled in regard to his letters. but these letters early obtained high repute and have never, in the general estimate, lost it. some good judges even among those who do not care very much for the poems, have gone so far as to put him among our very best epistolers; and few have put him very much lower. acceptance of the former estimate certainly--perhaps even of the latter--depends however upon the extent to which people can also accept recognition in byron of the qualities of "sincerity and strength." that he was always a great though often a careless craftsman, and sometimes a great artist in literature, nobody possessed of the slightest critical ability can deny or doubt. but there are some who shake their heads over the attribution of anything like "sincerity" to him, except very occasionally: and who if they had to translate his "strength" into greek would select the word _bia_ ("violence") and not the word _kratos_ (simple "strength") from the _dramatis personae_ of the _prometheus vinctus_. now "sincerity" of a kind--even of that kind which we found in walpole and did not find in pope--has been contended for here as a necessity in the best, if not in all good, letters; and "violence" is almost fatal to them. of a certain kind of letter byron was no doubt a skilful practitioner.[ ] but to some it will or may always seem that the vital principle of his correspondence is to that of the real "best" as stage life to life off the stage. these two can sometimes approach each other marvellously: but they are never the same thing. [sidenote: shelley] when mr. matthew arnold expressed the opinion that shelley's letters were more valuable than his poetry it was, of course, as lamb said of coleridge "only his fun." in the words of another classic, he "did it to annoy, because he knew it teased" some people. the absurdity is perhaps best antagonised by the perfectly true remark that it only shows that mr. arnold understood the letters and did not understand the poetry. but it was a little unfortunate, not for the poetry but for the letters, against which it might create a prejudice. they are so good that they ought not to have been made victims of what in another person the same judge would have called, and rightly, a _saugrenu_[ ] judgment. like all good letters--perhaps all without exception according to demetrius and newman--they carry with them much of their author's idiosyncrasy, but in a fashion which should help to correct certain misjudgments of that idiosyncrasy itself. shelley _is_ "unearthly," but it is an entire mistake to suppose that his unearthliness can never become earthly to such an extent as is required. the beginning of _the recollection_ ("we wandered to the pine forest") is as vivid a picture of actual scenery as ever appeared on the walls of any academy: and _the witch of atlas_ itself, not to mention the portrait-frescoes in _adonais_, is quite a _waking_ dream. the quality of liveness is naturally still more prominent in the letters, because poetical transcendence of fact is not there required to accompany it. but it _does_ accompany now and then; and the result is a blend or brand of letter-writing almost as unlike anything else as the writer's poetry, and in its own (doubtless lower) kind hardly less perfect. to prefer the letters to the poems is merely foolish, and to say that they are as good as the poems is perhaps excessive. but they comment and complete the shelley of the poems themselves in a manner for which we cannot be too thankful. [sidenote: keats] the letters of keats did not attract much notice till long after those of byron, and no short time after those of shelley, had secured it. this was by no means wholly, though it may have been to some extent indirectly, due to the partly stupid and partly malevolent attempts to smother his poetical reputation in its cradle. the letters were inaccessible till the late lord houghton practically resuscitated keats; and till other persons--rather in the "codlin not short" manner--rushed in to correct and supplement mr. milnes as he then was. and it was even much later still before two very different editors, sir sidney colvin and the late mr. buxton forman, completed, or nearly so, the publication. something must be said and may be touched on later in connection with a very important division of our subject in general, as to the publication by the last-named, of the letters to fanny brawne: but nothing in detail need be written, and it is almost needless to say that none of these letters will appear here. no one but a brute who is also something of a fool will think any the worse of keats for writing them. a thought of _sunt lacrimae rerum_ is all the price that need be paid by any one who chooses to read them, nor is it our business to characterise at length the taste and wits of the person who could publish them.[ ] but putting this question aside, it is unquestionable that for some years past there has been a tendency to value the letters as a whole very highly. not only has unusual critical power been claimed for keats on the strength of them, but general epistolary merit; and though nobody, so far as one knows, has yet paralleled the absurdity above mentioned in the case of shelley, keats has been taken by some credit-worthy judges as an unusually strong witness to the truth of the proposition already adopted here, that poets are good letter-writers. he certainly is no exception to the rule; but to what exact extent he exemplifies it may not be a matter to be settled quite off hand. there is no doubt that at his best keats is excellent in this way, and that best is perhaps to be found with greatest certainty, by anyone who wants to dip before plunging, in the letters to his brother and sister-in-law, george and georgiana. those to his little sister fanny are also charming in their way, though the peculiar and very happy mixture of life and literature to be found in the others does not, of course, occur in them. his letters of description, to whomsoever written, are, as one might expect, first-rate; and the very late specimen--one of his very last to anyone--to _mrs._ not miss brawne is as brave as it is touching. as for the criticism, there are undoubtedly (as again we should expect from the author of the wonderful preface to _endymion_) invaluable remarks--the inspiration of poetical practice turned into formulas of poetical theory. on the other hand, the famous advice to shelley to "be more of an artist and load every rift with ore"--shelley whose art transcends artistry and whose substance is as the unbroken nugget gold, so that there are no rifts in it to load--is, even when one remembers how often poets misunderstand each other,[ ] rather "cold water to the back" of admiration. it may, however, not unfairly introduce a very few considerations on the side of keats's letters which is not so good. all but idolaters acknowledge a certain boyishness in him--a boyishness which is in fact no mean source contributary of his charm in verse. it is perhaps not always quite so charming in prose, and especially in letters. you do not want self-criticism of an obviously second-thought kind in them. but you do want that less obtrusive variety which prevents them from appearing unkempt, "down-at-heel" etc. perhaps there is, at any rate in the earlier letters, something of this unkemptness in keats as an epistoler. a hasty person may say "what! do you venture to quarrel with letters where, side by side with agreeable miscellaneous details, you may suddenly come upon the original and virgin text of 'la belle dame sans merci'?" most certainly not. such a find, or one ten times less precious, would make one put up with accompaniments much more than ten times worse than the worst of keats's letters. but it may be observed that the objection is only a fresh example of the unfortunate tendency[ ] of mankind to "ignore elenchs" as the logicians say, or, as less pedantic phraseology has it, to talk beside the question. a man might put a thousand pound note (and you might spend many thousand pound notes without buying anything like the poem just mentioned) in a coarse, vulgar, trivial or in other ways objectionable letter. the note would be most welcome in itself, but it would not improve the quality of its covering epistle. not, of course, that keats's letters are coarse or vulgar, though they are sometimes rather trivial. but the point is that their excellency, _as_ letters, does not depend on their enclosures (as we may call them) or even directly on their importance as biography which is certainly consummate. are they good letters as such, and of how much goodness? have they been presented as letters should be presented for reading? these are points on which, considering the title and range of this introduction, it may not be improper to offer a few observations. we have already ventured to suggest that, if not the "be all and end all," at any rate the quality to be first enquired into as to its presence or its absence in letters, is "naturalness." and we have said something as to the propriety or impropriety of different modes of editing and publishing them. the present division of the subject seems to afford a specially good text for adding something more on both these matters. as to the first point, the text is specially good because of the position of keats in the most remarkable group in which we have rather found than placed him. to the present writer, as a reader, it seems, as has been already said whether justly or unjustly, that the element of "naturalness"--it is an ugly word, and french has no better, in fact none at all: though german is a little luckier with _natürlichkeit_ and spanish much with _naturaleza_--is rather conspicuously deficient in byron. in shelley it is pre-eminent, and can only be missed by those who have no kindred touch of the nature which it reflects. shelley could be vague, unpractical, mystical; he could sometimes be just a little silly; but it was no more possible for him to be affected, or to make those slips of taste which are a sort of _minus_ corresponding to the _plus_ of affectation, than it was (after _queen mab_ at least) to write anything that was not poetry. thus in addition to the literary perfection of his letters, they have the _sine qua non_ of naturalness in perfection also. but with keats things are different. opinions differ as to whether he ever quite reached maturity even in poetry to the extent into which shelley struck straight with _alastor_, never losing it afterwards, and leaving us only to wonder what conceivable accomplishment might have even transcended _adonais_ and its successors. that with all his marvellous promise and hardly less marvellous achievement, keats was only reaching maturity when he died has been generally allowed by the saner judgments.[ ] now _im_maturity has perhaps its own naturalness which is sometimes, and in a way, very charming, but is not the naturalness pure and simple of maturity. children are sometimes, nay often, very pretty, agreeable and amusing things: but there comes a time when we rather wish they would go to the nursery. perhaps the "sometimes" occurs with keats's earlier letters if not with his later. [sidenote: editing of letters] he is thus also a text for the second part of our sermon--the duty of editors and publishers of correspondence. there is much to be said for the view that publication, as it has been put, "is an unpardonable sin," that is to say, that no author (or rather no author's ghost) can justly complain if what he once deliberately published is, when all but the control of the dead hand is off, republished. _il l'a voulu_, as the famous tag from molière has it. but letters in the stricter sense--that is to say, pieces of private correspondence--are in very different case. not only were they, save in very few instances, never _meant_ for publication: but, which is of even more importance, they were never _prepared_ for publication.[ ] not only, again, did the writer never see them in "proof," much less in "revise," as the technical terms go, but he never, so far as we know, exercised on them even the revision which all but the most careless authors give before sending their manuscripts to the printer. some people of course do read over their letters before sending them: but it must be very rarely and in special, not to say dubious, cases that they do this with a view to the thing being seen by any other eyes than those of the intended recipient. it is therefore to the last degree unfair to plump letters on the market unselected and uncastigated. to what length the castigation should proceed is of course matter for individual taste and judgment. nothing must be put in--that is clear; but as to what may or should be left out, "there's the rub." perhaps the best criterion, though it may be admitted to be not very easy of application, is "would the author, in publishing, have left it out or not?" sometimes this will pass very violent expressions of opinion and even sentiments of doubtful morality and wisdom. but that it should invariably exclude mere trivialities, faults of taste, slovenlinesses of expression, etc., is at least the opinion of the present writer. and a "safety razor" of such things might perhaps with advantage have been used on keats's, though he has written nothing which is in the least discreditable to him. v nineteenth century letters. later [sidenote: a nineteenth century group] part at least of these general remarks has a very special relevance to the rest of our story. there may be differences of respectable opinion as to the system of editing just advocated; but they will hardly concern one point--that the susceptibilities of living persons must be considered. to some extent indeed this is a mere counsel of selfish prudence: for an editor who neglects it may get himself into serious difficulties. even where such danger does not exist, or might perhaps be disregarded, it is impossible for any decent person to run the risk of needlessly offending others. it will be seen at once that this introduces a new matter for consideration in regard to most--practically all--of the correspondences which we have still to survey. even those just discussed have only recently passed from under its range. shelley's son died not so very long ago: grandchildren of byron much more recently; and if keats had lived to the ordinary age of man and had, as he very likely would have done, married not fanny brawne, but somebody else later, a son or daughter of his (daughters are particularly and sometimes inconveniently loyal to their deceased parents) might be alive and flourishing now. as this constraint extends not merely to the families of the writers but to those of persons mentioned by them (not to speak of these persons themselves in the most recent cases), it exercises, as will at once be seen, a most wide-ranging cramp and brake upon publication. blunders are occasionally made of course: the most remarkable in recent times was probably an oversight of the editor of edward fitzgerald's letters, than which hardly any more interesting exist among those yet to be noticed. fitzgerald, quite innocently and without the slightest personal malevolence but thinking only of mrs. browning's work, had expressed himself (as anybody might in a private letter) to the effect that perhaps we need not be sorry for her death. unfortunately the letter was published while her husband was still alive: and many people must remember the very natural and excusable, but somewhat excessive and undignified, explosion which followed on his part. such things must of course be avoided at all costs; and the consequence is that nineteenth century letters must frequently--in fact with rare if any exceptions--have appeared in a condition of expurgation which cannot but have affected their spirit and savour to a very considerable extent. it is for instance understood that mr. matthew arnold's were very severely censored; and, while readily believing this and acquiescing in its probable propriety, the old adam in some readers may be unable to refrain from regret. again, there is something to be said about the less good effects of that "life-and-letters" system which has been quite rightly welcomed and praised for its better ones. drawing on the letters--with good material to work on and good skill in the worker--improves the life enormously; but it is by no means certain--indeed it has been hinted already--that the letters themselves do not to a certain extent lose by it. indeed from one point of view, the word "loss" may be used in its most literal meaning. the compiler of one very famous biography was said, for instance, to have--with a disregard of the value of letters as autographs which was magnificent perhaps in one way but far from "the game" in others--cut up the actual sheets and pasted the pieces on his manuscript, sending the whole to the printers and chancing the survival even of what was sent, when it came back with the proofs. but there is another sense of "loss" which has also to be reckoned. the framework of biography is, or at least ought to be, something more than a mere frame: and it distracts attention from the letters themselves, breaks up their continuous effect, and in many cases necessitates at least occasional omission of parts which an editor of them by themselves would not think of excluding. of course this is no argument against the plan as such: but it has, together with what was said recently, to be taken into account when we compare the epistolary position of the last century with that of its immediate predecessor.[ ] these remarks are made not in the least by way of depreciating or even making an apology for nineteenth century letters, but only in order to put the reader in a proper state for critical estimation of them. nor is it necessary to repeat--still less to discuss--the more general lamentations with some reference to which we started as to any decay of letter-writing. provisos and warnings may be taken as having been made sufficiently: and we pass to the actual survey. it may have been noticed in reference to the principal group of letter-writers in the eighteenth that, with the exception of cowper, they were all acquainted with each other. walpole knew lady mary, chesterfield and gray; while gray, if he did not know the other two, knew walpole very well indeed. something of the same sort might be contended for among those whom we have selected on the bridge of the eighteenth and nineteenth. wordsworth, coleridge, southey and lamb were of course intimately connected: southey knew landor and shelley, keats knew shelley, wordsworth and lamb; while byron and shelley, however unequally, were pretty closely yoked together. it is not meant that in all these groups everybody wrote to each other; but that the writing faculty was curiously prominent--diffused like a kind of atmosphere--in all. now if we look in the nineteenth for such a group it will be found perhaps less readily. but one such at least certainly exists, to wit that which includes tennyson, thackeray, edward fitzgerald, carlyle and his wife, fanny kemble, sterling and one or two more. there are of course numerous others outside this group, and even in it tennyson himself is not a very remarkable letter-writer, any more than his great rival, browning, was. but there was the same diffusion of the letter-writing spirit which has been noticed above, and thackeray, fitzgerald, the carlyles, and perhaps fanny kemble are quite of the greater clans among our peculiar people. the most remarkable of all these--and as it seems to the present writer, one of the most remarkable of all english letter-writers is one whose letters have never been collected,[ ] and from whom, until comparatively lately, we had only few and as it were accidental specimens. it is hoped that, notwithstanding the great changes of taste recently as to reticence or indiscretion, there are still many people who can not only understand but thoroughly sympathise with thackeray's disgust at the idea of having his "life" written; and the even greater reluctance which he would certainly have felt at that of having his letters published. but, as has been suggested on a former occasion, when things _are_ published there is nothing disgraceful in reading them: and it may be frankly admitted that lovers of english literature would have missed much pleasure and the opportunity of much admiration if the "brookfield" letters, those to the baxter family and others in america, those finally included in the "biographical" edition, and yet others which have turned up sporadically had remained unknown. it may be doubted whether there is anything like them in our literature--if indeed there is in any other--for the double, treble or even more complicated gift of view into character, matter of interest, positive literary satisfaction, and (perhaps most remarkable of all) resemblance to and explanation of the author's "regular literature," as it has been called. in some respects they resemble the letters of keats; but there is absent from them the immaturity which was noted in those, and which extended to both matter and style. they are more various in subject and tone than shelley's. they are not deliberately quaint like lamb's; and they naturally lack (whether this is wholly an advantage or not, may admit, though not here, of dispute) the restraint[ ] which, in greater or less degree and in varied kind, characterizes the great eighteenth century epistolers. [sidenote: thackeray] one additional charm which many of them possess may be regarded by extreme precisians as of doubtful legitimacy as far as comment here is concerned: but this may be ruled out as a superfluous scruple. it is the illumination of the text "by the author's own candles" as he himself says in a well-known introduction: the actual "illustration" by insertion in the script, of little pen-drawings. the shortcomings of thackeray's draughtsmanship have always been admitted: and by nobody more frankly than by himself. but they hardly affect this sort of "picturing" at all. the unfortunate inability to depict a pretty face which he deplored need do no harm whatever: and his lack of "composition" not much. a spice of caricature is almost invariably admissible in such things: and the same tricksy spirit which prompted the hundreds of initials, _culs-de-lampe_ etc. contributed by him to _punch_ and to be found collected in the "oxford" edition of his works, was most happily at hand for use in letters. some years ago there appeared, in a catalogue of autographs for sale, an extract of text and cut which was irresistibly funny. the author and designer had had a mishap by slipping on that peculiarly treacherous suddenly frozen rain for which (though we are liable enough to it in england and though some living have seen the entire strand turned into one huge pantomime scene, roars of laughter included, as people came out of theatres) we have no special name. (the french, in whose capital it is said to be even more frequent, call it _verglas_.) in telling it he had drawn himself sitting (as involuntarily though one hopes not so eternally as _infelix theseus_) with arms, legs, hat, etcetera in disorder suitable to the occasion and with a facial expression of the most ludicrous dismay. it can hardly have taken a dozen strokes of the pen: but they simply glorified the letter. in no sense, however, can the value and delight of thackeray's letters be said to depend upon this _bonus_ of illustration. without it they would be among the most noteworthy and the most delectable of their kind. one sees in them the "first state" of that extraordinary glancing at all sorts of side-views, possible objections and comments on "what the other fellow thinks," which is the main secret in his published writings. if the view of him as a "sentimentalist" (which nobody, unless it is taken offensively, need refuse to accept) is strengthened by them, that absurd other view, which strangely prevailed so long, of his "cynicism" is utterly destroyed. we see the variety of his interests; the keenness of his sensations; the strange and kaleidoscopic rapidity of the changes in his mood and thought. and through the whole there runs the wonderful style which was so long unrecognised--nay, which those who go by the trumpery machine-made rules of "composition books" used gravely to stigmatise as "incorrect." time lifts a great many (though not perhaps all) the restraints upon publication which have been discussed and advocated above: and it will probably be possible some day for posterity to possess, not only a collected body of the now scattered thackeray letters, but a considerably larger one than has ever appeared even in extracts and catalogues. it will be an addition to our epistolary library which can bear comparison with any previous occupant of those shelves: and one of the books which deserve, in a very peculiar sense, the hackneyed praise of being "as good as a novel." for it will be almost the equivalent of an additional novel of its author's own--a _william makepeace thackeray_ in the familiar novel-form of title, and in the old richardsonian form of contents--but oh! how different from anything of richardson's save that it might possibly make you hang yourself, not because you could not get to the story, but because you had come to the end of it. [sidenote: fitzgerald] if, however, anyone insists on a formal and more or less complete presentation, already existing, of nineteenth century "letters" in a body by a single writer, the palm must probably be given to those (already referred to) of the translator or paraphrast of omar khayyàm. besides their great intrinsic interest and peculiar idiosyncrasy, they have, for anyone studying the subject as we are endeavouring to do, a curious attraction of comparison. letter-writing, though by no means exclusively, would appear to be specially and peculiarly the _forte_ of men who live somewhat special and peculiar lives--men without the ordinary family ties of wife and children--sometimes though by no means always, recluses; possibly to some extent "originals," "humourists," "eccentrics," as they have been called at different times and from different points of view. even walpole, fond as he was of society, belongs to the class after a fashion, as do also chesterfield[ ] and lady mary, while gray, cowper, and at a later period lamb, are eminently of it. but hardly anyone so unquestionably comes under the classification as edward fitzgerald. he certainly was for a time married, but that marriage as certainly was not made in heaven, if it was not conspicuously of the other origin: and actual cohabitation lasted but a short time. he had no children, and though he frequently foregathered with the family from which he sprang, he was essentially a "solitary." such solitaries, even if they do not ticket and advertise themselves as such after the fashion of rousseau and senancour and the author of _jacopo ortis_, naturally enough find in letters the outlet for communication with their fellows[ ] which others find in conversation, and the occupation which those others have ready-made, in society, business of all kinds etc. that some copious and excellent letter-writers, such as for instance southey, have been extremely busy, and "family men" of the most unblemished character, merely shows that the rule is not universal. but it may be observed that their letters usually have less intense idiosyncrasy than those of the others. of such idiosyncrasy, both in letters and in other work, few men have had more than the author of _euphranor_ and (as we have had to say before) the "translator or paraphrast" not merely of persian but of spanish and greek masterpieces. it is indeed notorious that it was in this latter capacity that he showed the individuality of his genius most strongly. it is a frequently but perhaps idly[ ] disputed question how much is omar and how much fitzgerald, while the problem might certainly be extended by asking how much is aeschylus and how much calderon in his versions of those masters: but it does not concern us here. what does concern us is the fact that he has contrived to make his most famous exercise in translation signally, and the others to some extent, not dead "versions," but as it were reincarnations of the original, the spirit or the flesh (whichever anyone pleases) being his own, or both being blended of his and the author's. to do this requires a "strong nativity" though not in the equivocal sense in which another great translator of fitzgerald's own type[ ] used that term. it shows in his scanty "original" work: but it shows also and perhaps more strongly in his letters. everyone who has studied the history of the english universities in connection with that of english literature knows, even if he has not been fortunate enough to experience it, the remarkable fashion in which, at certain times, colleges and coteries at oxford and cambridge have seemed to throw a strange and almost magical influence over a generation (hardly more) of undergraduates. there was unmistakably such an _aura_ or atmosphere about in trinity college, cambridge, during the last of the twenties and the first of the thirties of the nineteenth century--a spirit of literature and humour, of seriousness and jest, of prose sense and half mystical poetry--which produced things as diverse as _the dying swan_ and clarke's _library of useless knowledge_, _vanity fair_ and the english _rubaiyàt_. of this curiously blended mood-combination--of which in their different ways tennyson and thackeray, as universally known, brookfield, w. b. donne, g. s. venables, as less known, but noteworthy instances suggest themselves as examples--fitzgerald was certainly not the least remarkable. he had, as eccentrics usually and almost necessarily have, not a few limitations, some of which possibly were, though others certainly were not, deliberately assumed or accepted. he would not allow that tennyson had ever in his later work (not latest by any means) done anything so good as his earlier. in that unlucky though quite blameless observation on mrs. browning which was referred to above, he ignored or showed himself unable to appreciate the fact that the poetess had never done anything better than, if anything so good as, some of her very latest work.[ ] it cannot be considered an entirely adequate cause for ceasing to live with your wife,[ ] that her dresses rustle; and many other instances of what may be called practical and literary _non-sequiturs_ might be alleged against him. but all these "queernesses" are evidence of a temperament and a mode of thinking which are likely to produce very satisfactory letters. they are sure not to be dull: and when the queerness is accompanied by such literary power as "fitz" possessed they are not likely to be merely silly, as some things are which attempt not to be dull. as a matter of fact they are delightful: and their variety is astonishing. odd stories and odd experiences seem, despite his almost claustral life, to have had a habit of flying to fitzgerald like filings to a magnet--as for instance the irresistible anecdote of the parish clerk who insisted on giving out for singing casual remarks of the parson above him as if they were verses of a hymn, and who was duly echoed by the congregation. even when he does not make you laugh he satisfies you: even when you do not agree with him you are obliged to him for having expressed his heresy. [sidenote: fanny kemble] one of fitzgerald's special correspondents was, for reasons then imperative, not a member of the cambridge group itself, but as closely connected with it as possible: being the sister of one of its actual members. john m. kemble, one of our earliest and best anglo-saxon scholars in modern times, was, like others of his famous family (so far as is generally known) a person of varied talents, though he showed these neither in letter writing nor in the direction which tennyson incorrectly augured in the "sonnet to j. m. k." his sister frances (invariably, like most though by no means all ladies of her name, called "fanny"[ ]) was a very remarkable person indeed. after taking early and with brilliant success to the stage which might almost be said to be hers by inheritance,[ ] she married an american planter with even worse results (they were actually divorced) than her friend fitzgerald's marriage brought about later: and for many years returned to public life, not as an actress but as a reader. she wrote and published both prose and verse of various kinds: but her best known work and that which places her here, is a voluminous series of "records," etc., much of which is composed of actual letters, while practically the whole of it is what we have called "letter-stuff." it has perhaps been published _too_ voluminously: and it is certain that, as indeed one might expect, its parts are not equal in interest. but experienced and balanced judgment must always sum up in her favour as possessing, in letter- and even other writing, more than ordinary talent, perhaps never quite happily or fully developed. merely as a person she seems to have exercised an extraordinary attraction without being exactly amiable[ ]: and from the intellectual and artistic sides as a writer (we have nothing here to do with her histrionic powers) to have been what has sometimes in others been called "inorganic," "ill-regulated," "not brought off," etc., but of extraordinary capacity. this may have had something to do with her sudden and exceptional success, when at barely twenty, and with no training except what heredity might give her, she "took the town [and the country] by storm" as juliet, and very soon afterwards "carried" america likewise. but her "records" of these and other things are of almost the first quality: and this power of "recording" continued and was perhaps stimulated by the less as well as the more fortunate events of her life. it may be said indeed that in her time a young woman of full age (she was five and twenty), unusual experience of the world, and still more unusual wits, had no business to marry a planter in the southern states, knowing that she was to live there, unless she had reconciled herself to the institution of slavery. nor can anybody without prejudice deny this. but the inconsistency and the troubles it developed gave occasion to some very remarkable "recording," and the same had been the case earlier with her life, whether at home, on the stage, or in society, and was the case later whether she lived in england, in the northern states, or on the continent of europe. perhaps you never exactly like her: an unusual experience in the reading of letters, which for the most part are singularly reconciling from the mere fact of their explanatory quality. there is indeed no better confirmation of the well-known french saying _tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner_. here, however, there are, as elsewhere, exceptions--gray being perhaps one[ ] as our present subject is another. but there are few things more interesting, though their interest may be somewhat tragic, than the spectacle of the way "things go wrong" so easily, so finally, so fatally. fanny kemble had a sister adelaide, afterwards mrs. sartoris, with whom everything appears to have gone right: but with herself it "seemed otherwise to the gods." and her letters or memoirs, or whatever they are to be called, are the record thereof, as well as of other things. [sidenote: the carlyles] the letters and "letter-stuff" of the carlyles, husband and wife, according to the inevitable misfortune attending so much of our subject--supplied the occasion of volumes of that disgusting and most idle controversy which has made many people of taste pray that nothing biographical may ever be published about them. far be it from us to take part in a game which if it does not always, like the unpleasant personage in the old ballad, come for ill and never for good, certainly comes for the former much oftener than for the latter purpose and result. _sunt lacrimae rerum_ is--once more and as so often--the best and the sufficient observation. but there remains in the letters of both, and especially in those of the lady, plenty of wholesome interest and of justifiable--not spying or eavesdropping--information as to character. judged comparatively, they certainly do not contradict the notion formerly referred to, that in some respects letter-writing is a specially feminine gift. carlyle's own letters[ ] have plenty of merit and attraction--some of the descriptive ones especially: and they demonstrate, in the infallible way which letters and letters alone can supply in the absence of long personal familiarity, that the general tone and key of his writings was no falsetto but a perfectly genuine thing--that the often urged contrast of the _life of schiller_, instead of evidencing affectation in the later work, only proves constraint in the earlier. at the same time, except for what may be called side-illustration of the works, and completion of the biography for those who want it, there is not very much in carlyle's letters which would be a serious loss. with his wife the case is different. without her "letters and memorials" we might (it is rather improbable that we _should_, owing to the misdemeanours of more persons than one and the blow-fly appetite of a part of the public for sore places) have escaped a good deal of the ignoble wrangling above referred to. but we should not only have failed to appreciate a very remarkable character, but have missed some of the very best of our now existing contributions to epistolary literature. personally mrs. carlyle was by no means a general favourite. she had a fearfully sharp tongue, and a still sharper wit in directing it upon her victims; her experiences were not very likely to edulcorate her acids and mollify her asperities. the letters show that, as so often happens, there was plenty of sweetness within the sharp exterior, and that her strength was the strength of passion, not of obduracy. but this is not all. there might have been biographical whitewashing of this kind without much gain to pure literature. but the letters showed likewise a power of expression, both lighter and more serious, which is hardly inferior to that found in any correspondence of man or woman, genuine or fictitious. some people, not given to rash superlatives and pretty extensively acquainted with literature, have held that the letter describing her visit after many years to haddington, and the reminiscences it called forth, has no superior in the vast range of our subject for pure pathos perfectly expressed, without constraint on nature yet without loss of dignity.[ ] on the other hand, the half comic accounts of her domestic troubles etc. are worthy of fielding or thackeray. the fact is that mrs. carlyle possessed what is rare in women--humour. and she exemplified, as few other women and not so very many men have done, anne evans's matchless definition of it as "thinking in jest while feeling in earnest." moreover while, as all true humourists can, she could drop the jest altogether when necessary, she could, as is the case with them likewise, never quite discard the earnest. [sidenote: macaulay and dickens] some of the most distinguished of carlyle's contemporaries, the great men of letters of the mid-nineteenth century, have left letters more or less copious and more or less valuable from one or both of the two sides, biographical and literary, but not eminently so. macaulay's letters and diaries suit biography excellently, and have been excellently used in his. they lighten and sweeten the rather boisterous "cocksureness" of the published writings: and help his few but very remarkable poems other than the _lays_ (which are excellent but in a different kind) to show the soul and heart of the man as apart from his mere intellect. but they are not perhaps intrinsically very capital. so also in dickens's case the "life-and-letters" system is excellently justified, but one does not know that the letters in themselves would always deserve a first class in this particular school of _literae humaniores_. letter-writing admits--if it may not even require--a certain kind of egotism. but it must be what the french call an _egoisme à plusieurs_--a temper which takes, if only for the moment, other people into itself and cares for them there. "the inimitable" was perhaps too generally thinking of that inimitable himself or of the fictitious creations of his marvellous genius. if, like his own mr. toots, he could have written some letters to or from _them_ it would have been a very different thing. in this respect he does not, as in others he does, resemble balzac, whose egotism was in a way as intense as his own and like it extended to his creations, but could extend farther: while the contrast with thackeray is even more salient than in other cases from this same point of view. at the same time it must not be supposed that there is any intention here of belittling dickens, either as a letter-writer or in any other way. it is only suggested that he lacks one of the things necessary to perfect letter-writing. perhaps his most noteworthy productions in the style are his editorial criticisms--rather limited in taste and purview, but singularly shrewd within other limits. and many of the others tell their substance with that faculty of "telling" which he possessed as few have ever done, while the comedy of those given here is "the true dickens." [sidenote: some novelists] mention of the three greatest novelists (english and french) of the mid-nineteenth century naturally suggests the rest of a class so predominant in that century's literary production. their record in the matter is rather chequered, for reasons, in some respects and cases at any rate, not difficult to discover. reference is elsewhere made to the disappointment experienced (perhaps not too reasonably) by some readers of the letters of george eliot. a not dissimilar feeling had been expressed earlier in regard to those of miss austen: which, however, were intrinsically far superior. except to her sister, and it may be even to her, jane austen was not at all likely to indulge in what is called in french _épanchement_: it was not in the least her line, whether in writing for publication or otherwise. only one full year passed between the death of miss austen and the birth of miss evans, and the two illustrated very fairly the comfortable if not invariably accurate idea that when one human being dies another is born to succeed him or her in their special functions. but, as in other respects, they differed here remarkably; and though in neither case was the nature of the writer exactly expansive, this want of expansiveness was very differently conditioned. miss austen no doubt could, if she had chosen, (she has done something like it as it is) have written most delightful letters. a hundred scenes in the novels from catherine morland's tremors and trials, or john dashwood's progressive limitations of generosity for his sisters, to some of the best things in _persuasion_, would take letter form with the happiest results. but she did not choose that it should be so. george eliot, on the other hand, after her earlier days, had ensconced herself in such a chrysalis of quasi-philosophical and quasi-scientific thought and speech that she could hardly have recovered the freedom of expression which is almost the soul of letter-writing. some of bulwer's (the first lord lytton's) letters are remarkable in ways, especially that of literary criticism, which might hardly be expected by anyone who had insufficiently taken the measure of his strangely unequal and imperfect, yet as strangely varied, talent. but as the century went on a new prohibitory influence arose in the enormous professional production which began to be customary with novelists--principally tempted no doubt by the corresponding gain of money, but perhaps also by the nobler desire of increasing, or at least living up to, their reputations. even short of the unbroken drudgery which, it is said, compelled one lady novelist, of high rank for a time, to scribble her novels as she was actually receiving and talking to morning callers, the production of three or four novels a year--and those not the cock-boats we often see now but attempts at least at "the old three-decker" in its fullest dimensions--could leave little time or inclination for extensive letter-writing. there were, however, some exceptions. charles kingsley--who, though his novels were not very numerous, supplemented them with all sorts of miscellaneous writing for publication, was a diligent sportsman, an active cleric, and a busy man in many kinds and ways--wrote certainly good and probably many letters. the two brighter stars in the brontë constellation, especially charlotte, were scarcely less remarkable with the pen in this way than in others: and mrs. gaskell, charlotte's biographer, has been put high by some. the unconquerable personality of charles reade showed itself here as elsewhere[ ]: and others might be mentioned.[ ] but perhaps the most distinguished novelist next to thackeray of the nineteenth century, who was also a most distinguished letter-writer, was one who died in middle age not long before its end--robert louis stevenson. [sidenote: stevenson] stevenson had in fact practically all the qualifications necessary for a good practitioner of our art. he had, eminently, that gift which the romans called _facundia_ and the french can translate, if with a slight degradation of meaning, by _faconde_; but for which we, though the adjective "facund" has, one believes, been tried, possess no noun, "eloquence" being too much specified to "fine" writing or speaking. "facility of expression" perhaps comes nearest. whether he corrected or corrupted this native gift by his famous "sedulous aping" of stylists before him is a debated question: but one quite unnecessary to touch here. it is sufficient to say that he never aped anyone in his letters, unless playfully and in a sort of concert with his correspondent. indeed he possessed, quintessentially, that "naturalness" of matter and form on which so much stress has been laid. he had a disposition equally favourable to the business--if business we may call it. a person who is habitually gloomy may write capital letters of an impressive character now and then: but is likely to produce little but boredom if he extends his practice. louis stevenson did not habitually "regard the world through a horse collar" (as it was once put), but he certainly did not pass through it gnashing his teeth or holding his handkerchief to his eyes. although he did a good deal of work, sometimes under no small difficulties, he had very little if any of that _collar_-work--that grinding "in gaza at the mill with slaves" which takes the spring out of all but the springsomest of men. he had widely varied experience of scene, occupation, personal society. he knew plenty of books without being in the least bookish; had, as the old saying goes, "wit at will," and, though he never made deliberate and affected efforts to _get_ out of ruts, _kept_ out of them without the least trouble. he was as little of a "poser" or of a "rotter" as he was of a prig, and there was not a drop of bad blood in his veins. if these things could not make a good letter-writer nothing could; and there is little doubt that he will hold his place as such as long as english literature lasts. it is a great pleasure to me to give, as i hope to do, one unpublished letter of his to myself as a sort of _bonus_ to the reader of this little book--a letter of rather unusual interest in literary as in other respects. at this point, perhaps, actual survey may, and indeed had best, stop: not merely because space is closing in. lovers of letters will of course detect what seem to them omissions in what has gone before and what comes after. some of these, no doubt, will have been real oversights. others, for this or that reason deliberate, such as gibbon and newman--the latter not merely for his re-statement of the character-value of correspondence, but for his exemplifications of it--might certainly have been more fully noticed. but in regard to later writers there are several obstacles in the path. of some it would not be easy to speak on account of their own lives being too recent: in regard of nearly all the same fact must have occasioned exercise of "censorship" to a degree which makes absolute judgment of their competence as epistolers rash, and comparative judgment almost impossible. to take up once more one example of men who were born a full or almost a full century ago, mr. paul,[ ] speaking apparently with intimate knowledge of the originals, speaks also of the "severe process of excision and retrenchment to which these [_the letters of mr. matthew arnold_] have been exposed." and he thinks that very few letters "could have endured" it. those who remember the appearance of these letters will also remember that some critics doubted whether even "these" had exactly "endured it"--that is to say, whether the expected salt of the author of so much published _persiflage_ had not been left out or had singularly lost its savour. to take another from the next generation, it is pretty certain that mr. swinburne's letters, though we have judicious selections from them, must have needed much more excision or retrenchment than mr. arnold's, unless he wrote them in a manner remarkably different both from his conversation and from his published works. in such cases it is best, the evidence being not fully before us, not to anticipate either the privileges or the decisions of posterity. vi some special kinds of letter a few more general remarks, however, on _kinds_ of letter-writing--as distinguished from personality and accomplishment of letter-writers--may not improperly be added. [sidenote: letters and the novel] one extremely curious application of the letter has not yet been noticed, except by a glance or two: and that is the way in which--when after birth-struggles for some two thousand years the novel at last got itself born--letter-writing was pressed into its service. historically, as was briefly indicated near the beginning of this, one may connect greek rhetoric and greek romance, and suggest the connection as the origin of the "novel-in-letters." in the romance proper--that is to say that of the middle ages--letters do not play any very important part, just as they played none in life. but in the "heroic" variety of the late sixteenth and the whole of the seventeenth centuries they play a much larger--partly no doubt because of the influence (here noted) of the greek romance itself, but more because of the increased frequency and importance of actual correspondence in life and society. we need not, however, attribute too much to this influence of imitation in seeking for the cause or causes which made richardson adopt the form: nor need we even put down to richardson's own popularity, abroad as well as at home, the very general further adoption and continuance of a form which has perhaps more to be said against it than for it. most serious students of the history of prose fiction must have noticed, and some of them have already pointed out, the curious, rather naïf, but quite obvious feeling on the part of the earlier practitioners of such fiction that somebody might ask them, in more polite language than that in which cardinal ippolito d'este asked ariosto a similar question, "where they got their stories from?" the feeling seems sometimes to have affected poets, but much more rarely: the muse being allowed to possess and confer a certain immunity from such cross-examination. of the unnecessary and sometimes unnatural devices invented to answer this inconvenient question scott in one well-known passage,[ ] and others elsewhere, have made ironic lists: and not the least characteristic of miss austen's satiric touches is the passage where catherine morland expects palpitating interest from a bundle of washing-bills in a wardrobe-cupboard. but the anticipation of such a question, though perhaps it became conventional before it disappeared altogether, was certainly at one time real. at any rate, helped by the example of richardson--father of english novels as he is with whatever justice called--and by that overmastering fancy for letter-writing itself, which, as should have been already made clear, affected the century in which english novels were born--the practice spread and held its ground. fielding was too perfect an artist in the higher and purer kind of fiction to favour it: and though sterne himself was a sufficiently characteristic letter-writer, the form would not have suited the peculiar eccentricity of his two novels. but smollett's best, _humphrey clinker_, adopts the method, and is perhaps one of its most successful examples. it suited the author's preference for a succession of scenes rather than a connected plot; for the sharp presentation of "humours" in character and incident. and it continued to be practised both early in the nineteenth century--examples had swarmed at the end of the eighteenth--and later. _redgauntlet_ (which some have thought one of the best of scott's novels and which few good judges would put much lower) is written in it to a great extent, but not wholly. and it may be noticed that this combination of letters and narrative, which came in pretty early, is rather tell-tale. it is a sort of confession of what certainly is the fact--that the novel entirely by letters is a clumsy device, constantly getting in the way of the "story." indeed the method of _redgauntlet_ is a kind of retreat to the elder and more modern--one may say the more artistic and rational--plan of _introducing_ letters, but only occasionally as auxiliaries to, and as it were illustrations of, the actual narrative, not as substitutes for, or at any rate main constituents of, it.[ ] indeed, in order to make a novel wholly composed of letters thoroughly and absorbingly attractive, either charm of style such as to make the kind of literature in which it appears, more or less indifferent; or passion which is more suitable to poetry or drama than to prose; or both, may seem unnecessary. [sidenote: letters and biography] it was also in the eighteenth century--_the_ century once more of letter-writing--that letters, this time genuine not fictitious, began to play, to an important extent, a subsidiary part in yet another department of literature--biography. they had always done so, of course, to an extent less important in history, of which biography is really a subdivision. the truth expressed in that dictum of the pseudo-demetrius quoted above as to the illuminative power of letters on character could be missed by no historian and by no biographer who had his wits about him--even if he had less striking examples at hand than that letter of the emperor tiberius to the senate which is one of the tacitean flashes of lightning through the dark of history. but the credit of using letters as a main constituent of biography--of originating the "life-and-letters" class of books which fills so large a part of modern library-shelves--has been given, as far as english is concerned, to mason in his dealings with gray. there is so little to be said in favour of mason, that we need not enquire too narrowly into his right to this commendation: though critical conscience must be appeased by adding that he abused his privilege as an editor and "literary executor" by garbling unblushingly. boswell did mason honour by acknowledging his example, and much more also by following it; and this practically settled the matter. except in short pieces, which had need be of special excellence like carlyle's _sterling_, the plan has always been followed since: and there can here at least be no question that with a little favour of circumstances, it is the best plan possible. you get, as has been said, your character at first hand; if the letters include epistles to as well as from him or her, you get invaluable side-lights; you get, except in cases of wilful deception or great carelessness, the most trustworthy accounts of fact; and you can, or ought to be able to, hear the man talking. at the same time it must be admitted that this "life-and-letters" scheme, like every kind of art, requires care: and like most human things, is exposed to dangers and difficulties in addition to some previously noticed. to begin with, the _quality_ of the letters has to be considered. it so happened that mason, the originator by courtesy, had unusually good material to work with. gray, as is above pointed out and as is also, with some provisos already made or very soon to be made, universally admitted, is one of our best letter-writers. but not everybody--not every considerable man or woman of letters even--can write good letters. and besides this--besides the temptation to rely on the letters and merely to print them whether they deserve it or not--there is the further difficulty--to judge by the scarcity of good biographies a very great and insistent one--of composing the framework of the biography itself so as to suit the letters--to give the apples of gold in a picture not too obviously composed of some metal baser than silver. unless this is done it would be better simply to "calendar" the letters themselves, with the barest schedule of dates and facts to assist the comprehension of them. but to consider the different methods of doing this--still more of presenting letters apart from deliberate biographical intention--would lead us too far. carlyle's _cromwell_--the presentation of an extraordinarily difficult set of documents not merely with connecting narrative, but with a complete explanatory commentary including paraphrase, is as remarkable an achievement as, and a far more elaborate one than, his _sterling_ in the way of biography pure and simple. it is perhaps, though less delectable, not less admirable in its style than the other in its own. but it has, of course, the drawback of carrying with it a distinctly controversial character and, indeed, intention. we have more recently had at least two examples of the fullest possible comment with the least possible controversy in mr. tovey's "gray," and of less voluminous but excellently adequate editing in mrs. toynbee's "walpole." [sidenote: "letters from unknowns"] one not very large, but extremely curious division of letter-writing closely connected with those most recently mentioned, invites if it does not insist upon a word or two. many people--almost all who have happened to be at any time "in the lime-light" as a modern phrase goes--that is to say in positions of publicity--must have had experience of the strange appetite of their fellow-creatures for writing them letters without previous acquaintance, without excuse of introduction, and on the most flimsy pretexts of occasion. the present writer once received from australia a long list of queries on a book of his--most if not all of which could have been answered from the ordinary reference-bookshelf in the writing-room of such a club as that--never mind whether it was in sydney or melbourne or adelaide--from which the querist dated his epistle. indeed, on another occasion somebody demanded a catalogue of "the important references to the medical profession in french literature"! this tendency of humanity sometimes exercises and magnifies itself into really remarkable correspondences. there is perhaps none such in english quite to match those _lettres à une inconnue_ which (after standing the brunt of not a little unfavourable criticism, provoked not so much by their contents as by the personal, political, and above all religious or anti-religious idiosyncrasy of their author, prosper mérimée) have taken their place, for good and all, among the classics of the art. our most curious example perhaps is to be found in the _letters of the duke of wellington to miss j._, the genuineness of which has been a matter of some controversy, but which are rather more inexplicable as forgeries than as authentic documents. authors, from richardson onwards, have been the special targets of such correspondents: and romance reports some, perhaps even history might accept a few, instances of the closest relations resulting. on the other hand, one of the very best of miss edgeworth's too much neglected stories, "l'amie inconnue" not only may be useful as a warning to the too open-hearted but has probably had not a few parallels in fact. generally, of course, the uninvited correspondent is merely a passing phenomenon--rarely perhaps welcome except to persons of very much self-centred temperament with a good deal of time on their hands; tolerated and choked off placably by the good-natured and well-mannered; answered snappishly or not answered at all by moroser victims. [sidenote: love letters] there is yet a kind of letter, fictitious or real examples whereof are not usually given in books which (as the articles say of the apocrypha) are to be read "for example of life and instruction of manners," though it is in a way the most interesting of all; and that is the love-letter. it is, however, so varied in kind and not so very seldom so pre-eminent as an illustration of the epistolary ideal--"writing as you would talk"--that it would be absurd to say nothing about it in this introduction, and that it may even be possible to give some examples of it--one such of swift's must be given--in the text. of those which, as it was said of one famous group (those of mlle. de lespinasse) "burn the paper," those of which the abelard and heloise collection, with those of "the portuguese nun," maria alcoforado, and julie de lespinasse herself are the most universally famous--we have two pretty recent collections in english from two of the greatest poets and one of the greatest poetesses in english of the nineteenth century. they are the letters, referred to above, of keats to fanny brawne, and those of the brownings to each other. there are, it is to be hoped, few people who read such letters (unless they are of such a date that time has exercised his strange power of resanctifying desecration and making private property public) without an unpleasant consciousness of eavesdropping. but there is another class which is not exposed to any such disagreeable liability: and that is the very large proportion of love-letters where the amativeness is, so to speak, more or less concealed, or where, though scarcely covered with the thinnest veil, it is mixed with jest sometimes, jest rather on the wrong side of the mouth, perhaps, but jest exercising its usual power of embalming. (salt and sugar both preserve: but in this particular instance the danger is of oversweetness already.) there can--or perhaps we should say there could, but for some differences of opinion worth attending to--be no doubt that swift owes much to this mixture: and if anybody ever undertook a large collection of the best private love-letters he would probably find the same seasoning in the best of them. for examples in which the actual amatory element is present but as it were under-current, like blood that flushes a cheek but does not show outside it, some of the best examples are those of scott to lady abercorn. those recently published, and already glanced at, of disraeli to various ladies would seem to be more demonstrative and more histrionic. but the section as admitted lies, for us, on the extreme border of our province. it is too important to be wholly omitted and therefore these paragraphs have been given to it. and it may require future touching in reference to some particular writers, especially that greatest and most unhappy of all deans of saint patrick, the greatest perhaps of all deans that ever were with the exception of john donne--himself no small epistoler, but greatest in those verse-letters which are denied us.[ ] it is perhaps superfluous, but for completeness' sake may be permissible, to say a very little about the use of letters for purposes other than that of genuine personal communication. indeed in doing so we are only executing the time-honoured manoeuvre of returning to the point whence we set out, and bringing the wheel full circle.[ ] the strictly "business" letter--which is, of course, a personal communication in a way--and the "despatch" which is a form of it intended sooner or later for more general information, require no notice or at best mere mention. but in times past if not also in those present, "letters" have been used--specially perhaps in that century of letters, the eighteenth--for purposes of definite instruction, argument, propaganda and so forth. there are obvious advantages in the form for certain of the lighter of these purposes as it is used in montesquieu's _lettres persanes_ or goldsmith's _citizen of the world_. but why bishop hurd's _letters on chivalry and romance_ (really valuable as they are) should have been "letters" at all, except for fashion's sake, it is difficult to say. there is perhaps more excuse for the pamphlet, especially the political pamphlet, assuming the title of letter as it has so often done in instances from the great example of bolingbroke and burke downwards.[ ] you have, with less unreality, the advantage of the classical "speech" addressed often to a single person, who is supposed to be specially aware of the facts or specially to need instruction and encouragement, or modified remonstrance, as to them. it was probably from these great exemplars--perhaps also aided by the custom of eighteenth century periodicals, that pamphlets of all kinds became titular epistles such as "a letter to the deputy-manager of a theatre royal, london, on his lately acquired notoriety in contriving and arranging the 'hair powder act'" (but this was satire), or "a letter writ by a clergyman to his neighbour concerning the kingdom and the allegiance due to the king and queen."[ ] [sidenote: letters to the papers] for a last class may be taken the ever increasing body of things "written to the papers." it is unnecessary to consider the justice of a sarcastic division of mankind into "those who write to the papers and those who do not read the letters," or to discuss what men have been heard to say--that the people who write _to_ papers are people who have not written _in_ them. it is quite certain that, for many years past, the less frivolous kind of newspaper-correspondence has been of admitted interest and importance; indeed a paper might conceivably maintain its position after its repute has sunk in other ways, simply because more letters of importance appear in it than in others. as a source of illustrations of how to write and how not to write letters this modern development of the art could hardly be quite neglected; and it offers a curious study of various kinds. except with very guileless writers the character-index quality is of course less certainly present than in letters written _not_ for publication. a man must be, in the old greek phrase, "either a god or a beast," if he does not prepare for print--if not exactly with a touch of "stage-fright," at any rate with the premeditation with which even stage-fright-free actors go on the stage. but it requires a great master or mistress of dissimulation to write even these letters at all frequently without a certain amount of self-revelation. and there is perhaps no more curious and interesting part of that most curious and interesting business of editing than (when it is not merely tedious), the reading of offered correspondence. there is the pure lunatic, such as the man who for years sends despatches in a sort of cuneiform cipher, probably quite meaningless and certainly not likely to meet with a decipherer; there is the abusive person who (less piquantly than reade in the letter quoted above) gives his opinion of your paper; the volunteer-corrector of obvious misprints; the innocent who merely wants to see his own signature in print, and who generally tries to bribe his way into it by references to "your powerful journal," etc. they are all there--waiting for the waste-paper basket. vii conclusion a few more general remarks may close this introduction. something on the art of letter-writing and also something on its history, especially in english, was promised. it is hoped that the promise has not been too much falsified, at least to the extent necessary for illustration and understanding of the specimens which should follow, and which in their turn should illustrate it and make it more intelligible. the history part requires little or no postscript; whether ill or well done it should pretty well speak for itself. what touches the art may require certain cautions and provisos. this is especially the case with regard to the stress laid above on "naturalness." it is (as the present writer at least believes) the very passport of admission to the company of good letter-writers. but it must not be misconstrued. it is quite possible that too little care may be taken with the matter and style of letters. after all they correspond--in a certain, if in the most limited degree--to appearance "in company," and require as that does a certain etiquette of observance. complete deshabille[ ] on paper is not attractive: and there are letters (it is unnecessary to specify any particular examples) which somewhat exaggerate "simplicity." cowper is perhaps the accepted classic in this style who has the least of _apparatus_: but even cowper bestows a certain amount of care--indeed, a very considerable amount--on the dress of his letter's body, on the cookery of its provender. if you have only small beer to chronicle you can at the worst draw it and froth it and pour it out with some gesture. in this respect as in others, while letter-writing has not been inaccurately defined or described as the closest to conversation of literary forms that do not actually reproduce conversation itself, it remains apart from conversation and subject to an additional degree of discipline. [sidenote: conclusion] enough should have been said earlier of the opposite fault by excess of dressing, which has, however, for a sort of solace the fact that it may pass as literature though not exactly as letter-writing. actually beautiful style--not machine-made "fine writing," but that embodiment of thought which is a special incarnation of it--is the one thing secure of success and survival, whatever literary form it takes. and even short of this supreme beauty accomplished literary manner can never be quite unwelcome. the highest place in letter-writing has been refused here to pope: and unfortunately there is hardly a division of his work which, when you know a little more about it and him, excites more disgust at the man's nature. but, at the same time, hardly even his verse convinces one more of that extraordinary power of expression as he wished to express things which this alexander, in some ways the infinitely little, possessed. yet it gives in the first place a rather sophisticated enjoyment, open only to those whom the gods have made, or who have made themselves, critical. and in the second, whether sophisticated or not, what it gives is the enjoyment of literature not of life:[ ] whereas the direct satisfaction which genuine letters afford is almost identical with that given by actual intercourse with other human beings. however, it is unnecessary to "go on refining." perhaps indeed, after all, the artificial letters may be permitted if only in an "utmost, last, provincial band," to add to the muster of pleasure-giving things which epistolary literature so amply provides. even fiction itself, which, as has been said often, draws on this source, cannot supply anything more "pastimeous"; even drama anything more arresting to the attention. indeed good letters may be said to be constantly presenting little stories, little dramas, little pictures--all of them sometimes not so _very_ little--which are now practically complete; now easily filled up by any reasonable intelligence; now perhaps tantalizingly, but all the more interestingly enigmatic. for those people (one may or may not sympathise with them, but they are certainly pretty numerous) who cannot take interest or can only take a reduced interest in things that "did not really happen"; letters may be even more interesting than novels. only to very wayward or very unimaginative ones can they be less so, if they are in any respect good of their kind. one of their main attractions is, with the same caution, their remarkable _variety_. it has been complained with a certain amount of truth that fiction, whether in prose or verse, is a little apt to fall into grooves: that all the histories are told, all the plays acted. this is undoubtedly the curse of art, and every now and then we see it acknowledged in the most convincing manner by the frantic efforts made to be "different." but that real things and persons are never quite identical is not merely a philosophical doctrine but a practical fact. the "two peas" of one saying are never so much "alike" as the "two blades of grass" of another are unlike. now as letters--that is to say letters that deserve to exist at all--are bound to reproduce the personality of their writers, it will follow that a refreshing diversity must also belong to them. and as a matter of fact this will be found to be the case. even the eighteenth century--the century of rule and class, of objection to "the streaks of the tulip," of machine-made verse, etc.,--has, except in the case of letters artificially made to pattern, shown this signally. one last recommendation. a bad letter-writer is sure to betray himself almost everywhere, and letters are as a rule short. most people must have attempted books of other classes, especially novels, and hoping against hope turned them over, and dipped and peeped till repeated disappointment compelled the traditional flinging to the other end of the room, or simply dropping the thing in less explosive weariness. you never need do that with letters. if a man's letters are not worth reading you will "have a confessing criminal" at once; if they are he will hardly be able to keep the quality latent whenever he goes beyond the shortest business note. the man of one book, in the sense of having read it, is proverbially formidable but in fact too frequently a bore. the man of one letter, in the sense of having written a good one and no more, probably never existed.[ ] appendix to introduction i greek letters.--synesius (_c._ - ) english readers may know something, from kingsley's _hypatia_, of the excellent bishop of ptolemais who, at the meeting of the fourth and fifth centuries, combined the functions of neo-platonist philosopher, christian prelate, country gentleman, and most efficient yeomanry officer against the ancestors, or at least forerunners, of the present senussi, who were constantly raiding his diocese and its neighbourhood. these two letters--to hypatia herself and to his brother--show him in different, but in each case favourable lights. letter cviii. (to his brother) i have already got spears and as many cutlasses, though i had, even before, only half a score two-edged swords: and these long flat blades are not forged with us. but i think the cutlasses can be struck more vigorously into the enemies' bodies, and so we shall use them. and at need we shall have bludgeons--for the wild olive trees are good with us.[ ] some of our men have single-bladed axes at their belts with which those of us who have no defensive armour shall chop their[ ] shields and make them fight on equal terms. the fight will, at a guess, come off to-morrow: for when some of the foe had fallen in with scouts of ours and pursuing them at their best speed had found them too good to catch, they bade them tell us what pleased us mightily--if indeed we may no more have to wander in the footsteps of those fellows who made off into the wastes of the interior. for they said they were going to stay where they were and wanted to find out what sort of fellows _we_ were, who dared to separate ourselves so many days' journey from our own place that we might fight with men of war, nomads in way of life, and whose civil polity was like our discipline in war-time. therefore, as one who by god's help shall to-morrow conquer--nay, conquer again if needful (for i would say nothing of bad omen) i commit to thee the care of my children: for it is fitting that thou, their uncle, shouldest carry over thine affection to them. letter cxxiv "but if oblivion be the lot of the dead in hades yet will _i_, even there, remember" my dear hypatia. beset as i am by the sufferings of my country, and sick, as i see daily weapons of war about me and men slaughtered like altar-victims; drawing as i do breath infected by rotting corpses; expecting myself a similar fate, (for who can be hopeful when the very atmosphere is weighed down and dusky with the shadow of carnivorous birds?) yet do i cling to my country. for what else would my feeling be, born and bred as i am, and with the not ignoble tombs of my fathers before my eyes? for thee alone does it seem to me that i could neglect my country, and if i could get leisure, force myself to run away.[ ] latin letters.--pliny ( - ) the most famous letters of the younger pliny are those which describe his country houses, that which gives account of his uncle's death in the great eruption of vesuvius, and his correspondence with trajan. but the first mentioned are rather long and require a good deal of technical annotation;[ ] the second is to be found in many books; and the letters which make up the third (except those concerning christianity, which are again to be found in many places) are mostly short and on points of business merely. the one i have chosen is extremely characteristic, in two respects, of the author and of roman ways generally. it shows pliny's good-nature and right feeling, but it shows also a certain "priggishness" with which he has been specially and personally charged, but which, to speak frankly, he shared with a great many of his famous countrymen. priggishness was almost unknown among the greeks--though one may suspect its presence among those spartans who have told so few tales of themselves. but it flourished at rome, and was one of rome's many--and one of her worst--legacies to us moderns. secondly, the letter is amusing because one thinks what an english judge would surely think and would probably say, if counsel for a lady were to inform the court _uberius et latius_ what an extremely good opinion that lady's father had of him, the learned speaker. a minor but still interesting difference is in pliny's slight hesitation about taking a brief against a consul-elect. the subtleties of roman etiquette are endless. plinius to his asinius gallus--health you both advise[ ] and ask me to take up the cause of corellia in her absence against c. caecilius, consul elect. i am obliged to you for advising me but i complain of your _asking_. i ought to be advised that i may know the fact, but not asked to do what it would be most disgraceful for me _not_ to do. could i doubt about protecting the daughter of corellius? true, there is between me and him against whom you call on me, not exactly close friendship but still some friendship. there is also to be taken into account the man's worth and the honour to which he is destined, a thing which i ought to hold in the greater respect that i have myself already enjoyed it. for it is natural that things which one has oneself attained, one should wish to be regarded with the greatest respect. but when i think that i am to help corellius' daughter, all this appears idle and empty. i seem to see the man than whom our age had no one more dignified, more pious, of an acuter mind; the man whom, when i had begun to like him out of admiration i admired more, contrary to what usually happens, the more thoroughly i knew him. for i did know him thoroughly; he kept nothing hid from me, neither jocular nor serious, neither sad nor glad. i was quite a young man: but already he held me in honour and i will dare to say respect--as if i were his contemporary. he gave me his vote and interest in my standings for honours; he, when i entered upon them, was my introducer and companion; when i carried them out, my adviser and guide. in fact, in every business of mine, though he was an old man and in weak health, he was as forward as if he were young and strong. how much he furthered my reputation, privately, publicly, and even with the chief of the state! for when by chance, in the presence of the emperor nerva, the conversation had turned on young men of worth, and several persons spoke in praise of me, he kept silence for a little, which gave him the more authority. then in the weighty manner you know, "i must needs," he said, "say all the less about secundus[ ] because he never does anything but by my advice." by saying this he gave me the credit (which it would have been extravagant in me to hope for) of never doing anything in other than the wisest way, seeing that i always acted on the advice of the wisest man. moreover, when dying, he said to his daughter, as she is wont to declare, "i have provided you, as if i were myself to live longer, many friends: but for the chief of them secundus and cornutus." now when i remember this, i see i must take care not in any way to disappoint the trust in me of this most fore-thoughtful man. therefore i will come to corellia's help without the least delay and will not refuse to undergo inconveniences: though i think i shall secure not merely pardon but even praise from the very person who as you say is bringing a new action as against a woman, if it should happen to me to say these same things in court more amply and fully than the narrow room of a letter permits, either to excuse or indeed commend myself. farewell. letter of the "dark" ages sidonius apollinaris ( ?- - ) caius sollius sidonius apollinaris is one of the most interesting figures of the troubled and obscure period intervening between the fall of the roman empire _proper_ and the rise of mediaeval europe. he was born at lyons, married papianilla, daughter of flavius avitus, who was to be one of the ephemeral "emperors" of the west and the decadence, but was not injured by his father-in-law's dethronement, and enjoyed various civil honours and posts. in , though a married layman, he was peremptorily made a bishop, and accordingly took orders, put away his wife, and discharged his sacred duties as creditably as he had discharged his profane ones. sidonius was a not contemptible poet, and an interesting letter-writer. like most literary men of his class he was given to what we call flattery; and this ecdicius, of whom he made a sort of dark age admirable crichton, was his brother-in-law, an emperor's son, and count or duke (the titles were often interchangeable) of the district. but it is fair to say that gregory of tours, the accepted historian of the period, and living only in the next century, makes the exploit over the goths even more signal--for he reduces the troopers to _ten_. the arverni (inhabitants of auvergne and its neighbourhood) were the strongest tribe in southern gaul when the romans first came into contact with them, retained much prominence in caesar's time, and had not lost individuality, if they had lost independence, by this ( th) century. the mixture of "arms" and the "gown" is noteworthy. book iii. letter iii sidonius to his ecdicius--health if ever, now you are longed for by my arvernians, whose love for you subdues them remarkably, and indeed for all sorts of reasons. first, because a man's native land has the greatest part in creating affection for him.[ ] then, because in your time you are about the only mortal who was longed for before his birth as much as he was rejoiced in after it.... i say nothing of such things--common to all, but no mean incitement to affection--as that you crawled as a child on the same turf with them. i pass over the grass which you first trod, the river you first swam, the woods you broke through in hunting. i leave out the fact that it was here you first played ball[ ] and backgammon,[ ] that you hawked, coursed, rode, shot with the bow. i omit the fact that for the sake of your boyish presence students of letters came hither from all parts; and that it was due to you as an individual that our nobility, anxious to shed the slough of celtic speech, imbued itself now with the style of oratory, now with the measures of the muse. and this specially kindled the love of the community[ ] that you forbade those whom you had already made latins[ ] to remain barbarians.[ ] for it could never slip the memory of our citizens what and how great you seemed, to every age and rank and sex on the half-ruined mounds of our walls, when, accompanied by scarcely eighteen horsemen, you cut your way through some thousands of goths in full daylight and (which posterity will hardly believe) in the open field. a well trained army stood aghast at the sound of your name and the sight of your person: so that the leaders of the enemy, in their astonishment, hardly knew how many were their followers, how few yours. their line was then withdrawn to the brow of a steep hill; it had before been gathered together to storm, but on your appearance was not deployed for battle. meanwhile you, having slain some of their best men whom not sloth but courage had made the rearmost of the troop, occupied the level ground alone, though such a fight gave you not so many comrades as your table is wont to contain guests. and when you returned to the town at your leisure what came to meet you in the way of official compliments, applause, tears, rejoicings can be better guessed than described. one might see in the crammed halls of the spacious palace that happy ovation for your thronged return. some caught up the dust of your footsteps to kiss it: others took out the horses' curbs stained with blood and foam; others prepared the stands for the saddles drenched with the horses' sweat; others, when you were about to put off your helmet, unbuckled the clasps of its plated chin-straps, or busied themselves with unlacing your greaves. yet others counted the notches on the swords, blunted with slaughter, or measured with livid[ ] fingers the rings of the corslets, slashed or pierced by weapons.[ ] early mediaeval letter (twelfth century) of the other persons mentioned in this letter besides the widowed duchess and king louis vii., the first is ralph, count of (peronne and) vermandois, a leper. the lady's name was eleanor, and she also was probably a widow; the duchess's son hugh was third of that name as duke of burgundy. ivo, count of soissons, was the guardian of the count of vermandois, incapacitated legally by his plague. the proposed marriage did not come off. the business-like tone of the letter will only surprise those who do not really know the "ages of romance." i owe the selection of it to my friend the rev. w. hunt, d.litt., who came to my aid in the dearth of books of this period which circumstances imposed on me. to louis[ ] most excellent king of the franks by the grace of god, and her most beloved lord, mary, duchess of burgundy--health and due respect. it is known to your majesty that my son is your liegeman, and, if it please you, your kinsman also. whatsoever he can do is yours: and if he could do more it were yours. and so i all the more confidently ask your highest affection for my son. for it has been told me that count ralph of peronne has a certain marriageable sister who, as has been reported to me and her own people, would be a suitable wife for my son. for this reason, most beloved lord, i and he ask that you would look to this matter yourself and speak about it to the count of soissons, and settle how this marriage may be contracted. you must know that though my son might marry in another kingdom, i greatly prefer that he should take a wife in yours, rather than in any other. the nearer he becomes connected with you the more will he be yours and altogether a profit to you. footnotes: [ ] it may of course be "illustrated" in the other sense by a second use of the pen; and we shall have instances of this kind to notice. [ ] as has often been pointed out ben jonson's exquisite "drink to me only with thine eyes" is a verse-paraphrase or mosaic from this writer's prose. [ ] pliny, if he did not always "write for publication," deliberately "published," as we should say, his letters. indeed, he is one of the first to use the word in this sense, even if he uses it immediately of an oration not a letter. some think cicero meant publication; and he was very likely to do so. [ ] the latin statesman, like the greek bishop, condescends to write about wine and even more fully. one of the most interesting and informing things on the subject is his discourse on _vinum acinaticium_, a sort of roman imperial tokay made from grapes kept till the frost had touched them. [ ] genuine letters of sappho would have been of the first interest to compare with those of heloise, and the "portuguese nun" and mademoiselle de lespinasse. diotima's might have been as disappointing as george eliot's: but by no means must necessarily have been so. aspasia's, sometimes counterfeited, ought to have been good. [ ] it is part of the plan to give, as a sort of appendix to the introduction, and extension of it towards the main body of text, some specimens of greek, roman (classical and post-classical) and early mediaeval letter-writing, translated for the purpose by the present writer. the _continuity_ of literary history is a thing which deserves to be attended to, especially when there is an ever-growing tendency to confine attention to things modern--albeit so soon to be antiquated! i owe the last of these specimens, in the latin from which i translate it, to the kindness of my friend the rev. w. hunt, d.litt., to whom i had recourse as not myself having access to a large library at the moment, and who has assisted me in other parts of this book. [ ] yet others, as to authenticity, have, i believe, been rejected by all competent scholarship. [ ] benjamin constant and madame de charrière. [ ] some of us think blake a great poet; but this is scarcely a general opinion, and he does not appear till the century was three parts over. burns (whose own letters by the way do him little justice) hardly comes in. [ ] especially the most popular and voluminous if not the most important of all--the periodical and the novel. [ ] the danger being of many sorts--usually in the direction of various kinds of _excess_. a _quietly_ tragic letter may be a masterpiece: perhaps there is no finer example than one to be again referred to, of mrs. carlyle's. [ ] mr. paul thinks that "the baby language" is terribly out of character, and that there is "too much of it"; that swift "would try to make love though he did not know what love meant"; and that the whole rings hollow and insincere. others, women as well as men, have held that the "little language" is only less pathetic than it is charming; that swift was one of the greatest, if one of the unhappiest lovers of the world; and that the thing is as sincere as if it had been written in the palace of truth and only hollow as is the space between heaven and hell. [ ] it should never be, but perhaps sometimes is, forgotten that "stella" was a lady of unusual wits, and of what swift's greatest decrier called in his own protegée mrs. williams "universal curiosity," that is to say not "inquisitiveness" but "intelligent interest." the politics etc. are not mere selfish attention to what interests the writer only. [ ] it must not be forgotten that she was fielding's cousin. and after the remark above on swift it is pleasant and may be fair to say that mr. paul is a hearty "marian." [ ] johnson is again the chief and by no means trustworthy witness for this "insolence." but in the same breath he admitted that chesterfield was "dignified." now dignity is almost as doubtfully compatible with insolence as with impudence. [ ] it is difficult to think of anyone who has combined statesmanship (chesterfield's accomplishments in which are constantly forgotten), social gifts and literary skill in an equal degree. [ ] excluding of course purely historical and public things like the trials of the ' and the riots of ' . [ ] they were travelling together (always rather a test of friendship) in italy, and horace, as he confesses, no doubt gave himself airs. but it is pretty certain that gray had not at this time, if he ever had, that fortunate combination of good (or at least well-commanded) temper and good breeding which enables a gentleman to meet such conduct with conduct on his own side as free from petulant "touchiness" as from ignoble parasitism. [ ] gray was not, like walpole, a richly endowed sinecurist. but to use a familiar "bull" he seems never to have had anything to do, and never to have done it when he had. his poems are a mere handful; his excellent _metrum_ is a fragment; and as professor of history at cambridge he never did anything at all. [ ] they do not seem to have known each other personally. but (for reasons not difficult to assign but here irrelevant) johnson was on the whole, though not wholly, unjust to gray, and gray seems to have disliked and spoken rudely of johnson. [ ] the varieties of what may be called literary _exercise_ which have been utilised for educational or recreative purposes, are almost innumerable. has anyone ever tried "breaking up" a letter (such as those to be given hereafter) into a conversation by interlarded comment, questions, etc.? [ ] as far as the accidents are concerned. the essentials vary not. marianne is eternal, whether she faints and blushes, or jazzes and--does not blush. [ ] one unfortunate exception, the _ex-post facto_ references to the split with lady austin, may be urged by a relentless prosecutor. but when william has to choose between mary and anna it will go hard but he will _have_ to be unfair to one of them. [ ] this "swan's" utterances in poetry were quite unlike those of tennyson's dying bird: and her taste in it was appalling. she tells scott that the border ballads were totally destitute of any right to the name. [ ] for a singular misjudgment on this point see prefatory note _infra_. [ ] particularly when he is able to apply the _don juan_ mood of sarcastic if rather superficial life-criticism in which he was a real master. [ ] _i.e._ "violently and vulgarly absurd." [ ] it may, however, be suggested that the extraordinary _bluntness_ (to use no stronger word) of both is almost sufficiently evidenced in the fact that in his last edition of keats mr. forman committed the additional outrage of distributing these letters according to their dates among the rest. the isolation of the agony gives almost the only possible excuse for revealing it. [ ] it is of course true that shelley himself did not at first quite appreciate keats. but _adonais_ cancels the deficit and leaves an almost infinite balance in favour. one can only hope that, had the circumstances been reversed, keats would have set the account right as triumphantly. [ ] this tendency makes it perhaps desirable to observe that in the _particular_ context of the _belle dame_ there is nothing whatever to cavil at. [ ] the recent centenary saw, as usual, with much welcome appreciation some uncritical excesses. [ ] in not a few cases they may be said to have been deliberately _un_prepared--intended though not labelled as "private and confidential." [ ] in which, be it remembered, the "life-and-letters" system only came in quite late. [ ] at the very moment when this is being written a considerable new body of them is announced for sale. [ ] the word "restraint" may be misunderstood: but it is intended to indicate something of the general difference between "classical" ages on the one side and "romantic" or "realist" on the other. [ ] chesterfield's deafness might, without frivolity, be brought in. it is a hindrance to conversation, but none to letter-writing. [ ] or at least expression of themselves. [ ] idly: because he himself expressly and repeatedly disclaims _mere_ "translation." [ ] dryden, in reference to shadwell. [ ] "the great god pan" piece ("a musical instrument"), one of the last, was perhaps her _very_ best. but he may have been thinking of _poems before congress_, which are poor enough. [ ] lucy, daughter of that curious quaker banker's clerk bernard barton, whose poetry is negligible, but who must have had some strong personal attraction. for he was a favourite correspondent of two of the greatest of contemporary letter-writers, lamb and fitzgerald, though he constantly misunderstood their letters; he received from byron--on an occasion likely to provoke one of the "noble poet's" outbursts of pseudo-aristocratic insolence--a singularly wise and kindly answer; and having as a perfect stranger lectured sir robert peel he was--invited to dinner! [ ] some have attempted to make a distinction, alleging that there are franceses who can be called "fanny" and others who can not. but it is doubtful whether this holds. of two great proficients of "letter-stuff" in overlapping generations fanny burney was eminently a "fanny." fanny kemble, though always called so, was not. [ ] she was the niece of mrs. siddons and of john kemble, generally considered the greatest tragic actor and actress we have had; the daughter of charles kemble, a player and manager of long practice and great ability; while she had yet another uncle and any number of more distant relations in the profession. [ ] see prefatory note on her letters _infra_, for an illustration of what is said of her here and of mrs. carlyle a little further. [ ] gray may not produce this effect of slight repulsion on everyone: but on the other hand it is pretty generally admitted that the more you read walpole the more does the prejudice, which macaulay and others have helped to create against him, crumble and melt. [ ] they grow more and more numerous; a fresh batch having been announced while this introduction was being written. [ ] i see that mr. paul also has made special reference to this letter and no wonder. from the time of its first publication i have regarded it as matchless. but it seems to me that while it is lawful to mention it, it should not have been published and that to republish it here would be at least questionable. [ ] the present writer remembers as a boy reading (he supposes in the newspaper to which it was addressed but is not sure) this very remarkable epistle of reade's to an editor: "sir, you have brains of your own and good ones. do not echo the bray of such a very small ass as the...." there was more, but this was the gist of it. whether it has ever reappeared he cannot say. [ ] anthony trollope did not choose to make his autobiography a "life-and-letters." but he has used the inserted letter very freely and sometimes with great effect in his novels, for instance mr. slope's to eleanor harding in _barchester towers_. [ ] in his essay mentioned in preface. [ ] the "answer to the introductory epistle" of _the monastery_. [ ] this plan was older than the "novel _by_ letters," and had, as noticed above, been largely used in the sixteenth and seventeenth century "heroic" romance. [ ] there is of course a class exactly opposite to the love-letter--that of more or less modified hate or at least dislike. johnson's epistle to chesterfield is an example of the dignified form of this; hazlitt's to gifford of the undignified. but considering our deserved reputation for humour we are less strong than might be expected in letters which make the supposed writer make _himself_ ridiculous. sydney smith's "noodle's oration" is the sort of thing in another kind: and some of the letters in the _spectator_ class of periodical are fun in the kind itself. defoe's _shortest way with the dissenters_ comes near. but we have nothing like the famous _epistolae obscurorum virorum_, which are the very triumph of the style. [ ] see the extensive classification of the greeks, as noticed and reproduced before. [ ] the "letter to sir w. windham" of the one and the "letter to a noble lord" of the other, have ample justification. _letters on a regicide peace_, great as they are in themselves, have less claim to their title. but it was a favourite with both writers. [ ] the king was william and the queen mary, which limits considerably the otherwise rather illimitable "concerning the kingdom." [ ] this word is of course a _vox nihili_, being neither french nor english. but it has usage in its favour, and i do not see that it is improved by writing it "_dis_habille." if anyone prefers the actual french form he can add the accents. [ ] the account of the journey with lintot the publisher is sometimes quoted in disproof of this. it is amusing, but has still to some tastes pope's factitiousness without the technical charm of his verse to carry it off. [ ] there is one small but rather famous class of letters which perhaps should receive separate though brief notice. it is that of laconic and either intentionally or unintentionally humorous utilisations of the letter-form. of one sort captain walton's "spanish fleet taken and destroyed as per margin" is probably the most noted type: of another the equally famous rejoinder of the highland magnate to his rival "dear glengarry, when you have proved yourself to be my chief, i shall be happy to admit your claim. meanwhile i am yours, macdonald." in pure farce of an irreverent kind, the possibly apocryphal interchange between a royal duke and a right reverend bishop, "dear cork, please ordain stanhope, yours, york," and "dear york, stanhope's ordained. yours, cork," has the palm as a recognised "chestnut." but these things are only the frills if not even the froth of the subject; and those who imitate them should exercise caution in the imitation. the police-courts, and even more exalted, but still more unwholesome abodes of justice, have sometimes been the consequences of misguided satire in letters. even in captain walton's case the spaniards are said to have endeavoured to show that his ironical laconism (which, moreover, tradition has perhaps exaggerated in form) was not strictly in accordance with fact. [ ] wild olive, with more peaceful uses, was also the usual material for the _un_peaceful club, or quarter-staff, often iron-shod, of the ancients. it was probably like the _lathi_ which the mild hindoo takes with him to political meetings. the [greek: pelekys] of the ancients was generally double-bladed, hence the limitation here. this would be lighter and more convenient to carry in the belt. [ ] of course "the enemies'." [ ] synesius addresses his letters to hypatia [greek: tê philosophô]--"to _the_ philosophess." this contains at least two of the unapproachable "portmanteau" words in which greek, and especially late greek abounds--[greek: philochôrôn], "loving one's country," and [greek: metanasteuein], a rare and complicated compound in which i have ventured to see a hint of ironic intention. he feels that he will be a sort of shirker or deserter ([greek: meta] often imparts this meaning) but he will be coming to _her_. [ ] this necessity of annotating beyond suitable limits was what prevented me, after due re-reading for the purpose, from giving any letter of cicero's. [ ] _admoneo_ in latin not unfrequently has our commercial sense of "advise" = inform, or remind of a fact. it will be remembered that in elizabethan english this sense was not limited to business, as in "art thou aviséd of that." [ ] the younger pliny's full name was c. plinius _secundus_. [ ] among other natives of course. [ ] doubtless the game still played in italy (_pallone_) and the south of france, with a wooden hand-guard strapped to the arm. [ ] _pyrgus_ is not exactly backgammon. the romans had a sort of combined dice-box and board--the latter having a kind of tower fixed on the side with interior steps or stops, among which the dice tumbled and twisted before they fell out. [ ] _universitas_: but though the context seems tempting, it is too early for "university" as a translation. [ ] _i.e._ in citizenship. [ ] _i.e._ in speech. [ ] why _livescentibus_ i am not sure. "bruised by the rough mail"? but lucretius has _digiti livescunt_: and sidonius, like other poets of other decadences, is apt to borrow the phrases of his great predecessors. [ ] sidonius has nearly as much more of this curious story: but the picture of the excitable celts mobbing their heroes is vivid enough to make a good stopping-place. if things really went as described, one must suppose that a sudden panic came on the goths, and that they took ecdicius and his handful of troopers as merely _éclaireurs_ of a sally in force, and drew back to the higher ground to resist it. [ ] his own experience of marriage cannot have made the subject wholly agreeable to him: for he was, it may not be quite impertinent to remind the reader, the first husband of eleanor of guienne. english letters the pastons. fifteenth century few families in england have achieved a permanent "place i' the story" after such a curious fashion as the pastons of paston (pastons "of that ilk") in norfolk. they were not exactly "great people" and no member of the family was of very eminent distinction in any walk of life, though they had judges, soldiers, and sailors etc. among them, and though, some time before the house became extinct, its representative attained the peerage with the title of earl of yarmouth. but they were busy people in the troublesome times of the roses, and they obtained a good deal of property, partly by the death of sir john fastolf, noted in the french wars and muddled by posterity (there seems to have been no real resemblance between them except an accusation of cowardice, probably false in both cases, and an imperfectly anagrammatised relation of names) with shakespeare's "falstaff." but they produced, received, and kept a great mass of letters which, despite the extinction of the family in survived, were partially printed later in the century by fenn, and more fully a hundred years after by the late mr. gairdner. although (see introduction) of no particular literary merit they are singularly varied in subject and authorship, and they give us perhaps a more complete view of the domestic experiences of a single family (not dissociated from public affairs) than we have from any period of english history till quite modern times. indeed, it would not be easy to put the finger on an exact parallel to them at _any_ time. i have selected from a great mass of documents two--one of love and one of war according to the good old division. john jernyngan's letter to margaret mauteby--wife of john paston, and one of the most notable and businesslike, though not the least affectionate of wives and mothers--is interesting for its combination of the two motives (were there also _two_ "mistress blanches"?) and for the delightfully english frankness of its confession that "we were well and truly beat." on the other hand, that of miss margery brews to john paston the youngest (the john named above had two sons of his own name) is one of the most agreeable pieces of "plain and holy innocence," as miranda calls it, on record. it is immediately preceded in the collection by another in which she is equally loving, and quotes some of the shockingly bad fifteenth century verse. one regrets to say that her "valentine" had, apparently, more than one string to his bow at the moment. however, after vicissitudes in the "matter," as she delicately calls it, john and margery did marry, and from them proceeded the later stages of the family. whether things went equally well with mr. jernyngan and his blanche (or either of his blanches) does not seem to be recorded. (it has been thought better, though the taste of the moment seems to go rather the other way, not to encumber the reader with the original spelling, but there is no further modernisation.) . letter (gairdner) date june , right worshipful and my most best beloved mistress and cousin, i recommend me to you as lowly as i may, ever more desiring to hear of your good welfare; the which i beseech almighty jesus to preserve you and keep you to his pleasure and to your gracious heart's desire. and, if it please you to hear of my welfare, i was in good heal(th) at the making of this letter, blessed be god. praying you that it please you for to send me word if my father was at norwich with you at this trinitymas or no, and how the matter doth between my mistress blanche witchingham and me and if ye suppose that it shall be brought about or no, and how ye feel my father, if he be well willing thereto or no; praying you lowly that i may be recommend(ed) lowly to my mistress arblaster's wife, and to my mistress blanche her daughter specially. right worshipful cousin, if it please you for to hear of such tidings as we have here, the embassy of burgundy shall come to calais the saturday after corpus christi day, as men say, horse of them. moreover on trinity sunday in the morning came tidings unto my lord of warwick that there were sails of spaniards on the sea, and whereof there was great ships of forecastle. and then my lord[ ] went and manned ships of forecastle and three carvells, and four pinnaces, and on the monday, in the morning after trinity sunday, we met together afore calais at at the clock in the morning and fought that (_sic_) gether till at the clock. and there we took six of their ships and they slew of our men about four twenties and hurt a two hundred of us right sore; and there were slain on their part about twelve twenties and hurt a five hundred of them. and (it) happened me at the first aboarding of us, we took a ship of three hundred ton, and i was left therein and men with me; and they fought so sore that our men were fain to leave them, and then come they and aboarded[ ] the ship that i was in and there i was taken, and was prisoner with them hours, and was delivered again for their men that were taken before. and as men say, there was not so great a battle upon the sea this forty winters. and forsooth we were well and truly beat: and my lord hath sent for more ships, and like to fight together again in haste. no more i write unto you at this time, but that it please you for to recommend me unto my right reverend and worshipful cousin your husband, and mine uncle gurney, and to mine aunt his wife and to all good masters and friends where it shall please you; and after the writing i have from you, i shall be at you in all haste. written on corpus christi day in great haste by your own humble servant and cousin, john jernyngan. . letter (gairdner) date feb. right worshipful and well-beloved valentine, in my most humble wise i recommend me unto you. and heartily i thank you for the letter which that ye send me by john beckerton, whereby i am informed and know that ye be purposed to come to topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter but only to have a conclusion of the matter between my father and you. i would be most glad of any creature in life so that the matter might grow to effect. and there as ye say, an ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business, for that cause, a good while after--which causeth mine heart to be full heavy: and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should i be much more sorry and full of heaviness. and as for myself i have done and understood in the matter that i can and may, as good[ ] knoweth: and i let you plainly understand that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf but £ and one mark which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire. wherefore if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, i would be the merriest maiden on ground. and if ye think not yourself so satisfied, or that ye might have much more good, as i have understood by you afore--good, true, and loving valentine,[ ] that ye take no such labour upon you as to come more for that matter but let it pass and never more be spoken of, as i may be your true lover and bedeswoman[ ] during my life. no more unto you at this time but almighty jesus preserve you both body and soul. by your valentine, m. b. footnotes: [ ] it is to be feared that "my lord's" action was rather piratical. the "spanish fleet" was of merchantmen ("convoyed" perhaps) on their way to the north with iron etc. for fish, silk, etc., and we were not definitely at war with spain. but henry the iv. of castile was an ally of france. warwick had just been appointed "captain of calais," and it was a general english idea that anything not english in the channel was fair prize. warwick's conduct was warmly welcomed in london. [ ] this use of "abord" and that just before are slightly different derivatives of the french _aborder_, which means to "approach," "accost," "come together with" as well as to "board" in the naval sense. the first use here is evidently of the more general, the second of the particular kind. [ ] this may be a mere mis-spelling of "god," or a sort of euphemism like the modern "thank _goodness_!" to avoid the more sacred name. [ ] "i would" or "take care" or something similar to be supplied to make a somewhat softened imperative. [ ] one who prays for you. roger ascham ( - ) although the old phrase about "the schoolmaster being abroad" has never before had anything like the amount of applicableness which it now possesses, there is perhaps still a certain prejudice against schoolmasters. indeed even some who have more than served time in that capacity will admit that it is a dangerous employment, profession, or vocation. but if all of us had been ever, or ever would try to be, like roger ascham, our class would never have deserved, or would victoriously wiped off, any obloquy. it was extraordinary good quality, or more extraordinary good fortune, that made the same man write _toxophilus_ and _the schoolmaster_. and there need hardly be any admission of possible good luck as causing, though some certainly helped, his performance as a letter-writer. something was said before as to the importance of his "getting to english" in this matter. but it may be permissible to remind, or perhaps even inform, some readers of the curious combination which made this importance. as a renaissance scholar; as a college tutor before the middle of the sixteenth century; as a secretary of embassy on the continent; and as latin secretary at court, he was positively _un_likely to favour the vernacular. nor could anyone be a warmer or wiser lover of the classics than he was. but what he, being all these things, did for english was all the more influential, while the manner of his doing it could hardly be bettered. ascham's letters being partly in english and partly in latin, there is a certain temptation to translate one of the latter and put it side by side with one of the former. but the process might not be fair: and to give the fairer chance of comparison between originals in the two tongues would be out of the scheme of this book. i therefore choose a part of one of his long letters of travel to cambridge friends--one of the earliest of the many "up the rhines" in english literature--and another part of his letters to cecil. he has been reproached with the "begging" character of these, but it was the way of the time with renaissance scholars. in the first "ioney" (giles's text) must be wrong and towards the end "vile" is an amusing blunder for "_o_ile." "peter ailand" a cambridge friend's child. "brant" = "steep." in the second "denny" is sir anthony d., a great favourite of henry viii. and edward vi. who was now dead. "cheke" the still better known "sir john" had "taught cambridge and king edward greek," and so raised the "goodly crop" but had taken to politics, which were to bring him into trouble.[ ] . to mr. edward raven [extract] augsburg jan. octob. we took a fair barge, with goodly glass windows, with seats of fir, as close as any house, we knew not whether it went or stood. rhene is such a river that now i do not marvail that the poets make rivers gods. rhene at spires having a farther course to rin into the ocean sea than is the space betwixt dover and barwick is broader over a great deal than is thames at greenwich when it is calm weather. the rhene runs fast and yet as smooth as the sea water stands in a vessel. from colen this day we went to bonna, the bishop's town, the country about rhene here is plain and ioney. we were drawn up rhene by horses. little villages stand by rhene side, and as the barge came by, six or seven children, some stonenaked, some in their shirts, of the bigness of peter ailand, would run by use on the sands, singing psalms, and would rin and sing with us half a mile, whilst they had some money. we came late to bonna at eight of the clock: our men were come afore with our horse: we could not be let into the town, no more than they do at calise, after an hour. we stood cold at the gate a whole hour. at last we were fain, lord and lady, to lie in our barge all night, where i sat in my lady's side-saddle, leaning my head to a malle, better lodged than a dozen of my fellows. octob. we sailed to brousik: miles afore we come to bonna begin the vines and hills keeping in rhene on both sides for the space of five or six days journey as we made them almost to mayence, like the hills that compass halifax about, but far branter up, as though the rocks did cover you like a pentice (pent-house): on the rhene side all this journey be pathways where horse and man go commonly a yard broad, so fair that no weather can make it foul: if you look upwards ye are afraid the rocks will fall on your head; if you look downwards ye are afraid to tumble into rhene, and if your horse founder it is not seven to six that ye shall miss falling into rhene, there be many times stairs down into rhene that men may come from their boats and walk on his bank, as we did every day four or five miles at once, plucking grapes not with our hands but with our mouths if we list. the grapes grow on the brant rocks so wonderfully that ye will marvel how men dare climb up to them, and yet so plentifully, that it is not only a marvel where men be found to labour it, but also almost where men dwell that drink it. seven or eight days journey ye cannot cast your sight over the compass of vines. and surely this wine of rhene is so good, so natural, so temperate, so ever like itself, as can be wished for man's use. i was afraid when i came out of england to miss beer; but i am more afraid when i shall come into england, that i cannot lack this wine. it is wonder to see how many castles stand on the tops of these rocks unwinable. the three bishops electors, colen, trevers and mayence; be the princes almost of whole rhene. the lansgrave hath goodly castles upon rhene which the emperor cannot get. the palatine of rhene is also a great lord on this river, and hath his name of a castle standing in the midst of rhene on a rock. there be also goodly isles in rhene, so full of walnut trees that they cannot be spent with eating, but they make vile of them. in some of these isles stand fair abbeys and nunneries wonderfully pleasant. the stones that hang so high over rhene be very much of that stone that you use to write on in tables; every poor man's house there is covered with them. . to cecil [extract] brussels march . if i should write oft, ye might think me too bold: and if i did leave off, ye might judge me either to forget your gentleness, or to mistrust your good will, who hath already so bound me unto you, as i shall rather forget myself, and wish god also to forget me, than not labour with all diligence and service to apply myself wholly to your will and purpose; and that ye shall well know how much i assure myself on your goodness, i will pass a piece of good manners, and be bold to borrow a little of your small leisure from your weighty affairs in the commonwealth. therefore, if my letters shall find you at any leisure, they will trouble you a little in telling you ate length, as i promised in my last letters delivered unto you by mr. francis yaxeley, why i am more desirous to have your help for my stay at cambridge still than for any other kind of living elsewhere. i having now some experience of life led at home and abroad, and knowing what i can do most fitly, and how i would live most gladly, do well perceive there is no such quietness in england, nor pleasure in strange countries, as even in st. john's college, to keep company with the bible, plato, aristotle, demosthenes, and tully. which my choice of quietness is not purposed to lie in idleness, nor constrained by a wilful nature, because i will not or can not serve elsewhere, when i trust i could apply myself to mo kinds of life than i hope any need shall ever drive me to seek, but only because in choosing aptly for myself i might bring some profit to many others. and in this mine opinion i stand the more gladly, because it is grounded upon the judgment of worthy mr. denny. for the summer twelvemonth before he departed, dinner and supper he had me commonly with him, whose excellent wisdom, mingled with so pleasant mirth, i can never forget: emonges many other talks he would say oft unto me, if two duties did not command him to serve, the one his prince, the other his wife, he would surely become a student in st. john's, saying, "the court, mr. ascham, is a place so slippery, that duty never so well done, is not a staff stiff enough to stand by always very surely, where ye shall many times reap most unkindness where ye have sown greatest pleasures, and those also ready to do you most hurt to whom you never intended to think any harm." which sentences i heard very gladly then, and felt them soon after myself to be true. thus i, first ready by mine own nature, then moved by good counsel, after driven by ill fortune, lastly called by quietness, thought it good to couch myself in cambridge again. and in very deed, too many be pluckt from thence before they be ripe, though i myself am withered before i be gathered, and yet not so for that i have stood too long, but rather because the fruit which i bear is so very small. yet seeing the goodly crop of mr. cheke is almost clean carried from thence, and i in a manner alone of that time left a standing straggler, peradventure though my fruit be very small, yet because the ground from whence it sprung was so good, i may yet be thought somewhat fit for seed, when all you the rest are taken up for better store, wherewith the king and his realm is now so nobly served. and in such a scarcity both of those, that were worthily called away when they were fit, and of such as unwisely part from thence, before they be ready, i dare now bolden myself, when the best be gone, to do some good among the mean that do tarry, trusting that my diligence shall deal with my disability, and the rather because the desire of shooting is so well shot away in me, either ended by time or left off for better purpose. yet i do amiss to mislike shooting too much, which hath been hitherto my best friend, and even now looking back to the pleasure which i found in it, and perceiving small repentence to follow after it, by plato's judgment i may think well of it. no, it never called me to go from my book, but it made both wit the lustier, and will the readier, to run to it again, and perchance going back sometimes from learning may serve even as well as it doth at leaping, to pass some of those which keep always their standing at their book. footnotes: [ ] the allusions to the writer's own _toxophilus_ at the end require, it is to be hoped, no annotation. lady mary sidney (?[ ]- ) this "old molly," as she so agreeably calls herself, was very unfortunate in her father (that intrusive holder for a short time of the title of northumberland, who was offensive in success and abject in adversity) and not too lucky in her brother, leicester. but she must have been far too good for her own breed; she had an excellent husband, sir henry sidney, deputy of ireland and president of wales, one of elizabeth's best deserving and worst treated servants, and she was the mother of "astrophel" and astrophel's sister. "one has known persons more unfortunate," as a famous phrase of a french poem not very long after her own time has it. and she must have thoroughly deserved good fortune: for her letters show her as one of the best of wives and mothers (if not of spellers): though it is quite possible that she might not have made a good jurywoman or a good member of parliament. as her husband was not merely governor (repeatedly and with such success as was possible) of ireland, but "president of wales," they usually, when in england but not at court or at penshurst, lived at ludlow castle and so enjoyed two of the most beautiful homes in the country. but sir henry in these and other functions had seas of trouble, great expenses, and according to "gloriana's" wont, very small thanks for it all. he is said, indeed, to have had his life shortened by weariness and worry. but his son and daughter[ ] may have been a comfort to him: and his wife must have been so. the letter itself, as will be seen, is not to himself but to his secretary: and there was more correspondence on the subject of their lodging and its difficulties. lady mary was not well, and there must be a place to see friends, and the queen might come in! the original letter[ ] is better spelt than others of hers, the principal curiosity being the form "hit" for "it," which, however, is by no means peculiar. . to edward molineux, esq. you have used the matter very well; but we must do more yet for the good dear lord [her husband] than let him be thus dealt withal. hampton court i never yet knew so full as there were not spare rooms in it, when it has been thrice better filled than at the present it is. but some would be sorry, perhaps, my lord should have so sure a footing in the court. well, all may be as well when the good god will. the whilst, i pray let us do what we may for our lord's ease and quiet. whereunto i think if you go to my lord howard, and in my lord's name also move his lordship to shew his brother my lord, (as they call each other)--to show him a cast of his office[ ] and that it should not be known allege your former causes, i think he will find out some place to serve that purpose. and also if you go to mr bowyer,[ ] the gentleman-usher, and tell him his mother requireth him (which is myself) to help my lord with some one room, but only for the dispatch of the multitude of welsh and irish people that follow him; and that you will give your word in my lord's behalf and mine, it shall not be accounted as a lodging[ ] or known of, i believe he will make what shift he can: you must assure him it is but for the day-time for his business, as indeed it is. as for my brother's answer of[ ] my stay here for five or six days, he knows i have ventured far already with so long absence, and am ill thought of for it,[ ] so as that may not be. but when the worst is known, old lord harry and his old moll will do as well as they can in parting[ ] like good friends the small portion allotted our long service in court, which as little as it is, seems something too much.[ ] and this being all i can say to the matter, farewell, mr. ned. in haste this monday , your assured loving mistress and friend, m. sydney. if all this will not serve, prove[ ] mr huggins, for i know my lord would not for no good be destitute in this time for some convenient place for his followers and friends to resort to him, which in the case i am in, is not possible to be in _my_ chamber till after sunset, when the dear good lord shall be, as best becomes him, lord of his own. footnotes: [ ] her birth-date does not seem to be known, but she was married in . [ ] he had another, of the (for an english girl) very unusual name of "ambros[z]ia" who died unmarried, at twenty. [ ] most kindly copied for me by the rev. w. hunt from arthur collins's _sydney papers_. [ ] an agreeable phrase, not in the least obsolete, though i have known ignorant persons who thought it so. the "office" was that of lord chamberlain; the holder was lord howard of effingham, afterwards famous in the armada fights. [ ] see _kenilworth_ (chap. xvi.), where scott brings him in as experiencing gloriana's extreme uncertainty of temper. [ ] _i.e._ a permanent one such as hampton court affords to some. [ ] "about"? [ ] either by the queen herself, whose touchiness is well known, or by jealous and mischief-making fellow courtiers. [ ] "sharing." [ ] "is grudged." [ ] we should say "try." george clifford earl of cumberland ( - ) this not very fortunate or wholly blameless but very remarkable and representative person was the third holder of the earldom and the sixteenth of the famous barony of clifford. he was great-grandson of wordsworth's "shepherd lord"; father of anne countess of dorset, pembroke and montgomery (pupil of daniel the poet and a typical great lady of her time); one of the foremost of elizabeth's privateering courtiers; one of the chief victims of her caprice and parsimony; a magnificent noble, but a great spendthrift, something of a libertine, never unkindly but hardly ever wise. this remarkable deathbed letter (the giving of which depended on the kindness of dr. g. c. williamson of hampstead, author of the _life and voyages of g. clifford, rd earl of cumberland_, cambridge university press, , in which it appeared, p. - ), pretty well explains itself. "sweet meg," his wife, was lady margaret russell, daughter of the earl of bedford. the pair were on very affectionate terms for many years: but had latterly been estranged by certain infidelities on the earl's part and by money disputes and difficulties, so that when his last illness attacked him lady cumberland was not with him. she was not, however, proof against this repentant appeal: but returned with her daughter. both were present at his death in the savoy soon after he wrote. he had made, personally or by deputy, ten if not twelve voyages against the spaniards, and though there was a good deal of mismanagement about them he took porto rico in one; captured, but made little profit out of, an enormously valuable prize, the _madre de dios_, in another; gave the warning which enabled lord thomas howard to escape, but which sir richard grenville refused to take "at flores, in the azores"; and built at his own expense, the largest privateer then or perhaps ever constructed, the _malice scourge_--for the remarkable subsequent history of which, see mr. david hannay's article, "_the saga of a ship_," in _blackwood_, may, . . sweet and dear meg, bear[ ] with, i pray thee, the short and unapt setting together of these my last lines, a token of true kindness, which i protest cometh out of an unfeigned heart of love to thee. for whose content, and to make satisfaction for the wrongs done to thee i have, since i saw thee more desired to return than for any other earthly cause. but being so low brought that, without god's miraculous favour, there is no great likelihood of it i, by this, if so it please god that i shall not, in earnestness make my last requests, which as ever thou lovest me lying so, i pray thee perform for me being dead. first, in greedy earnestness i desire thee not to offend god in grieving too much at his disposing of me: but let my assured hope that he hath done it for the saving of my soul rather comfort thee, considering that we ought most to rejoice, when we see a thing that it is either for the good of our souls or of our friends. and further i beg of thee that thou wilt take, as i have meant, in kindness the course i have set down for disposing of my estate and things left behind. which truly, if i have not dealt most kindly with thee in, i am mistaken, and as ever thou lovest, (which i know thou hast done faithfully and truly) sweet meg, let neither old conceit, new opinion, nor false lying tale, make thee fall to hard opinion nor suit with my brother. for this i protest now, when i tremble to speak that which upon any just colour may be turned to a lie, thou hast conceived wrong of him, for his nature is sweet, and though wrong conceit might well have urged him, yet he hath never to my knowledge said or done anything to harm thee or mine, but with tears hath often bemoaned himself to me that he could not devise how to make thee conceive rightly of him. and lastly, before the presence of god, i command thee, and in the nearest love of my heart i desire thee, to take great care that sweet nan[ ] whom god bless, may be carefully brought up in the fear of god, not to delight in worldly vanities, which i too well know be but baits to draw her out of the heavenly kingdom. and i pray thee thank thy kind uncle and aunt for her (?) and their many kindnesses to me. thus, out of the bitter and greedy desire of a repentant heart, begging thy pardon for any wrong that ever in my life i did thee, i commend these my requests to thy wonted and undeserved kind wifely and lovely consideration, my body to god's disposing and my love (soul?) to his merciful commisseration. thine as wholly as man was ever woman's, george cumberland. to my dear wife, the countess of cumberland, give this, of whom, from the bottom of my heart in the presence of god, i ask forgiveness for all the wrongs i have done her. footnotes: [ ] there is, as often, little or no punctuation in the original, of which dr. williamson's beautiful book gives a facsimile. i have ventured to adjust that of the printed text, here and there, to bring out the meaning. [ ] lady anne was at this time only . she seems to have been fond of her father and proud of him: nor is there any direct evidence that the fear of god was not in her. but she had no fear of man: and no excessive respect for her father's will. during the lives of her uncle francis and her cousin henry, th and th earls, she fought it hard at law: and at last, henry dying without issue, and the title lapsing, came into possession of the great clifford estates in the north. she lived to be , and was masterful all her days. john donne ( - ) "the first poet in the world for some things,"--as ben jonson, who nevertheless did not like his metric, thought he would perish for not being understood, and perhaps did not understand him--called donne with justice, might not be thought likely to be among the first letter-writers. the marvellous lightning-flashes of genius in a dark night of context which illuminate his poetry and his sermons, can hardly be expected--would indeed be almost out of place--in ordinary letter-writing. moreover, donne is, perhaps, with browne, the most characteristic exponent of that magnificent seventeenth century style which accommodates itself ill to merely commonplace matters. browne, a younger man by an entire generation who lived far into the age of dryden, could drop this style when he chose: with donne it was rather the skin--if not even the very flesh and bone and all but spirit--than the cloak of his thought. nevertheless there is no exact contemporary of his--and certainly none possessing anything like his literary power--who deserves selection as a representative of his own school and time better than he does; and there is something in him which adds distinction to any company in which he appears. as mentioned in the introduction, his verse-epistles were even more noteworthy, but in prose he is noteworthy enough. the batch of letters here chosen was most fortunately preserved by izaak walton, who published the first of them _in_ the life not of donne but of george herbert, while the rest were "added" to it in .[ ] the lady to whom they were written, magdalen newport by maiden name, was mother not only of the pious and poetical george, but of edward lord herbert of cherbury, himself not a very bad poet but by no means in the usual sense pious, a very great coxcomb, and a hero chiefly by his own report. his mother, however, seems to have been one of those "elect ladies" who were among the chief glories of england in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and were fortunately numerous. after her widowhood she lived at oxford for some time, but seems to have moved to london when donne, about , wrote these letters. he was himself living at mitcham (spelt "michin" in one letter), not yet famous for golf though perhaps already for lavender. later he visited her at montgomery castle, the famous seat of the herberts. she is said to have been very beautiful, and the subtle touch of not in the least fatuous or foppish "devotion" is most agreeable. . to the lady magdalen herbert madam, your favours to me are everywhere. i use them, and have them. i enjoy them at london, and leave them there: and yet find them at mitcham. such riddles as these become things inexpressible: and such is your goodness. i was almost sorry to find your servant here this day, because i was loath to have any witness of my not coming home last night, and indeed of my coming this morning. but my not coming was excusable, because earnest business detained me; and my coming this day is by example of your st. mary magdalen, who rose early upon sunday, to seek that which she loved most; and so did i. and, from her and myself, i return such thanks as are due to one, to whom we owe all the good opinion that they, whom we need most, have of us. by this messenger and on this good day, i commit the enclosed holy hymns and sonnets--which for the matter not the workmanship have yet escaped the fire,--to your judgment and to your protection too, if you think them worthy of it; and i have appointed this enclosed sonnet to usher them to your happy hand. your unworthiest servant unless your accepting him to be so have mended him jo. donne. (mitcham july . ) to the lady magdalen herbert: of st. mary magdalen her of your name, whose fair inheritance bethina was, and jointure magdalo, an active faith so highly did advance, that she once knew, more than the church did know, the resurrection! so much good there is delivered of her, that some fathers be loath to believe one woman could do this; but think these magdalens were two or three. increase their number, lady, and their fame: to their devotion, add your innocence; take so much of the example as the name the latter half--and in some recompense that they did harbour christ himself--a guest harbour these hymns, to his dear name addressed. . to the lady magdalen herbert madam, every excuse hath in it somewhat of accusation; and since i am innocent, and yet must excuse, how shall i do for that part of accusing. by my troth, as desperate and perplexed men, grow from thence bold; so must i take the boldness of accusing you, who would draw so dark a curtain betwixt me and your purposes, as that i had no glimmering, neither of your goings, nor the way which my letters might haunt. yet, i have given this licence to travel, but i know not whither, nor it. it is therefore rather a pinnace to discover; and the entire colony of letters, of hundreds and fifties, must follow; whose employment is more honourable, than that which our state meditates to _virginia_ because you are worthier than all that country, of which that is a wretched inch; for you have better treasure and a harmlessness. if this sound like a flattery, tear it out. i am to my letters as rigid a puritan as caesar was to his wife. i can as ill endure a suspicious and misinterpretable word as a fault; and of the grossest flatteries there is this good use, that they tell us what we should be. but, _madam_, you are beyond instruction, and therefore there can belong to you only praise; of which, though you be no good hearer, yet allow all my letters leave to have in them one part of it, which is thankfulness towards you. _your unworthiest servant except your accepting have mended him_ john donne. mitcham, july , . . _to the worthiest lady, mrs._ magdalen herber(t) _madam_, this is my second letter, in which though i cannot tell you what is good, yet this is the worst, that i must be a great part of it; yet to me, that is recompensed, because you must be mingled. after i knew you were gone (for i must, little less than accusingly tell you, i knew not you would go) i sent my first letter, like a _bevis of hampton_, to seek adventures. this day i came to town, and to the best part of it, your house; for your memory is a state-cloth and presence; which i reverence, though you be away; though i need not seek that there which i have about and within me. there, though i found my accusation, yet anything to which your hand is, is a pardon; yet i would not burn my first letter, because as in great destiny no small passage can be omitted or frustrated, so in my resolution of writing almost daily to you, i would have no link of the chain broke by me, both because my letters interpret one another, and because only their number can give them weight. if i had your commission and instructions to do you the service of a legier ambassador here, i could say something of the countess of _devon_: of the states, and such things. but since to you, who are not only a world alone, but the monarchy of the world your self, nothing can be added, especially by me; i will sustain myself with the honour of being _your servant extraordinary and without place_ john donne. london july , . _to the worthiest lady, mrs_. magdalen herbert _madam_, as we must die before we can have full glory and happiness, so before i can have this degree of it, as to see you by a letter, i must almost die, that is, come to _london_, to plaguy _london_; a place full of danger, and vanity, and vice, though the court be gone. and such it will be, till your return redeem it: not that, the greatest virtue in the world, which is you, can be such a marshal, as to defeat, or disperse all the vice of this place; but as higher bodies remove, or contract themselves, when better come, so at your return we shall have one door open to innocence. yet, madam, you are not such an ireland, as produceth neither ill, nor good; no spiders or nightingales, which is a rare degree of perfection: but you have found and practised that experiment, that even nature, out of her detesting of emptiness, if we will make that our work to remove bad, will fill us with good things. to abstain from it, was therefore but the childhood and minority of your soul, which hath been long exercised since, in your manlier active part, of doing good. of which since i have been a witness and subject, not to tell you some times, that by your influence and example i have attained to such a step of goodness, as to be thankful, were both to accuse your power and judgment of impotency and infirmity. _your ladyship's in all services_, john donne.[ ] august d, . footnotes: [ ] mr. gosse (who has inserted them in his _life and letters of donne_) is perhaps right in putting letter last. i give no opinion on this but merely keep the order in which they originally appeared in the text and in an appendix to the _life of herbert_ ( edit.). i am not certain to which "first" the "second" in letter refers. "bevis of hampton" generally for "knight errant"; "legier," a _resident_ ambassador; "states" in the plural--always then "the dutch"; _snake_lessness is more often assigned to ireland than spiderlessness. [ ] the first of these letters, with the sonnet, appears, i think, in all editions of walton, who has apparently entered the date wrongly. the other three were copied for me from the original by miss elsie hitchcock, i have slightly modernised a few spellings in them. james howell ( - ) "the father" of something is an expression in the history of literature which has become, more justly than some other traditional expressions, rather odious to the modern mind. for in the first place it is an irritatingly conventional phrase, and in the second the paternity is usually questionable. but "the priggish little clerk of the council," as thackeray (who nevertheless loved his letters) calls howell, does really seem to deserve the fathership of all such as in english write unofficial letters "for publication."[ ] he wrote a great deal else: and would no doubt in more recent times have been a "polygraphic" journalist of some distinction. and he had plenty to write about. he was an oxford man; he travelled abroad on commercial errands (though by no means as what has been more recently called a "commercial traveller"); he was one of ben jonson's "sons," a royalist sufferer from the rebellion, and finally historiographer royal as well as clerk to the council. his letters, which are sometimes only titularly such[ ] but sometimes quite natural, deal with all sorts of subjects--from the murder of buckingham by felton to the story of the oxenham "white bird" which kingsley has utilised in _westward ho!_ and, to do him justice, there is a certain character about the book which is not _merely_ the expression of the character of the writer, though no doubt connected with it. now the possession of this is what makes a book literature. it has been usual to select from howell's letters of travel, and from historical ones like the buckingham one above mentioned. i have preferred the "white bird"; and before it one of several documents, of the same or nearly the same period, which deal with the old english life of country houses--between the mediaeval time and the degradation of the "servant" class, which came in with the eighteenth century or a little earlier. howell would evidently have echoed isopel berners--that admirable girl whom george borrow slighted--in saying, "long melford for ever!" though the house would not with him, as with her, have meant a workhouse. neither letter seems to require annotation. . to dan caldwell, esq., from the lord savage's house in long melford my dear dan, tho' considering my former condition of life, i may now be called a countryman, yet you cannot call me a rustic (as you would imply in your letter) as long as i live in so civil and noble a family, as long as i lodge in so virtuous and regular a house as any, i believe, in the land, both for economical government and the choice company; for i never saw yet such a dainty race of children in all my life together. i never saw yet such an orderly and punctual attendance of servants, nor a great house so neatly kept; here one shall see no dog, nor a cat, nor cage to cause any nastiness within the body of the house. the kitchen and gutters and other offices of noise and drudgery are at the fag-end; there's a back-gate for the beggars and the meaner sort of swains to come in at; the stables butt upon the park, which, for a cheerful rising ground, for groves and browsings for the deer, for rivulets of water, may compare with any of its bigness in the whole land; it is opposite to the front of the great house, whence from the gallery one may see much of the game when they are a-hunting. now for the gardening and costly choice flowers, for ponds, for stately large walks green and gravelly, for orchards and choice fruits of all sorts, there are few the like in england; here you have your bon chrétien pear and burgamot in perfection; your muscadel grapes in such plenty that there are some bottles of wine sent every year to the king: and one mr. daniel, a worthy gentleman hard by who hath been long abroad, makes good store in his vintage. truly this house of long melford tho' it be not so great, yet is so well compacted and contriv'd with such dainty conveniences every way; that if you saw the landskip of it, you would be mightily taken with it and it would serve for a choice pattern to build and contrive a house by. if you come this summer to your manor of sheriff in essex, you will not be far off hence; if your occasions will permit, it will be worth your coming hither, tho' it be only to see him, who would think it a short journey to go from st. david's head to dover cliffs to see and serve you, were there occasion; if you would know who the same is, 'tis-- yours, j. h. . may, . . to mr. e. d. sir, i thank you a thousand times for the noble entertainment you gave me at bury; and the pains you took in showing me the antiquities of that place. in requital, i can tell you of a strange thing i saw lately here, and i believe 'tis true. as i passed by st. dunstan's in fleet street the last saturday, i stepped into a lapidary, or stone-cutter's shop, to treat with the master for a stone to be put upon my father's tomb; and casting my eyes up and down, i might spy a huge marble with a large inscription upon't, which was thus to my best remembrance: _here lies _john oxenham_, a goodly young man, in whose chamber, as he was struggling with the pangs of death, a bird with a white breast was seen fluttering about his bed, and so vanished._ _here lies also _mary oxenham_, the sister of the said _john_, who died the next day, and the said apparition was seen in the room._ then another sister is spoke of, then, _here lies hard by _james oxenham_, the son of the said _john_, who died a child in his cradle a little after; and such a bird was seen fluttering about his head, a little before he expired, which vanished afterwards._ at the bottom of the stone there is: _here lies _elizabeth oxenham_ the mother of the said _john_, who died sixteen years since, when such a bird with a white breast was seen about her bed before her death._ to all these there be divers witnesses, both squires and ladies, whose names are engraven upon the stone. this stone is to be sent to a town hard by exeter, where this happened. were you here, i could raise a choice discourse with you hereupon. so, hoping to see you the next term, to requite some of your favours, i rest-- your true friend to serve you, j. h. westminster, july. footnotes: [ ] _epistolae hoelianae or familiar letters_ ( ). [ ] indeed his correspondents are probably sometimes, if not always, imaginary: and many of the letters are only what in modern periodicals are called "middle" articles on this and that subject, headed and tailed with the usual letter-formulas. john evelyn ( - ) as is naturally the case with writers of "diaries," "memoirs," "autobiographies," and the like, a good deal of matter is deflected into evelyn's famous _diary_ from possible letters: while his numerous and voluminous published works may also to some extent abstract from or duplicate his correspondence. but there is enough of this[ ] to make him a noteworthy epistoler. and it is interesting, though not perhaps surprising, to find that while his diary is less piquant than his friend mr. pepys's, his letters are more so. not surprising--first, because official letter-writers (evelyn did a good deal of public work but was never _exactly_ an official) often get into a habit of noncommittal; and secondly, because there is, in these things as in others, a principle of compensation. evelyn was almost sure to be a good letter-writer[ ] for he had a ready pen, a rather extraordinary range of interests and capacities, plenty of time and means, extensive knowledge of the world, and last but not least, a tendency--not missed by the aforesaid mr. pepys--to bestow his information and opinion freely upon less fortunately endowed and equipped mortals. if he never quite reaches in letters the famous passages of the diary, describing the great fire, and whitehall on the eve of charles the second's mortal seizure, he sometimes comes near to this, and diffuses throughout a blend of humanism, and humanity, of science and art, which is very agreeable. his wife also was no mean letter-writer, but only one of the minor stars of that day round the moon, dorothy osborne, to whom we come next. of evelyn's own letters several are specially tempting. his curious plan (a particularly favourite craze of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries) for a small "college" or lay convent of ladies and gentlemen, a sort of miniature "abbey of thelema" is one. his magnificent eulogy of the duchess of newcastle (lamb's "dear margaret"), which puzzled his editor bray (from this and other notes a rather stupid man), is another: and his very interesting letter to pepys on dreams (oct. , ) a third. but on the whole i have preferred the following, which may remind some readers of mr. kipling's charming poem on the wonderful things our fathers did and believed, with its invaluable reminder that after all it would be lucky for us if we were no worse than they. the date is not given: but the letter is printed between one of august and one of september, . [greek: kollourion] = collyrium = "eyewash." "stillatim" = "drop by drop." "lixivium" (fr. "lessive") = "lye," "soapwater." "catoptrics" and "otacoustics" (though the "ot" = "ear" has gone)--are fairly modern words, "phonocamptics" scarcely so. in fact, i do not remember seeing it elsewhere. it does not appear to be a classical greek compound, but should mean "the art of guiding and managing the voice."[ ] the tom whittal story shows that evelyn, though given to seriousness, could (god rest his soul) be a merry man sometimes. the other proper names, from mr. oldenburg to thom. fazzello, could be expounded without difficulty, but with unnecessary expenditure of space. . john evelyn to doctor beale sir, i happened to be with mr oldenburg some time since, almost upon the article of his receiving the notice you sent him of your fortunate and useful invention; and i remember i did first of all incite him, both to insert it into his next transactions, and to provoke your further prosecution of it; which i exceedingly rejoice to find has been so successful, that you give us hopes of your further thoughts upon that, and those other subjects which you mention. you may haply call to remembrance a passage of the jesuit honorati fabri, who speaking of perspectives, observes, that an object looked on through a small hole appears magnified; from whence he suggests, the casting of two plates neatly perforated, and fitted to look through, preferable to glasses, whose refractions injure the sight. though i begin to advance in years (being now on the other side of forty), yet the continuance of the perfect use of my senses (for which i bless almighty god) has rendered me the less solicitous about those artificial aids; which yet i foresee i must shortly apply myself to, and therefore you can receive but slender hints from me which will be worthy your acceptance upon that argument; only, i well remember, that besides tiberius of old (whom you seem to instance in), joseph scaliger affirms the same happened both to his father julius and himself, in their younger years. and sometimes, methinks, i myself have fancied to have discerned things in a very dark place, when the curtains about my bed have been drawn, as my hands, fingers, the sheet, and bedclothes; but since my too intent poring upon a famous eclipse of the sun, about twelve years since, at which time i could as familiarly have stared with open eyes upon the glorious planet in its full lustre, as now upon a glow-worm (comparatively speaking), i have not only lost the acuteness of sight, but much impaired the vigour of it for such purposes as it then served me. but besides that, i have treated mine eyes very ill near these twenty years, during all which time i have rarely put them together, or composed them to sleep, before one at night, and sometimes much later: that i may in some sort redeem my losses by day, in which i am continually importuned with visits from my neighbours and acquaintance, or taken up by other impertinencies of my life in this place. i am plainly ashamed to tell you this, considering how little i have improved myself by it; but i have rarely been in bed before twelve o'clock as i said, in the space of twenty years; and yet i read the least print, even in a jolting coach, without other assistance, save that i now and then used to rub my shut eye-lids over with a spirit of wine well rectified, in which i distil a few rosemary flowers much after the process of the queen of hungary's water, which does exceedingly fortify, not only my sight, but the rest of my senses, especially my hearing and smelling; a drop or two being distilled into the nose or ears, when they are never so dull; and other [greek: kollourion] i never apply. indeed, in the summer time, i have found wonderful benefit in bathing my head with a decoction of some hot and aromatical herbs, in a lixivium made of the ashes of vine branches; and when my head is well washed with this, i immediately cause abundance of cold fountain water to be poured upon me _stillatim_, for a good half-hour together; which for the present is not only one of the most voluptuous and grateful refreshments imaginable, but an incredible benefit to me the whole year after: for i never need other powdering to my hair, to preserve it bright and clean, as the gallants do; but which does certainly greatly prejudice transpiration by filling up, or lying heavy upon the pores. those, therefore, who (since the use of perukes) accustom to wash their heads, instead of powdering, would doubtless find the benefit of it; both as to the preventing of aches in their head, teeth, and ears, if the vicissitude and inconstancy of the weather, and consequently the use of their monstrous perukes, did not expose them to the danger of catching colds. when i travelled in italy, and the southern parts, i did sometimes frequent the public baths (as the manner is), but seldom without peril of my life, till i used this frigid effusion, or rather profusion of cold water before i put on my garments, or durst expose myself to the air; and for this method i was obliged to the old and noble rantzow, in whose book _de conservandâ valetudine_ i had read a passage to this purpose; though i might have remembered how the dutchmen treated their labouring horses when they are all over in a froth, which they wash off with several buckets of cold water, as i have frequently observed it in the low countries. concerning other aids; besides what the masters of the catoptrics, phonocamptics, otacoustics, &c., have done, something has been attempted by the royal society; and you know the industrious kircher has much laboured. the rest of those artificial helps are summed up by the jesuit and. schottus. i remember that monsieur huygens (author of the pendulum), who brought up the learned father of that incomparable youth monsieur de zulichem, who used to prescribe to me the benefit of his little wax taper (a type whereof is, with the history of it, in some of our registers) for night elucubrations, preferable to all other candle or lamp light whatsoever. and because it explodes all glaring of the flame, which by no means ought to dart upon the eyes, it seems very much to establish your happy invention of tubes instead of spectacles, which have not those necessary defences. touching the sight of cats in the night, i am not well satisfied of the exquisiteness of that sense in them. i believe their smelling or hearing does much contribute to their dexterity in catching mice, as to all those animals who are born with those prolix smelling hairs. fish will gather themselves in shoals to any extraordinary light in the dark night, and many are best caught by that artifice. but whatever may be said of these, and other senses of fish, you know how much the sagacity of birds and beasts excel us; how far eagles and vultures, ravens and other fowls will smell the carcase; _odorumque canum vis_, as lucretius expresses it, and we daily find by their drawing after the games. gesner affirms that an otter will wind a fish four miles distance in the water, and my lord verulam (cent. ) speaks of that element's being also a medium of sounds, as well as air. eels do manifestly stir at the cracking of thunder, but that may also be attributed to some other tremulous motion; yet carps and other fish are known to come at the call and the sound of a bell, as i have been informed. notorious is the story of arion, and of lucullus's lampreys which came _ad nomen_; and you have formerly minded me of varro's greek pipe, of which lucian and cicero (ad atticum) take occasion to speak. pliny's dolphin is famous, and what is related of the american manati: but the most stupendous instance, that of the xiphia or sword-fish, which the mamertines can take up by no other strategem than a song of certain barbarous words, as the thing is related by thom. fazzello. it is certain that we hear more accurately when we hold our mouths a little open, than when we keep them shut; and i have heard of a dumb gentleman in england who was taught to speak (and therefore certainly brought to hear in some degree) by applying the head of a base viol against his teeth, and striking upon the strings with the bow. you may remember the late effect of the drum extending the tympanum of a deaf person to great improvement of his hearing, so long as that was beaten upon; and i could at present name a friend of mine, who though he be exceedingly thick of hearing, by applying a straight stick of what length soever, provided it touch the instrument and his ear, does perfectly and with great pleasure hear every tune that is played: all which, with many more, will flow into your excellent work, whilst the argument puts me in mind of one tom whittal, a student of christ church, who would needs maintain, that if a hole could dexterously be bored through the skull to the brain in the midst of the forehead, a man might both see and hear and smell without the use of any other organs; but you are to know, that this learned problematist was brother to him, who, preaching at st. mary's, oxford, took his text out of the history of balaam, numb. xxii., "am i not thine ass?" dear sir, pardon this rhapsody of, sir, your, &c. footnotes: [ ] some pages from and to him in the most compendious edition. [ ] he thought, writing to lord spencer about , that we have "few tolerable letters of our own country" excepting--and that only in a fashion--those of bacon, donne and howell. [ ] "_odorumque canum vis_--as lucretius expresses it"--perhaps requires a note. evelyn ought to have known his lucretius, the first book of which he translated and which he was only prevented from completing by some foolish scruples which jeremy taylor wisely but vainly combated. and lucretius is fond of _vis_ as meaning "quality" or "faculty." but evelyn almost certainly was thinking also, more or less, of virgil's "odora canum vis," _aen._ iv. . dorothy osborne ( - ) this very delightful lady--who became the wife of sir william temple, famous in political and literary history, and, by so doing or being, mistress of the household in which swift lived, suffered, but met stella--was the daughter of sir peter osborne, one of the stoutest of royalists who, as governor of guernsey, held its castle cornet for years against the rebels. whether she was (in ) born there--her father had been made _lieutenant_ governor six years earlier--is not known and has been thought unlikely: but the present writer (who has danced, and played whist within its walls) hopes she was. when we come to know her she was living at chicksands in bedfordshire and hoping to marry temple, though the course of love ran by no means smooth. attention was first drawn to her letters, and some of them were partly printed, in courtenay's _life_ of her husband--a book which was reviewed by macaulay in a famous essay, not overlooking dorothy. but as a body, they waited till some half century later, when they were published by judge parry and received with joy by all fit folk. they were written between and . the first passage is in her pleasant mood and touches on a subject--aviation--which interested that day and interests this. the second strikes some people as one of the most charming specimens of the love-letter--written neither in the violent delight that has violent end, nor in namby-pamby fashion.[ ] . to sir william temple sir,-- you say i abuse you; and jane says you abuse me when you say you are not melancholy: which is to be believed? neither, i think; for i could not have said so positively (as it seems she did) that i should not be in town till my brother came back: he was not gone when she writ, nor is not yet; and if my brother peyton had come before his going, i had spoiled her prediction. but now it cannot be; he goes on monday or tuesday at farthest. i hope you did truly with me, too, in saying that you are not melancholy (though she does not believe it). i am thought so, many times, when i am not at all guilty on't. how often do i sit in company a whole day, and when they are gone am not able to give an account of six words that was said, and many times could be so much better pleased with the entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 'tis all i can do to be so civil as not to let them see they trouble me. this may be your disease. however, remember you have promised me to be careful of yourself, and that if i secure what you have entrusted me with, you will answer for the rest. be this our bargain then; and look that you give me as good an account of one as i shall give you of t'other. in earnest i was strangely vexed to see myself forced to disappoint you so, and felt your trouble and my own too. how often i have wished myself with you, though but for a day, for an hour: i would have given all the time i am to spend here for it with all my heart. you could not but have laughed if you had seen me last night. my brother and mr. gibson were talking by the fire; and i sat by, but as no part of the company. amongst other things (which i did not at all mind), they fell into a discourse of flying; and both agreed it was very possible to find out a way that people might fly like birds, and despatch their journeys: so i, that had not said a word all night, started up at that, and desired they would say a little more on't, for i had not marked the beginning; but instead of that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, that i should appear so much concerned in such an art; but they little knew of what use it might have been to me. yet i saw you last night, but 'twas in a dream; and before i could say a word to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see you had put me into awakened me. just now i was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain two dumb gentlemen;--you may imagine whether i was pleased to leave my writing to you for their company;--they have made such a tedious visit, too; and i am so tired with making of signs and tokens for everything i had to say. good god! how do those that live with them always? they are brothers; and the eldest is a baronet, has a good estate, a wife and three or four children. he was my servant heretofore, and comes to see me still for old love's sake; but if he could have made me mistress of the world i could not have had him; and yet i'll swear he has nothing to be disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a woman might have been a virtue. i sent you a part of _cyrus_ last week, where you will meet with one doralise in the story of abradate and panthée. the whole story is very good; but the humour makes the best part of it. i am of her opinion in most things that she says in her character of "l'honnest homme" that she is in search of, and her resolution of receiving no heart that had been offered to anybody else. pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault you find in my lady carlisle's letter? methinks the hand and the style both show her a great person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now affected by all that pretend to wit and good breeding; only, i am a little scandalized to confess that she uses that word faithful,--she that never knew how to be so in her life. i have sent you my picture because you wished for it; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my lady sunderland's. put it in some corner where no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is only intended. 'tis not a very good one, but the best i shall ever have drawn of me; for, as my lady says, my time for pictures is past, and therefore i have always refused to part with this, because i was sure the next would be a worse. there is a beauty in youth that every one has once in their lives; and i remember my mother used to say there was never anybody (that was not deformed) but were handsome, to some reasonable degree, once between fourteen and twenty. it must hang with the light on the left hand of it; and you may keep it if you please till i bring you the original. but then i must borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), because my brother is often bringing people into my closet where it hangs, to show them other pictures that are there; and if he miss this long thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. . sir,-- who would be kind to one that reproaches one so cruelly? do you think, in earnest, i could be satisfied the world should think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambition? no, you are mistaken; but i'll tell you what i could suffer, that they should say i married where i had no inclination, because my friends thought it fit, rather than that i had run wilfully to my own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own. to marry for love were no reproachful thing if we did not see that of the thousand couples that do it, hardly one can be brought for an example that it may be done and not repented afterwards. is there anything thought so indiscreet, or that makes one more contemptible? 'tis true that i do firmly believe we should be, as you say, _toujours les mesmes_; but if (as you confess) 'tis that which hardly happens once in two ages, we are not to expect the world should discern we were not like the rest. i'll tell you stories another time, you return them so handsomely upon me. well, the next servant i tell you of shall not be called a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a stick to beat myself with. i would confess that i looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a punishment upon me for my over care in avoiding the talk of the world; yet the case is very different, and no woman shall ever be blamed that an inconsolable person pretends to her when she gives no allowance to it, whereas none shall 'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a person much above her. the little tailor that loved queen elizabeth was suffered to talk out, and none of her council thought it necessary to stop his mouth; but the queen of sweden's kind letter to the king of scots was intercepted by her own ambassador, because he thought it was not for his mistress's honour (at least that was his pretended reason), and thought justifiable enough. but to come to my beagle again. i have heard no more of him, though i have seen him since; we meet at wrest again. i do not doubt but i shall be better able to resist his importunity than his tutor was; but what do you think it is that gives him his encouragement? he was told i had thought of marrying a gentleman that had not above two hundred pound a year, only out of my liking to his person. and upon that score his vanity allows him to think he may pretend as far as another. thus you see 'tis not altogether without reason that i apprehend the noise of the world, since 'tis so much to my disadvantage. is it in earnest that you say your being there keeps me from the town? if so, 'tis very unkind. no, if i had gone, it had been to have waited on my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution and goes not herself. i have no business there, and am so little taken with the place that i could sit here seven years without so much as thinking once of going to it. 'tis not likely, as you say, that you should much persuade your father to what you do not desire he should do; but it is hard if all the testimonies of my kindness are not enough to satisfy without my publishing to the world that i can forget my friends and all my interest to follow my passion; though, perhaps, it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that which nobody but you or i will give it, and we that are concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great kindness and something romance, but must confess it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor sober counsel in't. 'tis not that i expect, by all your father's offers, to bring my friends to approve it. i don't deceive myself thus far, but i would not give them occasion to say that i hid myself from them in the doing it; nor of making my action appear more indiscreet than it is. it will concern me that all the world should know what fortune you have, and upon what terms i marry you, that both may not be made to appear ten times worse than they are. 'tis the general custom of all people to make those that are rich to have more mines of gold than are in the indies, and such as have small fortunes to be beggars. if an action take a little in the world, it shall be magnified and brought into comparison with what the heroes or senators of rome performed; but, on the contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be found ill enough to compare it with; and people are in pain till they find out some extravagant expression to represent the folly on't. only there is this difference, that as all are more forcibly inclined to ill than good, they are much apter to exceed in detraction than in praises. have i not reason then to desire this from you; and may not my friendship have deserved it? i know not; 'tis as you think; but if i be denied it, you will teach me to consider myself. 'tis well the side ended here. if i had not had occasion to stop there, i might have gone too far, and showed that i had more passions than one. yet 'tis fit you should know all my faults, lest you should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in your power to release yourself; besides, i may own my ill-humour to you that cause it; 'tis the discontent my crosses in this business have given me makes me thus peevish. though i say it myself, before i knew you i was thought as well an humoured young person as most in england; nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. when i came out of france, nobody knew me again. i was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was always alike, never over merry but always pleased, i was grown heavy and sullen, froward and discomposed; and that country which usually gives people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the climate, had wrought in me so contrary effects that i was as new a thing to them as my clothes. if you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, remember that i gave you fair warning. here is a ring: it must not be at all wider than this, which is rather too big for me than otherwise; but that is a good fault, and counted lucky by superstitious people. i am not so, though: 'tis indifferent whether there be any word in't or not; only 'tis as well without, and will make my wearing it the less observed. you must give nan leave to cut a lock of your hair for me, too. oh, my heart! what a sigh was there! i will not tell you how many this journey causes; nor the fear and apprehensions i have for you. no, i long to be rid of you, am afraid you will not go soon enough: do not you believe this? no, my dearest, i know you do not, whatever you say, you cannot doubt that i am yours. footnotes: [ ] the second passage needs little annotation except that wrest, in bedfordshire, where dorothy met her importunate lover, was the seat of anthony grey, earl of kent. there is said to be a picture there of sir william temple--a copy of lely's. wrest park is only a few miles from chicksands. in the first "lady carlisle" is lucy percy or hay, a "_great person_" in many ways--beauty, rank, wit, influence etc.--but hardly a good one. as for "doralise" dorothy is quite right. she is one of the brightest features of the huge _grand cyrus_. perhaps it may be just necessary to remind readers that "servant" constantly = "lover"; that "side" refers to the sheet of paper she is using; and that "abuse" = "deceive," not "misuse" or "vituperate." jonathan swift ( - ) the introduction has dealt rather more fully with swift than with some others: and a further reference to a dominant influence or conflict of influences on his letters will be found below in the head-note on thackeray. but a little more may be said here. it is rather unfortunate that we have not more _early_ letters from him (we have some, if only fragments, from thackeray, and they are no small "light"). we should like some concerning that curious career at trinity college, dublin, which was ended _speciali gratia_, leaving the usual wranglers to their usual wrangle whether the last word meant "grace" or "_dis_grace." others, written in various moods from the time when sir william temple "spoiled a fine gentleman," and esther johnson set running a life-long course of _un_-smooth love, would be more welcome still. they would no doubt be stumbling-blocks to those apt to stumble, just as the existing epistles are: but they would be stepping-stones for the wise. as it is, we have to do without them and perhaps, like most things that are, it is better. for the stumblers are saved the sin of stumbling, and the wise men the nuisance of seeing them do it, and trying to set them right. and there might have been only more painful revelations of the time when, to adjust the words of the famous epitaph "fierce indignation still _could_ lacerate the heart," that had felt so fondly and so bitterly what it had to feel. what follows is characteristic enough[ ] and intelligible enough to those who will give their intelligence fair play, asking only for information of _facts_. these latter can be supplied at no great length even to those who are unacquainted with swift's biography. "m. d." is the pet name for stella, and her rather mysterious companion mrs. dingley who lived with her in dublin and played something like the part of the alloys which are used in experimenting with some metals.[ ] "presto" is swift himself. "prior" is the poet. "sir a. fountaine" was a norfolk squire and a great collector of artistic things, most of which were sold not very long ago. "sterne" (john) was an irish clergyman and afterwards a bishop, but not of the same family as the novelist. "cousin _dryden_ leach" reminds us that swift was also a cousin of dryden the poet. "oroonoko" refers to afra behn's introduction of the "noble savage" to english interest. "patrick" was swift's very unsatisfactory man-servant. "bernage" a french huguenot refugee. "george granville," of the family of the hero of the _revenge_, was a great tory, a peer a little later with the title of lansdowne, and a rather better poet than johnson thought him. "st. john" and "harley," if not also "masham," should not need annotation. notice the seven, (literally seven!) leagued word at the end. swift calls their attention to it when beginning his next instalment. . to stella london, january , - . o faith, young women, i have sent my letter n. , without one crumb of an answer to any of md's; there's for you now; and yet presto ben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next irish post, except he sees md's little hand-writing in the glass frame at the bar of st james's coffeehouse, where presto would never go but for that purpose. presto's at home, god help him, every night from six till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as any body in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry. as hope saved, nothing gives presto any sort of dream of happiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest md. i love the expectation of it, and when it does not come, i comfort myself, that i have it yet to be happy with. yes, faith, and when i write to md, i am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and i prating to you, and telling you where i have been: well, says you, presto, come, where have you been to-day? come, let 's hear now. and so then i answer; ford and i were visiting mr lewis, and mr prior, and prior has given me a fine plautus, and then ford would have had me dine at his lodgings, and so i would not; and so i dined with him at an eating-house; which i have not done five times since i came here; and so i came home, after visiting sir andrew fountaine's mother and sister, and sir andrew fountaine is mending, though slowly. . i was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve i called at the coffeehouse for a letter from md; so the man said he had given it to patrick; then i went to the court of requests and treasury to find mr harley, and after some time spent in mutual reproaches, i promised to dine with him; i staid there till seven, then called at sterne's and leigh's to talk about your box, and to have it sent by smyth. sterne says he has been making inquiries, and will set things right as soon as possible. i suppose it lies at chester, at least i hope so, and only wants a lift over to you. here has little harrison been to complain, that the printer i recommended to him for his tatler is a coxcomb; and yet to see how things will happen; for this very printer is my cousin, his name is dryden leach; did you never hear of dryden leach, he that prints the postman? he acted oroonoko, he's in love with miss cross.--well, so i came home to read my letter from stella, but the dog patrick was abroad; at last he came, and i got my letter; i found another hand had superscribed it; when i opened it, i found it written all in french, and subscribed bernage: faith, i was ready to fling it at patrick's head. bernage tells me, had been to desire your recommendation to me to make him a captain; and your cautious answer, "that he had as much power with me as you," was a notable one; if you were here, i would present you to the ministry as a person of ability. bernage should let me know where to write to him; this is the second letter i have had without any direction; however, i beg i may not have a third, but that you will ask him, and send me how i shall direct to him. in the mean time, tell him, that if regiments are to be raised here, as he says, i will speak to george granville, secretary at war, to make him a captain; and use what other interest i conveniently can. i think that is enough, and so tell him, and don't trouble me with his letters when i expect them from md; do you hear, young women, write to presto. . i was this morning with mr secretary st john, and we were to dine at mr harley's alone, about some business of importance, but there were two or three gentlemen there. mr secretary and i went together from his office to mr harley's, and thought to have been very wise; but the deuce a bit: the company staid, and more came, and harley went away at seven, and the secretary and i staid with the rest of the company till eleven; i would then have had him come away, but he was in for't; and though he swore he would come away at that flask, there i left him. i wonder at the civility of these people; when he saw i would drink no more, he would always pass the bottle by me, and yet i could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor he would not let me go neither, nor masham, who was with us. when i got home i found a parcel directed to me, and opening it, i found a pamphlet written entirely against myself, not by name, but against something i writ: it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and i think i will take no notice of it; 'tis against something written very lately; and indeed i know not what to say, nor do i care; and so you are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at stoyte's; to let that bungler beat you, fy stella, an't you ashamed? well, i forgive you this once, never do so again; no, noooo. kiss and be friends, sirrah.--come, let me go sleep; i go earlier to bed than formerly; and have not been out so late these two months; but the secretary was in a drinking humour. so good night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues. footnotes: [ ] as such, it has commended itself to other selectors. but duplication, though it has been sedulously avoided here, is sometimes almost inevitable. [ ] _i.e._ the part of facilitating the operation, and disappearing in the results aimed at. lady mary wortley-montagu ( - ) the ratio of importance between life and letters varies a good deal with different writers: and the circumstances of the life have seldom been of more importance to the letter than in the case of "lady mary"--pierrepont as she was born. when she was a girl she held an unusual place in the house of her widowed father the duke of kingston. her courtship by, or with, or of (one doubts as to the preposition) edward wortley-montagu, a descendant of pepys's lord sandwich, had peculiarities, and her marriage with him more. she was a sort of pet at george the first's court; she went with her husband to constantinople as ambassadress; she introduced inoculation into england; she was, under imperfectly known circumstances, first the idol and then the abomination of pope; she lived for more than twenty years in france and italy, having left her husband without, apparently, any quarrel between them; and she only came home in to die next year. like her predecessor as queen of letter-writers, madame de sévigné (to whom she was amusingly and rather femininely unjust), she had a favourite daughter (who became lady bute[ ]); but, unlike her, she had a most objectionable son who was apparently half mad. there was, however, not the slightest madness about lady mary--in fact, most of the objectors (perhaps unjust ones) to her have held that her head was very much better than her heart. her most popular letters have usually been the turkish ones, and, at the other end of her life, her italian descriptions: but selections almost invariably pitch on the curious early one in which she, so to speak, "proposes" to her future husband rather more than, or at least as much as, she accepts his proposal. i prefer, both as less popularised and as more unique still, the following most business-like[ ] plan and programme of an elopement. like mr. foker's fight with the post-boy it "didn't come off" as first planned; but fortune favoured it later. . to mr. wortley-montagu saturday morning (august, ) i writ you a letter last night in some passion. i begin to fear again; i own myself a coward.--you made no reply to one part of my letter concerning my fortune. i am afraid you flatter yourself that my f. [father] may be at length reconciled and brought to reasonable terms. i am convinced, by what i have often heard him say, speaking of other cases like this, he never will. the fortune he has engaged to give with me, was settled on my b. [brother's] marriage, on my sister and on myself; but in such a manner, that it was left in his power to give it all to either of us, or divide it as he thought fit. he has given it all to me. nothing remains for my sister, but the free bounty of my f. [father] from what he can save; which, notwithstanding the greatness of his estate, may be very little. possibly after i have disobliged him so much, he may be glad to have her so easily provided for, with money already raised; especially if he has a design to marry himself, as i hear. i do not speak this that you should not endeavour to come to terms with him, if you please; but i am fully persuaded it will be to no purpose. he will have a very good answer to make:--that i suffered this match to proceed; that i made him make a very silly figure in it; that i have let him spend £ in wedding-cloaths; all which i saw without saying any thing. when i first pretended to oppose this match, he told me he was sure i had some other design in my head; i denied it with truth. but you see how little appearance there is of that truth. he proceeded with telling me that he never would enter into treaty with another man, &c., and that i should be sent immediately into the north to stay there; and, when he died, he would only leave me an annuity of £ . i had not courage to stand this view, and i submitted to what he pleased. he will now object against me,--why, since i intended to marry in this manner, i did not persist in my first resolution; that it would have been as easy for me to run away from t. [thoresby] as from hence; and to what purpose did i put him, and the gentleman i was to marry, to expences, &c.? he will have a thousand plausible reasons for being irreconcileable, and 'tis very probable the world will be of his side. reflect now for the last time in what manner you must take me. i shall come to you with only a night-gown and petticoat, and that is all you will get with me. i told a lady of my friends what i intend to do. you will think her a very good friend when i tell you she has proffered to lend us her house if we would come there the first night. i did not accept of this till i had let you know it. if you think it more convenient to carry me to your lodgings, make no scruple of it. let it be where it will: if i am your wife i shall think no place unfit for me where you are. i beg we may leave london next morning, wherever you intend to go. i should wish to go out of england if it suits with your affairs. you are the best judge of your father's temper. if you think it would be obliging to him, or necessary for you, i will go with you immediately to ask his pardon and his blessing. if that is not proper at first, i think the best scheme is going to the spa. when you come back, you may endeavour to make your father admit of seeing me, and treat with mine (though i persist in thinking it will be to no purpose). but i cannot think of living in the midst of my relations and acquaintance after so unjustifiable a step:--unjustifiable to the world,--but i think i can justify myself to myself. i again beg you to hire a coach to be at the door early monday morning, to carry us some part of our way, wherever you resolve our journey shall be. if you determine to go to that lady's house, you had better come with a coach and six at seven o'clock tomorrow. she and i will be in the balcony that looks on the road: you have nothing to do but to stop under it, and we will come down to you. do in this what you like best. after all, think very seriously. your letter, which will be waited for, is to determine everything. i forgive you a coarse expression in your last, which, however, i wish had not been there. you might have said something like it without expressing it in that manner; but there was so much complaisance in the rest of it i ought to be satisfied. you can shew me no goodness i shall not be sensible of. however, think again, and resolve never to think of me if you have the least doubt, or that it is likely to make you uneasy in your fortune. i believe to travel is the most likely way to make a solitude agreeable, and not tiresome: remember you have promised it. 'tis something odd for a woman that brings nothing to expect anything; but after the way of education, i dare not pretend to live but in some degree suitable to it. i had rather die than return to a dependancy upon relations i have disobliged. save me from that fear if you love me. if you cannot, or think i ought not to expect it, be sincere and tell me so. 'tis better i should not be yours at all, than, for a short happiness, involve myself in ages of misery. i hope there will never be occasion for this precaution; but, however, 'tis necessary to make it. i depend entirely on your honour, and i cannot suspect you of any way doing wrong. do not imagine i shall be angry at any thing you can tell me. let it be sincere; do not impose on a woman that leaves all things for you. footnotes: [ ] the likeness, however, ended with the favouritism: for madame de grignan, in spite of good looks and good wits, was apparently detested by everybody, except her mother, and deserved it: while nobody has anything to say against lady bute. [ ] it is, of course, not _merely_ business-like--the mixture of something else makes it rather fascinating. they were curiously fond of elopements in the eighteenth century, sheridan's satire in _the rivals_ having ample justification. nor was this merely due to the more severe exercise of paternal authority. for they often preferred (as the philosophical parent of the celebrated mrs. greville remarked when his daughter ran away with mr. g.) to "get out of the window when there was not the slightest objection to their passing through the door." philip dormer stanhope, earl of chesterfield ( - ) as was suggested in the introduction, where perhaps enough has been said of his actual letters, the fourth earl of chesterfield is too commonly known, or rather _mis_known, only by johnson's refusal of his patronage and condemnation of his manners and morals, by dickens's caricature, and by thackeray's not untrue but merely fragmentary sketch of him as a gambler. therefore, though these preliminary notes are not as a rule biographical, this may be one of the exceptions; for his life was anything but that of a mere idler and _grand seigneur_. he entered the house of commons before he was of age, and had much to do with political and literary as well as court society before, in , he succeeded to the peerage. a year or two afterwards he went as ambassador to the hague, a post which he held, doing some important business, for four years. on coming home he became a formidable opponent of walpole, and at one time led the opposition in the upper house. he was a most successful viceroy in ireland at the difficult period of the "' ," and a judicious "secretary for the north" after it. he conducted the reform of the calendar through parliament, and only gave up active participation in home politics because of his increasing deafness. in foreign affairs he was an adroit and successful diplomatist, and made an early and remarkably clear-sighted anticipation of the french revolution. it is not extravagant to say that, if he had had his fortune and position to make, he might have been one of the foremost men of his time in politics or letters or both; and that he was not far below such rank in either. the following letter is one of the most characteristic of those at which it has been the fashion to sneer. all one can say of it is, "what a blessing it would be if a good many people in the twentieth century, and in places varying from the streets to the house of commons, would obey at least some of its precepts!" . lord chesterfield to his son london. sept. , o.s., dear boy, if i had faith in philters and love potions, i should suspect that you had given sir charles williams some, by the manner in which he speaks of you, not only to me, but to everybody else. i will not repeat to you what he says of the extent and correctness of your knowledge, as it might either make you vain, or persuade you that you had already enough of what nobody can have too much. you will easily imagine how many questions i asked and how narrowly i sifted him upon your subject: he answered me, and i daresay with truth, just as i could have wished; till, satisfied entirely with his accounts of your character and learning, i inquired into other matters, intrinsically indeed of less consequence, but still of great consequence to every man, and of more to you than to almost any man; i mean, your address, manners and air. to these questions, the same truth which he had observed before, obliged him to give me much less satisfactory answers. and, as he thought himself in friendship both to you and me, obliged to tell me the disagreeable as well as the agreeable truths, upon the same principle i think myself obliged to repeat them to you. he told me, then, that in company you were frequently most _provokingly_ inattentive, absent, and _distrait_. that you came into a room, and presented yourself very awkwardly; that at table you constantly threw down knives, forks, napkins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your person and dress, to a degree unpardonable at any age, and much more so at yours. these things, however immaterial soever they may seem to people who do not know the world and the nature of mankind, give me, who know them to be exceedingly material, very great concern. i have long distrusted you, and therefore frequently admonished you upon these articles; and i tell you plainly, that i shall not be easy till i hear a very different account of them. i know of no one thing more offensive to a company, than that inattention and _distraction_. it is showing them the utmost contempt; and people never forgive contempt. no man is _distrait_ with the man he fears, or the woman he loves; which is a proof that every man can get the better of that _distraction_ when he thinks it worth his while to do so; and, take my word for it, it is always worth his while. for my own part, i would rather be in company with a dead man than with an absent one; for if the dead man gives me no pleasure, at least he shows me no contempt; whereas the absent man, silently indeed, but very plainly, tells me that he does not think me worth his attention. besides, can an absent man make any observations upon the characters, customs, and manners of the company? no. he may be in the best companies of his lifetime (if they will admit him, which, if i were they, i would not), and never be one jot the wiser. i never will converse with an absent man; one may as well talk with a deaf one. it is, in truth, a practical blunder, to address ourselves to a man, who we see plainly neither hears, minds, nor understands us. moreover, i aver that no man is, in any degree, fit for either business or conversation, who cannot, and does not, direct and command his attention to the present object, be that what it will. you know, by experience, that i grudge no expense in your education, but i will positively not keep you a flapper. you may read, in dr. swift, the description of these flappers, and the use they were of to your friends the laputans; whose minds (gulliver says) are so taken up with intense speculations, that they neither can speak, nor attend to the discourses of others, without being roused by some external taction upon the organs of speech and hearing; for which reason, those people who are able to afford it, always keep a flapper in their family, as one of their domestics, nor ever walk about, or make visits, without him. this flapper is likewise employed diligently to attend his master in his walks, and, upon occasion, to give a soft flap upon his eyes; because he is always so wrapt up in cogitation, that he is in manifest danger of falling down every precipice, and bouncing his head against every post, and, in the streets, of jostling others, or being jostled into the kennel himself. if _christian_ will undertake this province into the bargain, with all my heart; but i will not allow him any increase of wages upon that score. in short, i give you fair warning, that when we meet, if you are absent in mind, i will soon be absent in body; for it will be impossible for me to stay in the room; and if at table you throw down your knife, plate, bread, etc., and hack the wing of a chicken for half an hour, without being able to cut it off, and your sleeve all the time in another dish, i must rise from table to escape the fever you would certainly give me. good god! how i should be shocked if you came into my room, for the first time, with two left legs, presenting yourself with all the graces and dignity of a tailor, and your clothes hanging upon you like those in monmouth street, upon tenter-hooks! whereas i expect, nay require, to see you present yourself with the easy and gentle air of a man of fashion who has kept good company. i expect you not only well dressed, but very well dressed; i expect a gracefulness in all your motions, and something particularly engaging in your address. all this i expect, and all these it is in your power, by care and attention, to make me find; but, to tell you the plain truth, if i do not find it, we shall not converse very much together; for i cannot stand inattention and awkwardness; it would endanger my health. you have often seen, and i have as often made you observe, l[yttelton]'s distinguished inattention and awkwardness. wrapped up like a laputan in intense thought, and possibly sometimes in no thought at all--which, i believe, is very often the case with absent people--he does not know his most intimate acquaintance at sight, or answers them as if they were at cross purposes. he leaves his hat in one room, his sword in another, and would leave his shoes in a third, if his buckles, although awry, did not save them; his legs and arms, by his awkward management of them, seem to have undergone the _question extraordinaire_; and his head, always hanging upon one or other of his shoulders, seems to have received the first stroke upon a block. i sincerely value and esteem him for his parts, learning, and virtue; but, for the soul of me, i cannot love him in company. this will be universally the case, in common life, of every inattentive awkward man, let his real merit and knowledge be ever so great. when i was of your age, i desired to shine, as far as i was able, in every part of life; and was as attentive, to my manners, my dress, and my air, in company on evenings, as to my books, and my tutor in the mornings. a young fellow should be ambitious to shine in everything; and, of the two, rather overdo than underdo. these things are by no means trifles; they are of infinite consequence to those who are to be thrown into the great world, and who would make a figure or a fortune in it. it is not sufficient to deserve well, one must please well too. awkward, disagreeable merit, will never carry anybody far. wherever you find a good dancing master, pray let him put you upon your haunches; not so much for the sake of dancing, as for coming into a room and presenting yourself genteelly and gracefully. women, whom you ought to endeavour to please, cannot forgive a vulgar and awkward air and gestures; _il leur faut du brillant_. the generality of men are pretty like them, and are equally taken by the same exterior graces. i am very glad that you have received the diamond buckles safe: all i desire in return for them, is, that they may be buckled even upon your feet, and that your stockings may not hide them. i should be sorry you were an egregious fop; but i protest that, of the two, i would rather have you a fop than a sloven. i think negligence in my own dress, even at my age, when certainly i expect no advantages from my dress, would be indecent with regard to others. i have done with fine clothes; but i will have my plain clothes fit me, and made like other people's. in the evenings i recommend to you the company of women of fashion, who have a right to attention, and will be paid it. their company will smooth your manners, and give you a habit of attention and respect; of which you will find the advantage among men. my plan for you, from the beginning, has been to make you shine, equally in the learned and in the polite world; the former part is almost completed to my wishes, and will, i am persuaded, in a little time more, be quite so. the latter part is still in your power to complete; and i flatter myself that you will do it, or else the former part will avail you very little; especially in your deportment, where the exterior address and graces do half the business; they must be harbingers of your merit, or your merit will be very coldly received: all can, and do judge of the former, few of the latter. mr. harte tells me that you have grown very much since your illness: if you get up to five feet ten, or even nine inches, your figure will, probably, be a good one; and if well dressed and genteel, will probably please; which is a much greater advantage to a man than people commonly think. lord bacon calls it a letter of recommendation. i would wish you to be an _omnis homo_, _l'homme universel_. you are nearer it, if you please, than ever anybody was at your age; and if you will but, for the course of this next year only, exert your whole attention to your studies in the morning, and to your address, manners, air, and _tournure_ in the evenings, you will be the man i wish you, and the man that is rarely seen. our letters go, at best, so irregularly and so often miscarry totally, that, for greater security, i repeat the same things. so, though, i acknowledged by last post mr harte's letter of the th september, n.s., i acknowledge it again by this to you. if this should find you still at verona, let it inform you, that i wish you to set out soon for naples; unless mr. harte should think it better for you to stay at verona, or any other place on this side rome, till you go there for the jubilee. nay, if he likes it better, i am very willing that you should go directly from verona to rome; for you cannot have too much of rome, whether upon account of the language, the curiosities, or the company. my only reason for mentioning naples, is for the sake of the climate, upon account of your health; but, if mr. harte thinks your health is now so well restored as to be above climate, he may steer your course wherever he thinks proper; and, for aught i know, your going directly to rome, and consequently staying there so much the longer, may be as well as anything else. i think you and i cannot put our affairs into better hands than in mr. harte's; and i will take his infallibility against the pope's, with some odds on his side. _a propos_ of the pope; remember to be presented to him before you leave rome, and go through the necessary ceremonies for it, whether of kissing his slipper or...; for i would never deprive myself of anything i wanted to do or see, by refusing to comply with an established custom. when i was in catholic countries, i never declined kneeling in their churches at the elevation, nor elsewhere, when the host went by. it is a complaisance due to the custom of the place, and by no means, as some silly people have imagined, an implied approbation of their doctrine. bodily attitudes and situations are things so very indifferent in themselves, that i would quarrel with nobody about them. it may indeed be improper for mr. harte to pay that tribute of complaisance, upon account of his character. this letter is a very long, and possibly a very tedious one; but my interest for your perfection is so great, and particularly at this critical and decisive period of your life, that i am only afraid of omitting, but never of repeating, or dwelling too long upon anything that i think may be of the least use to you. have the same anxiety for yourself that i have for you, and all will do well. adieu, my dear child! george ballard ( - ) the extreme wickedness of reviewers has been a conviction with many authors--who have sometimes, it would seem, succumbed to it themselves and retaliated in reviewing others. the following letter to dr. lyttelton, dean of exeter, is a very early ( ) and not unamusing example of this conviction: and is given as such, though the writer has no wide fame. his history is, however, interesting and shows, among other things, how entirely erroneous is the idea that till recently (and even now to some extent) opportunities of showing themselves able to profit by education were and are denied to the "lower classes" in england. ballard was apprenticed to a staymaker ("habit-maker" as others say) at chipping-campden, but betook himself in his leisure hours to the study of anglo-saxon. hearing of which fact the gentlemen of the local hunt (the boozy squire-tyrants of popular tradition) subscribed for an annuity of £ a year to him, but he would only accept £ . with this he went up to oxford to enjoy the bodleian, was made a "clerk" at magdalen and later an esquire-bedell to the university. he did much good work of the antiquarian kind, and died a year or two after writing this letter, having (one hopes) relieved himself by his protest and been consoled by a kind answer from lyttelton.[ ] . to dr. lyttelton, dean of exeter a defence of the history of learned ladies revd. and hond. sir, my best acknowledgments are due for the favour of two epistles; the first of which i received a few minutes after my last set forward for exeter. i would have answered it immediately, but that i thought a little respite might be agreeable, before i gave you the trouble of another long letter. the day before i received your first epistle, a gent. of my acquaintance brought me the _monthly review_ for february, that i might see what the candid and genteel authors of that work had said of mine. they observe to the publick, that _i have said_ c. tishem was so skilled in the greek tongue, that she could read galen in its original, which very few physicians are able to do. whether this was done maliciously, in order to bring the wrath of the Æsculapians upon me, or inadvertently, i cannot say: but i may justly affirm, that they have used me very ill in that affair; since if they had read with attention, which they ought to have done before they attempted to give a character of the book, they must have known that the whole account of that lady (which is but one page) is not mine, but borrowed with due acknowledgment from the _general dictionary_. they are likewise pleased to inform the world that i have been rather too industrious in the undertaking, having introduced several women who hardly deserved a place in the work. i did not do this for want of materials; neither did i do it rashly, without advising with others of superior judgment in those affairs, of which number mr. professor ward was one. but those pragmatical censors seem to have but little acquaintance with those studies, or otherwise they might have observed that all our general biographers, as leland, bale, pits, wood, and tanner, have trod the very same steps; and have given an account of all the authors they could meet with, good and bad, just as they found them: and yet, i have never heard of anyone that had courage or ill-nature enough, to endeavour to expose them for it. while i was ruminating on these affairs, three or four letters came to my hands, and perceiving one of them come from my worthy friend the dean of exeter, i eagerly broke it open, and was perfectly astonished to find myself charged with _party zeal_ in my book; and that from thence the most candid reader might conclude the author to be both a church and state tory. but after having thoroughly considered all the passages objected to, and not finding the least tincture of either whig or tory principles contained in them, i began to cheer up my drooping spirits, in hopes that i might possibly out-live my supposed crime; but, alas! to my still greater confusion! when i opened my next letter from a tory acquaintance, i was like one thunderstruck at the contents of it. he discharges his passionate but ill-grounded resentment upon me most furiously. he tells me, he did not imagine magdalen college could have produced such a rank whig. he reproaches me with want of due esteem for the stuart family, to whom he says i have shewn a deadly hatred, and he gives me, as he imagines, three flagrant instances of it. . that i have unseasonably and maliciously printed a letter of queen elizabeth's, in order to blacken the memory of mary queen of scots, and that too, at a time when her character began to shine as bright as the sun. dly. that i have endeavoured to make her memory odious, by representing her as wanting natural affection to her only son, in my note at p. , where he says i have printed part of a will, &c. and dly, tho' she was cut off in such a barbarous and unprecedented manner, yet she has fallen unlamented by me. i am likewise charged with having an affection to puritanism; the reasons for which are, my giving the life of a puritan bishop's lady, which it seems need not have been done by me, had i not had a particular regard for her, since it had been done before by goodwin who reprinted her devotions. and not content with this, i have blemished my book with the memoirs of a dissenting teacher's wife, and have been kind enough to heighten even the character given her by her indulgent husband: and that i am very fond of quoting fox and burnet upon all occasions. these are thought strong indications of the above-mentioned charge. it may be thought entirely unnecessary to answer any of the objections from exeter, after having given you this summary of my kind friend's candid epistle; but to you, sir, to whom i could disclose the very secrets of my soul, i will endeavour to say a word or two upon this subject, and make you my confessor upon this occasion; and i will do it with as much sincerity, as if i lay on my death-bed. before i was fourteen years old, i read over fox's acts and monuments of the church, and several of the best books of polemical divinity, which strongly fortified me in the protestant religion; and gave me the greatest abhorrence to popery. and soon after i perused mercurius rusticus, the eleventh persecution, lloyd, walker's sufferings of the clergy, and many others, which gave me almost as bad an opinion of the dissenters. but then i learned in my childhood _to live in charity with all men_, and i have used my best endeavours to put this doctrine in practice all my life long. i never thought ill, or quarrelled with any man merely because he had been educated in principles different to mine; and yet i have been acquainted with many papists, dissenters, &c. and if i found any of them learned, ingenuous, and modest, i always found my heart well-disposed for contracting a firm friendship with them: and notwithstanding that, i dare believe that all those people will, with joint consent, vouch for me, that i have ever been steady in my own principles. i can truly affirm that never any one engaged in such a work, with an honester heart, or executed it with more unbiassed integrity, than i have done. and indeed, i take the unkind censures passed upon me by the furious uncharitable zealots of both parties, to be the strongest proof of it. and after all, i dare challenge any man, whether protestant, papist, or dissenter, whig or tory, (and i have drawn up and published memoirs of women who professed all those principles) to prove me guilty of partiality, or to shew that i have made any uncharitable reflections on any person, and whenever that is done, i will faithfully promise to make a public recantation. i wish, sir, you would point out to me any one unbecoming word or expression which has fell from me on bishop burnet. had i had the least inclination to have lessened his character, i did not want proper materials to have done it. i have in my possession two original letters from bishop gibson and mr norris of bemerton, to dr charlett, which, if published, would lessen your too great esteem for him. and what, i beseech you, sir, have i said in praise of mrs hopton and her pious and useful labours, which they do not well deserve, and which can possibly give any just offence to any good man? i dare not censure or condemn a good thing merely because it borders upon the church of rome. i rather rejoice that she retains any thing i can fairly approve. should i attempt to do this, might i not condemn the greater part of our liturgy, &c.? and should i not stand self-condemned for so doing? i cannot for my life perceive that i have said any thing of that excellent woman, which she does not merit; and i must beg leave to say that i think her letter to f. turbeville deserves to be wrote in letters of gold, and ought to be carefully read and preserved by all protestants. mary queen of scots fell under my notice, no otherwise than as a learned woman. the affairs you mention would by no means suit my peaceable temper. i was too well acquainted with the warm disputes, and fierce engagement both of domestic and foreign writers on that head, once to touch upon the subject. and indeed, unless i had been the happy discoverer of some secret springs of action which would have given new information to the public, it would have been excessive folly in me to intermeddle in an affair of so tender a nature, and of so great importance. i have often blamed my dear friend mr. brome for destroying his valuable collections, but i now cease to wonder at it. he spent his leisure hours pleasantly and inoffensively, and when old age came on, which not only abates thirst, but oftentimes gives a disrelish to these and almost all other things, which do not help to make our passage into eternity more easy, he then destroyed them (i dare believe) in order to prevent the malicious reflections of an ill-natured world. i have always been a passionate lover of history and antiquity, biography, and northern literature: and as i have ever hated idleness, so i have in my time filled many hundred sheets with my useless scribble, the greater part of which i will commit to the flames shortly, to prevent their giving me any uneasiness in my last moments.[ ] [may , .] footnotes: [ ] ballard's _memoirs of learned ladies of great britain who have been celebrated for their writings or skill in the learned languages arts & sciences_, appeared at oxford in to ( ) and vo ( ). it contains some sixty lives, the most noteworthy names being those of queens elizabeth and mary of scotland, lady jane grey, margaret countess of richmond (_the_ "lady margaret"), the duchess of newcastle, lady winchelsea, the two countesses of pembroke ("sidney's sister" and anne clifford), dame juliana barnes or berners, dryden's anne killigrew, dorothy pakington (the alleged author of _the whole duty of man_), and "the matchless orinda." [ ] perhaps a note should be added on "mrs. hopton" and "f. turbe(r)ville." the former, born susanna harvey ( - ), was the wife of a welsh judge, and wrote devotional works. the latter, henry t. (d. : the "f" of text is of course "father"), was a writer of doctrinal and controversial manuals on the roman side. thomas gray ( - ) the chief thing to add to what has been said of gray in the introduction is something that may draw attention to a curious feature of his letters, not there distinctly noticed. letters, it must be sufficiently seen even from this little book, have a curious _variety_ of relation to the characters, personal and literary, of their writers. sometimes they show us phases entirely or almost entirely concealed in the published works; sometimes again, without definitely revealing new aspects, they complete and enforce the old; while, in yet a third, though perhaps the smallest, class of instances, they are as it were results of the same governing formula as that of the published works themselves, the difference lying almost wholly in the subjects and in the methods and circumstances of treatment. gray belongs to this last division. there is not, of course, in his letters the same severity of discipline and restriction of utterance, that we find in his poems. but that, in letters, was impossible--at least in letters that should supply tolerable reading. yet the same general principle, which was somewhat exaggerated in the phrase about his "never speaking out," appears in them. there is always a certain restraint (at least in all that have been published) and it would probably have extended in proportion to others, however little their subject might seem compatible with it. in what we have it gives a curious _seasoning_--something which preserves as well as flavours like salt or vinegar. of those which follow the first is an early one. mason's apologetic note is to the effect that it "may appear whimsical" but it gives him an opportunity of remarking that mr. gray was "extremely skilled in the customs of the ancient romans," both utterances being characteristic, to some extent of the time but to a greater of the writer. the second letter, to gray's most intimate friend dr. wharton, and more than a quarter of a century later, is a good example of the _variety_ of these epistles--scenery, literature, politics, science, gossip and what not, being all dealt with. . to richard west [extract] rome, may, . i am to-day just returned from alba, a good deal fatigued; for you know the appian is somewhat tiresome. we dined at pompey's; he indeed was gone for a few days to his tusculan, but, by the care of his villicus, we made an admirable meal. we had the dugs of a pregnant sow, a peacock, a dish of thrushes, a noble scarus just fresh from the tyrrhene, and some conchylia of the lake with garum sauce: for my part i never eat better at lucullus's table. we drank half-a-dozen cyathi a-piece of ancient alban to pholoë's health; and after bathing, and playing an hour at ball, we mounted our essedum again, and proceeded up the mount to the temple. the priests there entertained us with an account of a wonderful shower of bird's eggs that had fallen two days before, which had no sooner touched the ground, but they were converted into gudgeons; as also that, the night past, a dreadful voice had been heard out of the adytum, which spoke greek during a full half-hour, but nobody understood it. but quitting my romanities, to your great joy and mine, let me tell you in plain english, that we come from albano. the present town lies within the inclosure of pompey's villa in ruins. the appian way runs through it, by the side of which, a little farther, is a large old tomb, with five pyramids upon it, which the learned suppose to be the burying-place of the family, because they do not know whose it can be else. but the vulgar assure you it is the sepulchre of the curiatii, and by that name (such is their power) it goes. one drives to castle gandolfo, a house of the pope's, situated on the top of one of the collinette, that forms a brim to the basin, commonly called the alban lake. it is seven miles round; and directly opposite to you, on the other side, rises the mons albanus, much taller than the rest, along whose side are still discoverable (not to common eyes) certain little ruins of the old alba longa. they had need be very little, as having been nothing but ruins ever since the days of tullus hostilius. on its top is a house of the constable colonna's, where stood the temple of jupiter latialis. at the foot of the hill gandolfo, are the famous outlets of the lake, built with hewn stone, a mile and a half under ground. livy you know, amply informs us of the foolish occasion of this expence, and gives me this opportunity of displaying all my erudition, that i may appear considerable in your eyes. this is the prospect from one window of the palace. from another you have the whole campagna, the city, antium, and the tyrrhene sea (twelve miles distant) so distinguishable, that you may see the vessels sailing upon it. all this is charming. mr. walpole says, our memory sees more than our eyes in this country. which is extremely true; since, for realities, windsor or richmond hill is infinitely preferable to albano or frescati. i am now at home, and going to the window to tell you it is the most beautiful of italian nights, which, in truth, are but just begun (so backward has the spring been here, and every where else, they say) there is a moon! there are stars for you! do not you hear the fountain? do not you smell the orange flowers? that building yonder is the convent of s. isidore; and that eminence, with the cypress trees and pines upon it, the top of m. quirinal. this is all true, and yet my prospect is not two hundred yards in length. . to wharton dear doctor whatever my pen may do, i am sure my thoughts expatiate nowhere oftener or with more pleasure, than to old-park. i hope you have made my peace with miss deborah. it is certain, whether her name were in my letter or not, she was as present to my memory, as the rest of the little family, & i desire you would present her with two kisses in my name, & one a-piece to all the others: for i shall take the liberty to kiss them all (great & small) as you are to be my proxy. in spite of the rain, w^ch i think continued with very short intervals till the beginning of this month, & quite effaced the summer from the year, i made a shift to pass may & june not disagreeably in kent. i was surprised at the beauty of the road to canterbury, which (i know not why) had not struck me in the same manner before. the whole country is a rich and well-cultivated garden, orchards, cherry-grounds, hop-gardens, intermix'd with corn & frequent villages, gentle risings cover'd with wood, and everywhere the thames and medway breaking in upon the landscape with all their navigation. it was indeed owing to the bad weather, that the whole scene was dress'd in that tender emerald-green, w^ch one usually sees only for a fortnight in the opening of spring, & this continued till i left the country. my residence was eight miles east of canterbury in a little quiet valley on the skirts of barhamdown. in these parts the whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is dry enough to walk out. i took the opportunity of three or four days fine weather to go into the isle of thanet, saw margate (w^ch is bartholomew-fair by the sea side), ramsgate, & other places there, and so came by sandwich, deal, dover, folkstone, & hithe, back again. the coast is not like hartlepool: there are no rocks, but only chalky cliffs of no great height, till you come to dover. there indeed they are noble & picturesque, and the opposite coasts of france begin to bound your view, w^ch was left before to range unlimited by anything but the horizon: yet it is by no means a _shipless_ sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails & vessels of all sizes in motion. and take notice (except in the isle, w^ch is all corn-fields, and has very little inclosure) there are in all places hedgerows & tall trees even within a few yards of the beach. particularly hithe stands on an eminence cover'd with wood. i shall confess we had fires of a night (ay, & a day too) several times even in june: but don't go & take advantage of this, for it was the most untoward year that ever i remember. your friend rousseau (i doubt) grows tired of m^r davenport and derbyshire. he has picked a quarrel with david hume & writes him letters of pages folio upbraiding him of all his _noirceurs_. take one only as a specimen, he says, that at calais they chanced to sleep in the same room together, & that he overheard david talking in his sleep, and saying, _ah! je le tiens, ce jean-jacques là._ in short (i fear) for want of persecution & admiration (for these are real complaints) he will go back to the continent. what shall i say to you about the ministry? i am as angry as a common-council man of london about my l^d chatham: but a little more patient, & will hold my tongue till the end of the year. in the mean time i do mutter in secret & to you, that to quit the house of commons, his natural strength; to sap his own popularity & grandeur (which no one but himself could have done) by assuming a foolish title; & to hope that he could win by it and attach to him a court, that hate him, & will dismiss him, as soon as ever they dare, was the weakest thing, that ever was done by so great a man. had it not been for this, i should have rejoiced at the breach between him & l^d temple, & at the union between him & the d: of grafton & m^r conway: but patience! we shall see! st:[ ] perhaps is in the country (for he hoped for a month's leave of absence) and if you see him, you will learn more than i can tell you. mason is at aston. he is no longer so anxious about his wife's health, as he was, tho' i find she still has a cough, & moreover i find she is not with child: but he made such a bragging, how could one choose but believe him. when i was in town, i mark'd in my pocket-book the utmost limits & divisions of the two columns in your thermometer, and asked mr. ayscough the instrument-maker on ludgate hill, what scales they were. he immediately assured me, that one was fahrenheit's, & shew'd me one exactly so divided. the other he took for reaumur's, but, as he said there were different scales of his contrivance, he could not exactly tell, w^ch of them it was. your brother told me, you wanted to know, who wrote duke wharton's life in the biography: i think, it is chiefly borrowed from a silly book enough call'd _memoirs of that duke_: but who put it together there, no one can inform me. the only person certainly known to write in that vile collection (i mean these latter volumes) is d^r nicholls, who was expell'd here for stealing books. have you read the _new bath-guide_?[ ] it is the only thing in fashion, & is a new & original kind of humour. miss prue's conversion i doubt you will paste down, as s^r w: s^t quintyn did, before he carried it to his daughter. yet i remember you all read _crazy tales_[ ] without pasting. buffon's first collection of monkeys are come out (it makes the ^th volume) something, but not much, to my edification: for he is pretty well acquainted with their persons, but not with their manners. i shall be glad to hear, how far m^rs ettrick has succeeded, & when you see an end to her troubles. my best respects to mrs. wharton, & compliments to all your family: i will not name them, least i should affront any body. adieu, dear s^r, i am most sincerely yours, tg: august , , pembroke college. mr. brown is gone to see his brother near margate. when is l^d str:[ ] to be married? if m^r and m^rs jonathan are with you, i desire my compliments. footnotes: [ ] "st." is richard stonhewer, a fellow of peterhouse, secretary to the duke of grafton, and a man of considerable, though not public, importance in politics. [ ] anstey's--referred to in the introduction. [ ] by sterne's friend, john hall stevenson. [ ] lord strathmore. horace walpole ( - ) [and w. m. thackeray]. as much has been already said of horace walpole's letters, but practically nothing of his other works except his novel and his play, something more may be added here to show that he was not _merely_ a "trifler." his private press at "strawberry" was mainly a means of amusement to him, like a billiard-room or a tennis-court. but it provided some useful books--such as editions of anthony hamilton's _memoirs of grammont_, of lord herbert of cherbury's _life_ and of part of gray's _poems_. he had neither historic knowledge nor historic sense enough to deal satisfactorily with such a subject as _historic doubts on richard iii._, though the subject itself was quite worth dealing with. but his _catalogue of royal and noble authors_, his _anecdotes of painting in england_, and his _catalogue of engravers_ are not without value; and he could usefully handle the history of his own time, with proper corrections for his prejudices, etc. he was weakest of all as a literary critic: and his dealings with chatterton were most unfortunate, though the mischief done was not intentional, and might not have been serious in any other case. these things have been said with a definite purpose--that of showing that horace's interests, if seldom deep, were unusually wide. now though width of interest is not, as cowper's case shows, indispensable to goodness of letter-writing, it is a very great qualification for it, as giving to the result variety, colour, and "bite." at the same time, unless one had space on a very different scale from any possible here, it would be _im_possible to illustrate this "extensive curiosity" as they called it then: and horace ought to be shown here in his _most_ native element as a chronicler of "society." i have thought it worth while to subjoin for comparison thackeray's wonderful _pastiche_ in _the virginians_, which is almost better horace than horace himself.[ ] . to the countess of ossory arlington street, april . it is most true, madam, that i did purpose to regale myself with a visit to ampthill; but this winter, which has trod hard upon last week's summer, blunted my intention for a while, though revivable in finer weather. oh! but i had another reason for changing my mind; you are leaving ampthill, and i do not mean only to write my name in your park-keeper's book. yes, in spite of your ladyship's low spirited mood, you are coming from ampthill, and you are to be at strawberry hill to-morrow se'nnight. you may not be in the secret, but lord ossory and i have settled it, and you are to be pawned to me while he is at newmarket. he told me you certainly would if i asked it, and as they used to say in ancient writ, i do beg it upon the knees of my heart. nay, it is unavoidable; for though a lady's word may be ever so crackable, you cannot have the conscience to break your husband's word, so i depend upon it. i have asked mr. craufurd to meet you, but begged he would refuse me, that i might be sure of his coming. mrs meynel has taken another year's lease of her house, so you probably, madam, will not be tired of me for the livelong day for the whole time you shall honour my mansion. your face will be well and your fever gone a week before to-morrow se'nnight, and you will look as well as ever you did in your life, that is, as you have done lately, which is better than ever you did before. you must not, in truth, expect that i your shepherd should be quite so fit to figure in a fan mount. besides the gout for six months, which makes some flaws in the bloom of elderly arcadians, i have been so far from keeping sheep for the last ten days, that i have kept nothing but bad hours; and have been such a rake that i put myself in mind of a poor old cripple that i saw formerly at hogarth's auction: he bid for the rake's progress, saying, "i will buy my own progress," though he looked as if he had no more title to it than i have, but by limping and sitting up. in short, i have been at four balls since yesterday se'nnight, though i had the prudence not to stay supper at lord stanley's. that festival was very expensive, for it is the fashion now to make romances rather than balls. in the hall was a band of french horns and clarionets in laced uniforms and feathers. the dome of the staircase was beautifully illuminated with coloured glass lanthorns; in the ante-room was a bevy of vestals in white habits, making tea; in the next, a drapery of sarcenet, that with a very funereal air crossed the chimney, and depended in vast festoons over the sconces. the third chamber's doors were heightened with candles in gilt vases, and the ballroom was formed into an oval with benches above each other, not unlike pews, and covered with red serge, above which were arbours of flowers, red and green pilasters, more sarcenet, and lord march's glasses, which he had lent, as an upholsterer asked lord stanley l. for the loan of some. he had burst open the side of the wall to build an orchestra, with a pendant mirror to reflect the dancers, à la guisnes; and the musicians were in scarlet robes, like the candle-snuffers who represent the senates of venice at drury lane. there were two more chambers at which i never arrived for the crowd. the seasons, danced by himself, the younger storer, the duc de lauzun and another, the youngest miss stanley, miss poole, the youngest wrottesley and another miss, who is likewise anonymous in my memory, were in errant shepherdly dresses without invention, and storer and miss wrottesley in banians with furs, for winter, cock and hen. in six rooms below were magnificent suppers. i was not quite so sober last night at mons. de guisnes', where the evening began with a ball of children, from eighteen to four years old. they danced amazingly well, yet disappointed me, so many of them were ugly; but dr. delawarr's two eldest daughters and the ancaster infanta performed a pas de trois as well as mlle. heinel, and the two eldest were pretty; yet i promise you, madam, the next age will be a thousand degrees below the present in beauty. the most interesting part was to observe the anxiety of the mothers while their children danced or supped; they supped at ten in three rooms. i should not omit telling you that the vernons, especially the eldest, were not the homeliest part of the show. the former quadrilles then came again upon the stage, and harry conway the younger was so astonished at the agility of mrs. hobart's bulk, that he said he was sure she must be hollow. the tables were again spread in five rooms, and at past two in the morning we went to supper. to excuse _we_, i must plead that both the late and present chancellor, and the solemn lord lyttleton, my predecessors by some years, stayed as late as i did--and in good sooth the watchman went four as my chairman knocked at my door. such is the result of good resolutions! i determined during my illness to have my colt's tooth drawn, and lo! i have cut four new in a week. well! at least i am as grave as a judge, looked as rosy as lord lyttleton, and much soberer than my lord chancellor. to shew some marks of grace, i shall give up the opera, (indeed it is very bad) and go and retake my doctor's degrees among the dowagers at lady blandford's; and intending to have no more diversions than i have news to tell your ladyship, i think you shall not hear from me again till we meet, as i shall think it, in heaven. . (_thackeray imitating_). to the hon. h. s. conway arlington street, friday night. i have come away, child, for a day or two from my devotions to our lady of strawberry. have i not been on my knees to her these three weeks, and aren't the poor old joints full of rheumatism? a fit took me that i would pay london a visit, that i would go to vauxhall and ranelagh. _quoi!_ may i not have my rattle as well as other elderly babies? suppose, after being so long virtuous, i take a fancy to cakes and ale, shall your reverence say nay to me? george selwyn and tony storer and your humble servant took boat at westminster t'other night. was it tuesday?--no, tuesday i was with their graces of norfolk, who are just from tunbridge--it was wednesday. how should i know? wasn't i dead drunk with a whole pint of lemonade i took at white's? the norfolk folk had been entertaining me on tuesday with the account of a young savage iroquois, choctaw, or virginian, who has lately been making a little noise in our quarter of the globe. he is an offshoot of that disreputable family of esmond-castlewood, of whom all the men are gamblers and spendthrifts, and all the women--well, i shan't say the word, lest lady ailesbury should be looking over your shoulder. both the late lords, my father told me, were in his pay, and the last one, a beau of queen anne's reign, from a viscount advanced to be an earl through the merits and intercession of his notorious old sister bernstein, late tusher, _nee_ esmond--a great beauty, too, of her day, a favourite of the old pretender. she sold his secrets to my papa, who paid her for them; and being nowise particular in her love for the stuarts, came over to the august hanoverian house at present reigning over us. "will horace walpole's tongue never stop scandal?" says your wife over your shoulder. i kiss your ladyship's hand. i am dumb. the bernstein is a model of virtue. she had no good reasons for marrying her father's chaplain. many of the nobility omit the marriage altogether. she _wasn't_ ashamed of being mrs. tusher, and didn't take a german _baroncino_ for a second husband, whom nobody out of hanover ever saw. the yarmouth bears no malice. esther and vashti are very good friends, and have been cheating each other at tunbridge at cards all the summer. "and what has all this to do with the iroquois?" says your ladyship. the iroquois has been at tunbridge, too--not cheating, perhaps, but winning vastly. they say he has bled lord march of thousands--lord march, by whom so much blood hath been shed, that he has quarrelled with everybody, fought with everybody, rode over everybody, been fallen in love with by everybody's wife except mr. conway's, and _not_ excepting her present majesty, the countess of england, scotland, france and ireland, queen of walmoden and yarmouth, whom heaven preserve to us. you know an offensive little creature _de par le monde_, one jack morris, who skips in and out of all the houses of london. when we were at vauxhall, mr. jack gave us a nod under the shoulder of a pretty young fellow enough, on whose arm he was leaning, and who appeared hugely delighted with the enchantments of the garden. lord, how he stared at the fireworks! gods, how he huzzayed at the singing of a horrible painted wench who shrieked the ears off my head! a twopenny string of glass beads and a strip of tawdry cloth are treasures in iroquois-land, and our savage valued them accordingly. a buzz went about the place that this was the fortunate youth. he won three hundred at white's last night very genteelly from rockingham and my precious nephew, and here he was bellowing and huzzaying over the music so as to do you good to hear. i do not love a puppet-show, but i love to treat children to one, miss conway! i present your ladyship my compliments, and hope we shall go and see the dolls together. when the singing-woman came down from her throne, jack morris must introduce my virginian to her. i saw him blush up to the eyes, and make her, upon my word, a very fine bow, such as i had no idea was practised in wigwams. "there is a certain _jenny squaw_ about her, and that's why the savage likes her," george said--a joke certainly not as brilliant as a firework. after which it seemed to me that the savage and the savagess retired together. having had a great deal too much to eat and drink three hours before, my partners must have chicken and rack-punch at vauxhall, where george fell asleep straightway, and for my sins i must tell tony storer what i knew about this virginian's amiable family, especially some of the bernstein's antecedents and the history of another elderly beauty of the family, a certain lady maria, who was _au mieux_ with the late prince of wales. what did i say? i protest not half of what i knew, and of course not a tenth part of what i was going to tell, for who should start out upon us but my savage, this time quite red in the face; and in his _war paint_. the wretch had been drinking fire-water in the next box! he cocked his hat, clapped his hand to his sword, asked which of the gentlemen was it that was maligning his family? so that i was obliged to entreat him not to make such a noise, lest he should wake my friend mr. george selwyn. and i added, "i assure you, sir, i had no idea that you were near me, and i most sincerely apologize for giving you pain." the huron took his hand off his tomahawk at this pacific rejoinder, made a bow not ungraciously, said he could not, of course, ask more than an apology from a gentleman of my age (_merci, monsieur!_) and, hearing the name of mr. selwyn, made another bow to george, and said he had a letter to him from lord march, which he had had the ill-fortune to mislay. george has put him up for the club, it appears, in conjunction with march, and no doubt these three lambs will fleece each other. meanwhile, my pacified savage sat down with us, and _buried the hatchet_ in another bowl of punch, for which these gentlemen must call. heaven help us! 'tis eleven o'clock, and here comes bedson with my gruel! h. w. footnotes: [ ] there is an amicable dispute among thackerayans whether this or the imitation-_spectator_ paper in _esmond_ is the more wonderful of their joint kind. to facilitate this comparison the letter part (for there is one) of that paper will be given here under thackeray's own name. tobias george smollett ( - ) smollett's reputation has been of course always mainly, indeed almost wholly, that of a novelist, though his miscellaneous work is of no small merit. but that he wrote his best novel _in_ letters and that perhaps it is one of the best so written, has been mentioned. his _travels_ are also of the letter-kind--especially of the ill-tempered-letter-kind. of his actual correspondence we have not much. but the following has always seemed to the present writer an admirable and agreeably characteristic example. smollett's outwardly surly but inwardly kindly temper, and his command of phrase ("great cham of literature" has, as we say now, "stuck") both appear in it: and the matter is interesting. we have, so far as i remember, no record of any interview between johnson and smollett, though they must have met. they were both tories, and johnson wrote in the _critical review_ which smollett edited. but johnson's gibes at scotland are not likely to have conciliated smollett: and there was just that combination of likeness and difference between the two men which (especially as the one was as typically english as the other was scotch) generates incompatibility. how victoriously wilkes got over johnson's personal dislike to him all readers of boswell know: and it is one of the most amusing passages in the book. on this occasion, too, he did what was asked of him. "frank" had not been _pressed_, but had joined for some reason of his own. however, he accepted his discharge and returned to his master, staying till that master's death. . to john wilkes, esq. chelsea, th march, . dear sir i am again your petitioner, in behalf of that great cham of literature, samuel johnson. his black servant, whose name is francis barber, has been pressed on board the stag frigate, captain angel, and our lexicographer is in great distress. he says the boy is a sickly lad, of a delicate frame, and particularly subject to a malady in his throat, which renders him very unfit for his majesty's service. you know what matter of animosity the said johnson has against you: and i dare say you desire no other opportunity of resenting it, than that of laying him under an obligation. he was humble enough to desire my assistance on this occasion, though he and i were never cater-cousins; and i gave him to understand that i would make application to my friend mr. wilkes, who, perhaps, by his interest with dr. hay and mr. elliot, might be able to procure the discharge of his lacquey. it would be superfluous to say more on this subject, which i leave to your own consideration; but i cannot let slip this opportunity of declaring that i am, with the most inviolable esteem and attachment, dear sir, your affectionate, obliged, humble servant, t. smollett. william cowper ( - ) it was necessary to say a good deal about cowper's letters in the introduction, but it would hardly do to stint him of some further comment. it will be a most unfortunate evidence of degradation in english literary taste if he ever loses the position there assigned to him, and practically acknowledged by all the best judges for the last century. for there is certainly no other epistoler who has displayed such consummate (if also such unconscious) art in making the most out of the least. of course people who must have noise, and bustle, and "importance" of matter, and so forth, may be dissatisfied. but their dissatisfaction convicts not cowper but themselves: and the conviction is not for want of art, but for want of appreciation of art. now this last is one of the most terrible faults to be found in any human creature. not everybody can be an artist: but everybody who is not deficient to this or that extent in sense--to use that word in its widest and best interpretation, for understanding and feeling both--can enjoy an artist's work. nor is there any more important function of the often misused word "education" than "bringing out" this sense when it is dormant, and training and developing it when it is brought out. and few things are more useful for exercise in this way than the under-current of artistry in cowper's "chit-chat." his letters are so familiar that it is vain to aim at any great originality in selecting them. the following strikes me as an excellent example. what more trite than references to increased expense of postage (rather notably topical just now though!) and remarks on a greenhouse? and what less trite--except to tritical tastes and intellects--than this letter? . to the rev. john newton sept. . . my dear friend, following your good example, i lay before me a sheet of my largest paper. it was this moment fair and unblemished but i have begun to blot it, and having begun, am not likely to cease till i have spoiled it. i have sent you many a sheet that in my judgment of it has been very unworthy of your acceptance, but my conscience was in some measure satisfied by reflecting, that if it were good for nothing, at the same time it cost you nothing, except the trouble of reading it. but the case is altered now. you must pay a solid price for frothy matter, and though i do not absolutely pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, as the saying is, are never the wiser; a saying literally fulfilled to the reader of my epistles. my greenhouse is never so pleasant as when we are just upon the point of being turned out of it. the gentleness of the autumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter season, make it a much more agreeable retreat than we ever find it in summer; when, the winds being generally brisk, we cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quantity of air, without being at the same time incommoded by it. but now i sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every flower in a garden as full of flowers as i have known how to make it. we keep no bees, but if i lived in a hive i should hardly hear more of their music. all the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite to the window, and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear as the whistling of my linnets. all the sounds that nature utters are delightful,--at least in this country. i should not perhaps find the roaring of lions in africa, or of bears in russia, very pleasing; but i know no beast in england whose voice i do not account musical, save and except always the braying of an ass. the notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. i should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage, that i might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody, but a goose upon a common, or in a farmyard, is no bad performer; and as to insects, if the black beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will keep out of my way, i have no objection to any of the rest; on the contrary, in whatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to the bass of the humble bee, i admire them all. seriously however it strikes me as a very observable instance of providential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear, and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. all the world is sensible of the uncomfortable effect that certain sounds have upon the nerves, and consequently upon the spirits:--and if a sinful world had been filled with such as would have curdled the blood, and have made the sense of hearing a perpetual inconvenience, i do not know that we should have had a right to complain. but now the fields, the woods, the gardens have each their concert, and the ear of man is for ever regaled by creatures who seem only to please themselves. even the ears that are deaf to the gospel, are continually entertained, though without knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely indebted to its author. there is somewhere in infinite space a world that does not roll within the precincts of mercy, and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, to suppose that there is music in heaven, in those dismal regions perhaps the reverse of it is found; tones so dismal, as to make woe itself more insupportable, and to acuminate[ ] even despair. but my paper admonishes me in good time to draw the reins, and to check the descent of my fancy into deeps, with which she is but too familiar. our best love attends you both, with yours, _sum ut semper, tui studiossimus_, w. c. footnotes: [ ] "acuminate" = "sharpen," is a perfectly good word in itself, but perhaps does not so perfectly suit "despair," which crushes rather than pierces. sydney smith ( - ) it has been said of sydney smith that he was not only a humourist, but a "good-humourist," and this is undoubtedly true. politics, indeed, according to their usual custom, sometimes rather acidulated his good humour; but anybody possessed of the noun, with the least allowance of the adjective, should be propitiated by the way in which the almost radical reformer of _peter plymley's letters_ in became the almost tory and wholly conservative maintainer of ecclesiastical rights in those to archdeacon singleton thirty years later. both, however, were "letters" of the sophisticated kind: but we have plenty of perfectly genuine correspondence, also agreeable and sometimes extremely amusing. whether sydney (his friends always abbreviated him thus, and he accepted the christian name) describes the makeshifts of his yorkshire parish or the luxuries of his somerset one; whether he discusses the effect of a diet of geraniums on pigs or points out that as lord tankerville has given him a whole buck "this takes up a great deal of my time"--he is always refreshing. he has no great depth, but we do not go to him for that: and he is not shallow in the offensive sense of the word. his gaiety does not get on one's nerves as does that of some--perhaps most--professional jokers: neither, as is too frequently the case with them, does it bore. his letters are not the easiest to select from: for they are usually short and their excellence lies rather in still shorter _flashes_ such as those glanced at above; as the grave proposition that "the information of very plain women is so inconsiderable that i agree with you in setting no store by it;" or as this other (resembling a short newspaper paragraph) "the commissioner will have hard work with the scotch atheists: they are said to be numerous this season and in great force, from the irregular supply of rain." but the following specimens are fairly representative. they were written at an interval of about ten years: the first from foston, the second from combe florey. "miss berry," the elder of the famous sisters who began by fascinating horace walpole and ended by charming thackeray: "donna agnes" was the younger. "lady rachel," the famous wife of the person who suffered for the rye house plot (lady rachel wriothesley, of rachel lady russell, but miss berry had written a _life_ of her under her maiden name). sydney's politics show in his allusion to the assassination of the duc de berri, son of charles x. of france (who had, however, not then come to the throne); in his infinitely greater sorrow for the dismissal of the mildly liberal minister decazes; and in his spleen at the supporters of the english tory government of lord liverpool. (the "little plot" was thistlewood's). in the second letter the "hotel" is his new parsonage in somerset: "bowood," lord lansdowne's wiltshire house, a great whig rallying place. i suppose "sea-shore calcott" is sir a. w. calcott the painter. "luttrell" (henry), a talker and versifier very well known in his own day, but of less enduring reputation than some others. "napier's book," the brilliant if somewhat partisan _history of the peninsular war_. i am not quite certain in which of two senses sydney uses the word _caractère_. as ought to be well known this does not exactly correspond to our "character"--but most commonly means "temper" or "disposition." it has, however, a peculiar technical meaning of "official description" or "estimate" which would suit sir william napier well. the napiers were "kittle cattle" from the official point of view. . to miss berry foston, feb th, . i thank you very much for the entertainment i have received from your book. i should however have been afraid to marry such a woman as lady rachel; it would have been too awful. there are pieces of china very fine and beautiful, but never intended for daily use.... i have hardly slept out of foston since i saw you. god send i may be still an animal, and not a vegetable! but i am a little uneasy at this season for sprouting and rural increase, for i fear i should have undergone the metamorphose so common in country livings. i shall go to town about the end of march; it will be completely empty, and the drugs that remain will be entirely occupied about hustings and returning-officers. commerce and manufacturers are still in a frightful state of stagnation. no foreign barks in british ports are seen, stuff'd to the water's edge with velveteen, or bursting with big bales of bombazine; no distant climes demand our corduroy, unmatch'd habiliment for man and boy; no fleets of fustian quit the british shore, the cloth-creating engines cease to roar, still is that loom which breech'd the world before. i am very sorry for the little fat duke de berri, but infinitely more so for the dismissal of de cases,--a fatal measure. i must not die without seeing paris. figure to yourself what a horrid death,--to die without seeing paris! i think i could make something of this in a tragedy, so as to draw tears from donna agnes and yourself. where are you going to? when do you return? why do you go at all? is paris more agreeable than london? we have had a little plot here in a hay-loft. god forbid anybody should be murdered! but, if i were to turn assassin, it should not be of five or six ministers, who are placed where they are by the folly of the country gentlemen, but of the hundred thousand squires, to whose stupidity and folly such an administration owes its existence. ever your friend, sydney smith. . to n. fazakerly, esq. combe florey, october, . dear fazakerly, i don't know anybody who would be less affronted at being called hare-brained than our friend who has so tardily conveyed my message, and i am afraid now he has only given you a part of it. the omission appears to be, that i had set up an hotel on the western road, that it would be opened next spring, and i hoped for the favour of yours and mrs. fazakerly's patronage. "well-aired beds, neat wines, careful drivers, etc. etc." i shall have very great pleasure in coming to see you, and i quite agree in the wisdom of postponing that event till the rural palladios and vitruvii are chased away; i have fourteen of them here every day. the country is perfectly beautiful, and my parsonage the prettiest place in it. i was at bowood last week: the only persons there were seashore calcott and his wife,--two very sensible, agreeable people. luttrell came over for the day; he was very agreeable, but spoke too lightly, i thought, of veal soup. i took him aside, and reasoned the matter with him, but in vain; to speak the truth, luttrell is not steady in his judgments on dishes. individual failures with him soon degenerate into generic objections, till, by some fortunate accident, he eats himself into better opinions. a person of more calm reflection thinks not only of what he is consuming at the moment, but of the soups of the same kind he has met with in a long course of dining, and which have gradually and justly elevated the species. i am perhaps making too much of this; but the failures of a man of sense are always painful. i quite agree about napier's book. i do[ ] not think that any[ ] man would venture to write so true, bold, and honest a book; it gave me a high idea of his understanding, and makes me very anxious about his _caractère_ ever yours, sydney smith. footnotes: [ ] one would expect either "did" or "other": but the actual combination is a very likely slip of pen or press. sir walter scott ( - ) since this little book was undertaken it has been announced, truly or not, that the bulk of scott's autograph letters has been bought by a fortunate and wise man of letters for the sum of £ . neither life nor literature can ever be expressed in money value: but if one had £ to spend on something not directly necessary, it is possible to imagine a very large number of less satisfactory purchases. for as was briefly suggested in the introduction, scott's letters--while saturated with that singular humanity and nobility of character in which he has hardly a rival among authors of whom we know much--are distinctly remarkable from the purely literary point of view. his published work, both in verse and prose, has been accused (with what amount of justice we will not here trouble ourselves to discuss)--of carelessness in style and art. no such charge could possibly be brought against his letters, which hit the happy mean between slovenliness and artificial elaboration in a fashion that could hardly be bettered. the great variety of his correspondents, too, provides an additional attraction: for letters indited to the same person are apt to show a certain monotony. and scott is equal to any and every occasion. here as elsewhere the "diary" drains off a certain proportion of matter: but chiefly for the latest period and in circumstances scarcely happy enough for letters themselves. the following letter was selected because of its admirable treatment of a theme--the behaviour, responsibility, and general _status_ of authors as objects of public judgment--on which an infinite amount of deplorable and disgusting nonsense has been talked and written. it starts, as will be seen, with the quarrel between lord and lady byron--and then generalises. not many things show scott's golden equity and fairness better. he is perhaps "a little kind" to campbell, who was, one fears, an extra-irritable specimen of the irritable race: but this is venial. and probably he did not mean the stigma which might be inferred from the conjunction of "aphra _and_ orinda." they were certainly both of charles ii.'s time: but while poor aphra was, if not wholly vicious, far from virtuous, the "matchless orinda" (katherine philips) bears no stain on her character. . to joanna baillie (end of april ) my dear friend, i am glad you are satisfied with my reasons for declining a direct interference with lord b[yron]. i have not, however, been quite idle, and as an old seaman have tried to go by a side wind when i had not the means of going before it, and this will be so far plain to you when i say that i have every reason to believe the good intelligence is true that a separation is signed between lord and lady byron. if i am not as angry as you have good reason to expect every thinking and feeling man to be, it is from deep sorrow and regret that a man possessed of such noble talents should so utterly and irretrievably lose himself. in short, i believe the thing to be as you state it, and therefore lord byron is the object of anything rather than indignation. it is a cruel pity that such high talents should have been joined to a mind so wayward and incapable of seeking control where alone it is to be found, in the quiet discharge of domestic duties and filling up in peace and affection his station in society. the idea of his ultimately resisting that which should be fair and honourable to lady b. did not come within my view of his character--at least of his natural character; but i hear that, as you intimated, he has had execrable advisers. i hardly know a more painful object of consideration than a man of genius in such a situation; those of lower minds do not feel the degradation, and become like pigs, familiarised with the filthy elements in which they grovel; but it is impossible that a man of lord byron's genius should not often feel the want of that which he has forfeited--the fair esteem of those by whom genius most naturally desires to be admired and cherished. i am much obliged to mrs. baillie for excluding me in her general censure of authors; but i should have hoped for a more general spirit of toleration from my good friend, who had in her own family and under her own eye such an exception to her general censure--unless, indeed (which may not be far from the truth), she supposes that female genius is more gentle and tractable, though as high in tone and spirit as that of the masculine sex. but the truth is, i believe, we will find a great equality when the different habits of the sexes and the temptations they are exposed to are taken into consideration. men early flattered and coaxed, and told they are fitted for the higher regions of genius and unfit for anything else,--that they are a superior kind of automaton and ought to move by different impulses than others,--indulge their friends and the public with freaks and caprioles like those of that worthy knight of la mancha in the sierra morena. and then, if our man of genius escapes this temptation, how is he to parry the opposition of the blockheads who join all their hard heads and horns together to butt him out of the ordinary pasture, goad him back to parnassus, and "bid him on the barren mountain starve." it is amazing how far this goes, if a man will let it go, in turning him out of the ordinary course of life into the stream of odd bodies, so that authors come to be regarded as tumblers, who are expected to go to church in a summerset, because they sometimes throw a catherine-wheel for the amusement of the public. a man even told me at an election, thinking i believe he was saying a severe thing, that i was a poet, and therefore that the subject we were discussing lay out of my way. i answered as quietly as i could, that i did not apprehend my having written poetry rendered me incapable of speaking common sense in prose, and that i requested the audience to judge of me not by the nonsense i might have written for their amusement, but by the sober sense i was endeavouring to speak for their information, and only expected [of] them, in case i had ever happened to give any of them pleasure, in a way which was supposed to require some information and talent, [that] they would not, for that sole reason, suppose me incapable of understanding or explaining a point of the profession for which i had been educated. so i got a patient and very favourable hearing. but certainly these great exertions of friends and enemies have forced many a poor fellow out of the common paths of life, and obliged him to make a trade of what can only be gracefully executed as an occasional avocation. when such a man is encouraged in all his freaks and follies, the bit is taken out of his mouth, and, as he is turned out upon the common, he is very apt to deem himself exempt from all the rules incumbent on those who keep the king's highway. and so they play fantastic tricks before high heaven. the lady authors are not exempt from these vagaries, being exposed to the same temptations; and all i can allow mrs. baillie in favour of the fair sex is that since the time of the aphras and orindas of charles ii's time, the authoresses have been ridiculous only, while the authors have too often been both absurd and vicious. as to our leal friend tom campbell, i have heard stories of his morbid sensibility chiefly from the minto family, with whom he lived for some time, and i think they all turned on little foolish points of capricious affectation, which perhaps had no better foundation than an ill-imagined mode of exhibiting his independence. but whatever i saw of him myself--and we were often together, and sometimes for several days--was quite composed and manly. indeed, i never worried him to make him get on his hind legs and spout poetry when he did not like it. he deserves independence well; and if the dog which now awakens him to the recollection of his possessing it, happened formerly to disturb the short sleep that drowned his recollection of so great a blessing, there is good reason for enduring the disturbance with more patience than before. but surely, admitting all our temptations and irregularities there are men of genius enough living to restrain the mere possession of talent from the charge of disqualifying the owner for the ordinary occupation and duties of life. there never were better men, and especially better husbands, fathers, and real patriots, than southey and wordsworth; they might even be pitched upon as most exemplary characters. i myself, if i may rank myself in the list, am, as hamlet says, indifferent honest, and at least not worse than an infidel in loving those of my own house. and i think that generally speaking, authors, like actors, being rather less commonly believed to be eccentric than was the faith fifty years since, do conduct themselves as amenable to the ordinary rules of society. this tirade was begun a long time since, but is destined to be finished at abbotsford. your bower is all planted with its evergreens, but must for seven years retain its original aspect of a gravel pit. (rest lost.) samuel taylor coleridge ( - ) it is a strange thing, and could hardly have happened in any country but england, that there is to this day no complete collection or edition of the works of coleridge--one of the most poetical of our poets, one of the most important of our critics, and one of the most influential, if one of the least methodical and conclusive, of our philosophers. indeed we never knew what good prose he could write till the fragments called _anima poetae_ were published, two-thirds of a century after his death. but that no collected edition of his letters appeared till very shortly before this is explicable without any difficulty. coleridge's temperament was not heroic, and his correspondence as well as his conduct justified, in regard to much more than his nonage, the ingenious phrase of an american lady-essayist that he must have been "a very _beatable_ child." to a certain extent, however, the correspondence does also justify our adoption (see _introduction_) of the charitable theory that enlargement of understanding brings about extension of pardon. and putting this aside, the letters sometimes give us an idea of what his admittedly marvellous conversation (or rather monologue) must have been like. they are not very easy to select from, for their author's singular tendency to _divagation_ affects them. but they sometimes display that humour which he undoubtedly possessed, though his best-known published writings seldom admit of it: and the divagation itself has its advantages. in the following coleridge appears in curiously different lights. after joking at his own pantheism he becomes amazingly practical, for it _was_, as scott points out somewhere, a fault of southey's to cling to the system of "half-profits," a fault which often made his enormous labours altogether unprofitable. "i-rise to i-set" = "getting-up to bed-time" seems to have been a favourite quip of his. "stuart," the editor of the _morning post_ for which coleridge was then writing. "the anthology"--an _annual_ one edited by southey. as for the _anti-jacobin_ libel it was, admirable as was the wit that accompanied it, utterly indefensible; for it accused coleridge of having _at this time_ "left his poor children fatherless and his wife destitute" (the extraordinary thing is that he actually did this later!) of course he never executed the life of lessing.[ ] "the wedgwoods" had given him an annuity. the assault on "mr. go_b_win" is one of poor hartley coleridge's most delightful feats. had he been a little older, he might have pointed out to the author of _political justice_ that lecturing his mother for his, hartley's, fault was quite unjustifiable: and indeed that objecting to it at all was improper. the right way (according to that great work itself) would have been to discuss with hartley whether the advantage in physical exercise and animal spirits derived by him from wielding the nine-pin, outweighed the pain experienced by go_b_win, and so was justifiable on the total scheme of things. ("moshes," as indeed is obvious, was hartley's pet-name). . to robert southey tuesday night, o'clock (december ) . my dear southey, my spinosism (if spinosism it be, and i' faith 'tis very like it) disposed me to consider this big city as that part of the supreme one which the prophet moses was allowed to see--i should be more disposed to pull off my shoes, beholding him in a _bush_, than while i am forcing my reason to believe that even in theatres _he_ is, yea! even in the opera house. your "thalaba" will beyond all doubt bring you two hundred pounds, if you will sell it at once; but _do_ not print at a venture, under the notion of selling the edition. i assure you that longman regretted the bargain he made with cottle concerning the second edition of the "joan of arc," and is indisposed to similar negotiations; but most and very eager to have the property of your works at almost any price. if you have not heard it from cottle, why, you may hear it from me, that is, the arrangement of cottle's affairs in london. the whole and total copyright of your "joan," and the first volume of your poems (exclusive of what longman had before given), was taken by him at three hundred and seventy pounds. you are a strong swimmer, and have borne up poor joey with all his leaden weights about him, his own and other people's! nothing has answered to him but your works. by me he has lost somewhat--by fox, amos, and himself _very much_. i can sell your "thalaba" quite as well in your absence as in your presence. i am employed from i-rise to i-set (that is, from nine in the morning to twelve at night), a pure scribbler. my mornings to booksellers' compilations, after dinner to stuart, who pays _all_ my expenses here, let them be what they will; the earnings of the morning go to make up an hundred and fifty pounds for my year's expenditure; for, supposing _all clear_, my year's ( ) allowance is anticipated. but this i can do by the first of april (at which time i leave london). for stuart i write often his leading paragraphs on secession, peace, essay on the new french constitution, advice to friends of freedom, critiques on sir w. anderson's nose, odes to georgiana d. of d. (horribly misprinted), christmas carols, etc., etc.--anything not bad in the paper, that is not yours, is mine. so if any verses there strike you as worthy the "anthology," "do me the honour, sir!" however, in the course of a week i _do mean_ to conduct a series of essays in that paper which may be of public utility. so much for myself, except that i long to be out of london; and that my xstmas carol is a quaint performance, and, in as strict a sense as is _possible_, an impromptu, and, had i done all i had planned, that "ode to the duchess" would have been a better thing than it is--it being somewhat dullish, etc. i have bought the "beauties of the anti-jacobin," and attorneys and counsellors advise me to prosecute, and offer to undertake it, so as that i shall have neither trouble or expense. they say it is a clear case, etc. i will speak to johnson about the "fears in solitude." if he gives them up they are yours. that dull ode has been printed often enough, and may now be allowed to "sink with deep swoop, and to the bottom _go_," to quote an admired author; but the two others will do with a little trimming. my dear southey! i have said nothing concerning that which most oppresses me. immediately on my leaving london i fall to the "life of lessing"; till that is done, till i have given the wedgwoods some proof that i am _endeavouring_ to do well for my fellow-creatures, i cannot stir. that being done, i would accompany you, and see no impossibility of forming a pleasant little colony for a few years in italy or the south of france. peace will come soon. god love you, my dear southey! _i_ would write to stuart, and give up his paper immediately. you should do nothing that did not absolutely _please_ you. be idle, be very idle! the habits of your mind are such that you will necessarily do much; but be as idle as you can. our love to dear edith. if you see mary, tell her that we have received our trunk. hartley is quite well, and my talkativeness is his, without diminution on my side. 'tis strange but certainly many things go in the blood, beside gout and scrophula. yesterday i dined at longman's and met pratt, and that honest piece of prolix dullity and nullity, young towers, who desired to be remembered to you. to-morrow sara and i dine at mister gobwin's, as hartley calls him, who gave the philosopher such a rap on the shins with a ninepin that gobwin in huge pain _lectured_ sara on his boisterousness. i was not at home. _est modus in rebus._ moshes is somewhat too rough and noisy, but the cadaverous silence of gobwin's children is to me quite catacombish, and, thinking of mary wollstonecraft, i was oppressed by it the day davy and i dined there. god love you and s. t. coleridge. footnotes: [ ] i cannot remember whether anybody has ever made a list of the books that coleridge did not write. it would be the catalogue of a most interesting library in utopia. robert southey ( - ) one of the strangest things met by the present writer in the course of preparing this book was a remark of the late mr. scoones--an old acquaintance and a man who has deserved most excellently on the subject--in reference to southey's letters, that they show the author as "dry and unsympathetic." "they contain too much information to be good as letters." well: there certainly is information in the specimen that follows: whether it is "dry" or not readers must decide. the fact is that southey, despite occasional touches of self-righteousness and of over-bookishness, was full of humour, extraordinarily affectionate, and extremely natural. there is moreover a great deal of interest in this skit on poor mrs. coleridge: for "lingos" of the kind, though in her case they may have helped to disgust her husband with his "pensive sara," were in her time and afterwards by no means uncommon, especially--physiologists must say why--with the female sex. the present writer, near the middle of the nineteenth century, knew a lady of family, position and property who was fond of the phrase, "hail-fellow-well-met," but always turned it into "fellowship wilmot"--a pretty close parallel to "horsemangander" for "horse-godmother". extension--with levelling--of education, and such processes as those which have turned "sissiter" into "syrencesster" and "kirton" into "credd-itt-on", have made the phenomenon rarer: but have also made such a _locus classicus_ of the habit as this all the more valuable and amusing. it may be added that lamb, in one of his letters, has a sly if good-natured glance at this peculiarity of the elder sara coleridge in reference to the aptitude of the younger in her "_mother_-tongue." southey has dealt with the matter in several epistles to his friend grosvenor bedford. the whole would have been rather long but the following mosaic will, i think, do very well. dr. warter, the editor of the supplementary collection of southey's letters from which it comes, was the husband of edith may southey, the heroine of not a little literature, sometimes[ ] in connection, not merely as here with sara coleridge the younger, but with dora wordsworth--the three daughters of the three lake poets. she was, as her father says, a very tall girl, while her aunt, mrs. coleridge, was little (her husband, writing from hamburg, speaks with surprise of some german lady as "smaller than you are"). . to grosvenor c. bedford esq: keswick, sep. , dear stumparumper, don't rub your eyes at that word, bedford, as if you were slopy. the purport of this letter, which is to be as precious as the punic scenes in plautus, is to give you some account (though but an imperfect one) of the language spoken in this house by ... and invented by her. i have carefully composed a vocabulary of it by the help of her daughter and mine, having my ivory tablets always ready when she is red-raggifying in full confabulumpatus. . to grosvenor c. bedford esq: keswick, oct. , . my dear g, i very much approve your laudable curiosity to know the precise meaning of that noble word _horsemangandering_. before i tell you its application, you must be informed of its history and origin. be it therefore known unto you that ... the whole and sole inventor of the never-to-be-forgotten _lingo grande_ (in which, by the bye, i purpose ere long to compose a second epistle), thought proper one day to call my daughter a great _horsemangander_, thinking, i suppose, that that appellation contained as much unfeminine meaning as could be put into any decent compound. from this substantive the verb has been formed to denote an operation performed by the said daughter upon the said aunt, of which i was an astonished spectator. the horsemangander--that is to say, edith may--being tall and strong, came behind the person to be horsemangandered (to wit, ...), and took her round the waist, under the arms, then jumped with her all the way from the kitchen into the middle of the parlour; the motion of the horsemangandered person at every jump being something like that of a paviour's rammer, and all resistance impossible. . to grosvenor c. bedford esq: keswick, oct. , . * * * * * p.s. the name of the newly-discovered language (of which i have more to say hereafter) is the _lingo grande_. . to grosvenor c. bedford esq: keswick, dec. , dear stumparumper, so long a time has elapsed since i sent you the commencement of my remarks upon the peculiar language spoken by ... which i have denominated the lingo-grande, that i fear you may suppose that i have altogether neglected the subject. yet such a subject, as you must perceive, requires a great deal of patient observation, as well as of attentive consideration; and were i to flustercumhurry over it, as if it were a matter which could be undercumstood in a jiffump (that is to say in a momper), this would be to do what i have undertaken shabroonily, and you might shartainly have reason to think me fuffling and indiscruckt. upon my vurtz i have not dumdawdled with it, like a dangleampeter; which being interpreted in the same _lingo_ is an undecider, or an improvidentur, too idle to explore the hurtch mine which he has had the fortune to discover. no, i must be a stupossum indeed to act thus, as well as a slouwdowdekcum, or slowdonothinger; and these are appellations which she has never bestowed upon me; though, perhaps, the uncommon richness, and even exuberance of her language has not been more strikingly displayed in anything than in the variety of names which it has enabled her to shower upon my devoted person. * * * * * and so-o-o, dear miscumter bedfordiddlededford, i subcumscribe myself, your sincumcere friendiddledend and serdiddledeservant, robcumbert southey diddiedouthey. student in the lingo-grande, graduate in butlerology, professor of the science of noncumsensediddledense, of sneezing and of vocal music, p.l. and ll.d. etc etc. footnotes: [ ] see wordsworth's _triad_. charles lamb ( - ) there are not many people about whom it is more difficult--or more unnecessary--to write than it is about lamb. a few very unfortunate people do not enjoy him, and probably never could be made to do so. most of those who care for literature at all revel in him: and do not in the least need to be told to do so. and, as was said before, there is hardly any difference between his published works and his letters except that the former stand a little--a very little--more "upon ceremony." as to selecting the letters one remembers mr. matthew arnold's very agreeable confession, when he was asked to select his poems, that he wanted to select them all. this being impossible, one has to confess that, putting subject, scale etc. aside, any one is almost as tempting as any other, and that whatever is chosen reminds one, half-regretfully, of the letters that were left. when a man can write (to william wordsworth too), "the very head and sum of the girlery were two young girls," there is nothing left to do but to repeat, with the slight alteration of "write to" for "ask," thackeray's ejaculation to the supposed host at an unusually satisfactory dinner, "dear sir! do _ask_ us again." and on almost every page of his letters, whether in talfourd's original issue of them or in the more recent and fuller editions of his works, the spirit is the same everywhere: the volume only differs. if (but you never know exactly when lamb is speaking seriously) at the time he had "an aversion from letter writing," then most certainly mrs. malaprop was justified in saying that there "is nothing like beginning with a little aversion"! the letter which follows is, though it may have pleased others besides myself, not one of the stock examples. but it seems to me to present a rather unusual combination of lamb's attractive qualities, not a little of his rare phrase ("divine plain face" especially) and a remarkable expression of that yearning for _solitude_ which some people seem to think rather shameful, but which to others is a thing no more to be accounted for than it is to be got rid of. it will be observed that the letter, ostensibly to mrs. w., is really both to her and to her husband. "w. h." is of course hazlitt, and the "lectures" are his famous ones on english poets. as for lamb's criticisms on lectures generally, they would perhaps be endorsed by some who have given, as well as by many who have received, this form of instruction. the "gentleman at haydon's" was the hero or victim of a story good, but too long to give here. he said some excessively foolish things and lamb, after dinner, behaved to him in a fashion possibly not quite undeserved but entirely unsanctioned by the conventions of society. . to mrs. wordsworth east india house. february , . my dear mrs. wordsworth, i have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. my sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, i consider myself answerable for her debts. i am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardamoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. the reason why i cannot write letters at home is, that i am never alone. plato's (i write to w. w. now)--plato's double animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation than i sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, i am never so. i cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. all the morning i am pestered. i could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write "paid" against this, and "unpaid" against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind "some darling thoughts all my own,"--faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice--a snatch of miss burrell's singing, or a gleam of fanny kelly's divine plain face. the two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's i mean), or as i sometimes turn round till i am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. but there are a set of amateurs of the belles lettres--the gay science--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of british institutions, lalla rookhs, etc,--what coleridge said at the lecture last night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have been ante-cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. these pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if i take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. their noise ended, one of them, as i said, accompanies me home, lest i should be solitary for a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up i go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door, in comes mr. hazlitt, or mr. martin burney, or morgan demigorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. o the pleasure of eating alone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. but in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that i should open a bottle of orange; for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if i have not wine. wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(god bless 'em! i love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bed-time. come never, i would say to those spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! the fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. evening company i should always like had i any mornings, but i am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as i should covet to be in company; but i assure you that is a wonderful week in which i can get two, or one to myself. i am never c. l. but always c. l. and co. he who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! i forget bed-time, but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, i go to bed at the hour i ought always to be a-bed; just close to my bedroom window is the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers, i take them to be chorus-singers of the two theatres (it must be both of them), begin their orgies. they are a set of fellows (as i conceive) who, being limited by their talents to the burthen of the song at the play-houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by bishop, or some cheap composer, arranged for choruses; that is, to be sung all in chorus. at least i never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the babylonish choral howl at the tail on't. "that fury being quenched"--the howl, i mean--a burden succeeds of shouts and clapping, and knocking of the table. at length overtasked nature drops under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. and then i think of the words christabel's father used (bless me, i have dipt in the wrong ink!) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke: "every knell, the baron saith, wakes us up to a world of death" or something like it. all i mean by this senseless interrupted tale, is, that by my central situation i am a little over-companied. not that i have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. i like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass; but i mean merely to give you an idea, between office confinement and after-office society, how little time i can call my own. i mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. i would not that i know of have it otherwise. i only wish sometimes i could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, at being so often favoured with that kind northern visitation. my london faces and noises don't hear me--i mean no disrespect, or i should explain myself, that instead of their return times a year, and the return of w. w. etc., seven times in weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. i have scarce room to put in mary's kind love, and my poor name, c. lamb. * * * * * w. h. goes on lecturing against w. w. and making copious use of quotations from said w. w. to give a zest to said lectures. s. t. c. is lecturing with success. i have not heard either of him or h., but dined with s. t. c. at gillman's a sunday or two since, and he was well and in good spirits. i mean to hear some of the course but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. if _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you could read so much better at leisure yourself. if delivered extempore i am always in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honour of me at the london tavern.[ ] "gentlemen," said i, and there i stopped; the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. mrs. wordsworth _will_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never can be realised. between us there is a great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, i hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned in the stamp office, that i so strangely recoiled from at haydon's. i think i had an instinct that he was the head of an office. i hate all such people--accountants' deputy-accountants. the dear abstract notion of the east india company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, i loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of babylon. i thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst; but i was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go. they are the tyrants; not ferdinand, nor nero. by a decree passed this week they have abridged us of the immemorially-observed custom of going at one o'clock of a saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. dear w. w., be thankful for liberty. footnotes: [ ] lamb would have enjoyed a recent newspaper paragraph which, stating that an inquest had been held on some one who, after lecturing somewhere was taken ill and expired, concluded thus: "verdict: death from natural causes." george gordon, lord byron ( - ) it is one of the commonest of commonplaces that there are certain subjects and persons who and which always cause difference of opinion: and something like a full century has established the fact that byron is one of them. as far as his poetry is concerned we have nothing to do with this difference or these differences. they affect his letters less, inasmuch as almost everybody admits them to be remarkably good of their kind. but when the further questions are raised, "what _is_ that kind?" and "is it the best, or even a very good kind?" the old division manifests itself again. that they are extraordinarily _clever_ is again more or less matter of agreement. that they make some people dislike him more than they otherwise might is perhaps not a fatal objection: for the people may be wrong. besides, as a matter of fact, they sometimes make other people _like_ him more than they would have done without these letters: so the two things at least cancel each other. the chief objection to them, which is hardly removable, is their too frequent artificiality. byron did not play the tricks that pope played: for, he was not, like pope, an invalid with an invalid's weaknesses and excuses. but almost more than in his poems, where the "dramatic" excuse is available, (_i.e._ that the writer is speaking not for himself but for the character) the letters provoke the question, "is this what the man thought, felt, did, or what he wished to seem to feel, think, do?" in other words, "is this _persona_ or _res_?" the following shows byron in perhaps as favourable a light as any that could be chosen, and with as little of the artificiality as is anywhere to be found. it is true that even here moore, his biographer and letter-giver, at first included, though he afterwards cut out, some attacks on sir samuel romilly, whom byron thought guilty of causing or abetting dissension between lady byron and himself. but the letter loses nothing by the omission and does not even gain unfairly by it. there is nothing _false_ in the contrast of comedy and sentiment concerning the cemetery. his impression by the epitaphs byron gave in more letters than one. nor is there any affectation in his remarks about his own burial, about his children, or any other subject. they did "pickle him and bring him home" (a quotation, not quite literal, from sheridan's _rivals_), and his funeral procession through london is the theme of a memorable passage in borrow's _lavengro_. "juan" is of course _don juan_. "allegra," his daughter by jane (or as she re-christened herself, claire) clairmont--step-daughter of godwin, through his second wife, and so a connection though no relation of mrs. shelley--died at five years old. "ada," his and lady byron's only child, lived to marry lord lovelace, and continued his blood to the present day. "electra" works out no further than the fact of her being the daughter of his "_moral_ clytemnestra," as he called lady byron, from her having been almost as fatal to his reputation as the actual clytemnestra to her husband's life. . to mr. murray bologna, june . . tell mr. hobhouse that i wrote to him a few days ago from ferrara. it will therefore be idle in him or you to wait for any further answers or returns of proofs from venice, as i have directed that no english letters be sent after me. the publication can be proceeded in without, and i am already sick of your remarks, to which i think not the least attention ought to be paid. tell mr. hobhouse that since i wrote to him i had availed myself of my ferrara letters, and found the society much younger and better than that at venice. i am very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see of the gonfaloniere count mosti, and his family and friends in general. i have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous domenichino and guido, both of which are superlative. i afterwards went to the beautiful cemetery of bologna, beyond the walls and found, besides the superb burial ground, an original of a custode, who reminded me of the gravedigger in _hamlet_. he has a collection of capuchins' skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them said "this is brother desiderio birro, who died at forty--one of my best friends. i begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. i put it in lime and then boiled it. here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. he was the merriest, cleverest fellow i ever knew. wherever he went he brought joy, and whenever anyone was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. he walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a frate as i never saw before, nor ever shall again!" he told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. in showing some older monuments, there was that of a roman girl of twenty, with a bust by bernini. she was a princess bartorini, dead two centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and "as yellow as gold."[ ] some of the epitaphs at ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at bologna; for instance:-- "martini luigi implora pace." "lucrezia picini implora eterna quiete." can anything be more full of pathos? those few words say all that can be said or sought, the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they _implore_! there is all the helplessness and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave--'implora pace.' i hope, whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the lido, within the fortress by the adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put over me. i trust they won't think of "pickling, and bringing me home to clod or blunderbuss hall." i am sure my bones would not rest in an english grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. i believe the thought would drive me mad on my death-bed, could i suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass back to your soil. i would not even feed your worms if i could help it. so, as shakespeare says of mowbray, the banished duke of norfolk, who died at venice (see _richard ii._), that he, after fighting "against black pagans, turks and saracens, and toiled with works of war, retired himself to italy, and there, at _venice_, gave his body to that _pleasant_ country's earth. and his pure soul unto his captain, christ, under whose colours he had fought so long!" before i left venice, i had returned to you your late, and mr. hobhouse's sheets of juan. don't wait for further answers from me, but address yours to venice as usual. i know nothing of my own movements; i may return there in a few days, or not for some time. all this depends on circumstances. i left mr. hoppner very well, as well as his son and mrs. hoppner. my daughter allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. her temper and her ways, mrs. h. says, are like mine, as well as her features: she will make, in that case, a manageable young lady. i have never heard anything of ada, the little electra of my mycenae. but there will come a day of reckoning, even if i should not live to see it. what a long letter i have scribbled. yours &c. p.s. here, as in greece, they strew flowers on the tombs. i saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, scattered over the graves at ferrara. it has the most pleasing effect you can imagine. footnotes: [ ] no one who has seen the roman girl's hair at york, nearer two thousand than two hundred years old, will doubt this, though _her_ tresses are not "yellow." percy bysshe shelley ( - ) it may sometimes seem as if there were only two things that shelley lacked--humour and common sense. as a matter of fact he possessed both, but allowed them to be perpetually stifled by other elements--not in themselves necessarily bad--of his character. if either--still better both--had been able to constitute themselves monarchs of his brentford, duumvirs of the rest, his political and religious extravagances would have been curbed; his less admirable actions would probably--for he would not have married and therefore would not have deserted poor harriet--have been obviated; and it is by no means necessary that his poetry, though it could not have been much improved, should have been in any degree worsened. shakespeare, one thinks, had plenty of both. nor is this consideration irrelevant to the study of his letters. there are glimmerings of the humour which shines in _peter bell the third_, and more of the common sense which is not needed, but by no means negatived, in the sublimer poems. but in the case suggested we should certainly have had more of them in a department than which they could have found no better home. shelley wrote everything (after his intellectual infancy) that he did write, so excellently that he must have excelled here also. as it is, we must take him as we find him and be thankful. since he wrote the following, english readers have perhaps been satiated with writings about art. but rather more than years ago there had been comparatively little of it and hardly anything, if anything at all, of this quality. and it may not be absurd to draw attention to the differences between these descriptions and those in ornate prose that we have had since from mr. ruskin and others. most of the latter are essentially prose though often very beautiful prose: shelley's, though pure prose in form, are as it were scenarios for poetry. indeed by this time poetry had taken almost entire possession of him, and he of her. . to thomas love peacock bologna, monday, nov[ember] , . my dear peacock, i have seen a quantity of things here--churches, palaces, statues, fountains, and pictures; and my brain is at this moment like a portfolio of an architect, or a print-shop, or a commonplace-book, i will try to recollect something of what i have seen; for, indeed, it requires, if it will obey, an act of volition. first, we went to the cathedral, which contains nothing remarkable, except a kind of shrine, or rather a marble canopy, loaded with sculptures, and supported on four marble columns. we went then to a palace--i am sure i forget the name of it--where we saw a large gallery of pictures. of course, in a picture gallery you see three hundred pictures you forget, for one you remember. i remember, however, an interesting picture by guido, of the rape of proserpine, in which proserpine casts back her languid and half-unwilling eyes, as it were, to the flowers she had left ungathered in the fields of enna. there was an exquisitely executed piece of correggio, about four saints, one of whom seemed to have a pet dragon in a leash. i was told that it was the devil who was bound in that style--but who can make anything of four saints? for what can they be supposed to be about? there was one painting, indeed, by this master, christ beatified, inexpressibly fine. it is a half figure, seated on a mass of clouds, tinged with an ethereal, rose-like lustre; the arms are expanded; the whole frame seems dilated with expression; the countenance is heavy, as it were, with the weight of the rapture of the spirit; the lips parted, but scarcely parted, with the breath of intense but regulated passion; the eyes are calm and benignant; the whole features harmonised in majesty and sweetness. the hair is parted on the forehead, and falls in heavy locks on each side. it is motionless, but seems as if the faintest breath would move it. the colouring, i suppose, must be very good, if i could remark and understand it. the sky is of pale aërial orange, like the tints of latest sunset; it does not seem painted around and beyond the figure, but everything seems to have absorbed, and to have been penetrated by its hues. i do not think we saw any other of correggio, but this specimen gives me a very exalted idea of his powers. we went to see heaven knows how many more palaces--ranuzzi, marriscalchi, aldobrandi. if you want italian names for any purpose, here they are; i should be glad of them if i was writing a novel. i saw many more of guido. one, a samson drinking water out of an ass's jaw-bone, in the midst of the slaughtered philistines. why he is supposed to do this, god, who gave him this jaw-bone, alone knows--but certain it is, that the painting is a very fine one. the figure of samson stands in strong relief in the foreground, coloured, as it were, in the hues of human life, and full of strength and elegance. round him lie the philistines in all the attitudes of death. one prone, with the slight convulsion of pain just passing from his forehead, whilst on his lips and chin death lies as heavy as sleep. another leaning on his arm, with his hand, white and motionless, hanging out beyond. in the distance, more dead bodies; and, still further beyond, the blue sea and the blue mountains, and one white and tranquil sail. there is a murder of the innocents, also, by guido, finely coloured, with much fine expression--but the subject is very horrible, and it seemed deficient in strength--at least, you require the highest ideal energy, the most poetical and exalted conception of the subject, to reconcile you to such a contemplation. there was a jesus christ crucified, by the same, very fine. one gets tired, indeed, whatever may be the conception and execution of it, of seeing that monotonous and agonised form for ever exhibited in one prescriptive attitude of torture. but the magdalen, clinging to the cross with the look of passive and gentle despair beaming from beneath her bright flaxen hair, and the figure of st. john, with his looks uplifted in passionate compassion; his hands clasped, and his fingers twisting themselves together, as it were, with involuntary anguish; his feet almost writhing up from the ground with the same sympathy; and the whole of this arrayed in colours of diviner nature, yet most like nature's self. of the contemplation of this one would never weary. there was a "fortune," too, of guido; a piece of mere beauty. there was the figure of fortune on a globe, eagerly proceeding onwards, and love was trying to catch her back by the hair, and her face was half turned towards him; her long chestnut hair was floating in the stream of the wind, and threw its shadow over her fair forehead. her hazel eyes were fixed on her pursuer, with a meaning look of playfulness, and a light smile was hovering on her lips. the colours which arrayed her delicate limbs were ethereal and warm. but, perhaps, the most interesting of all the pictures of guido which i saw was a madonna lattante. she is leaning over her child, and the maternal feelings with which she is pervaded are shadowed forth on her soft and gentle countenance, and in her simple and affectionate gestures--there is what an unfeeling observer would call a dulness in the expression of her face; her eyes are almost closed; her lip depressed; there is a serious, and even a heavy relaxation, as it were, of all the muscles which are called into action by ordinary emotions: but it is only as if the spirit of love, almost insupportable from its intensity, were brooding over and weighing down the soul, or whatever it is, without which the material frame is inanimate and inexpressive. there is another painter here, called franceschini, a bolognese, who, though certainly very inferior to guido, is yet a person of excellent powers. one entire church, that of santa catarina, is covered by his works. i do not know whether any of his pictures have ever been seen in england. his colouring is less warm than that of guido, but nothing can be more clear and delicate; it is as if he could have dipped his pencil in the hues of some serenest and star-shining twilight. his forms have the same delicacy and aërial loveliness; their eyes are all bright with innocence and love; their lips scarce divided by some gentle and sweet emotion. his winged children are the loveliest ideal beings ever created by the human mind. these are generally, whether in the capacity of cherubim or cupid, accessories to the rest of the picture; and the underplot of their lovely and infantine play is something almost pathetic from the excess of its unpretending beauty. one of the best of his pieces is an annunciation of the virgin:--the angel is beaming in beauty; the virgin, soft, retiring, and simple. we saw, besides, one picture of raphael--st. cecilia: this is in another and higher style; you forget that it is a picture as you look at it; and yet it is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. it is of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived and executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced among the ancients those perfect specimens of poetry and sculpture which are the baffling models of succeeding generations. there is a unity and a perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. the central figure, st. cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as produced her image in the painter's mind; her deep, dark, eloquent eyes lifted up; her chestnut hair flung back from her forehead--she holds an organ in her hands--her countenance, as it were, calmed by the depth of its passion and rapture, and penetrated throughout with the warm and radiant light of life. she is listening to the music of heaven, and, as i imagine, has just ceased to sing, for the four figures that surround her evidently point, by their attitudes, towards her; particularly st. john, who, with a tender yet impassioned gesture, bends his countenance towards her, languid with the depth of his emotion. at her feet lie various instruments of music, broken and unstrung. of the colouring i do not speak; it eclipses nature, yet it has all her truth and softness. john keats ( - ) a good deal has already been said of keats in the introduction; but a little more may be pardoned on that most remarkable correspondence with his brother and sister-in-law which is there mentioned, and which it is hoped may be fairly sampled here. there is nothing quite like it: and one can only be thankful to the atlantic (which here at least can have "disappointed" nobody worth mentioning) for causing the separation that brought it about. the inspirations which it shows were happily double. we do not know very much about george keats, but john's family affection was of the keenest, and this was the only member of the family who was, in all the circumstances, likely to sympathise thoroughly with the poet in his poetry as in other things. georgiana is said to have been personally attractive and mentally gifted beyond the common: and there is no doubt that this excited something more than mere family devotion in such an impressionable person as keats. the combined reagency of these relatives has given us what we have from no other english poet--for the simple reason that no other english poet has had such a chance of giving it to us. the only thing to regret is that it could not continue longer: and that is only a necessary operation of fate. the particular passage chosen here is one of the best known perhaps, but it is also one of the most illuminating: for it gives at once keats's natural and simple interest in ordinary things, with no mere trivialities: his _real_ attitude (so different from that long attributed to him!) as regards the attacks of critics, and his passion for beauty apart from mere hedonism. the "charmian" was at one time supposed to be miss brawne: but this was an error. she was a miss jane cox, and nothing is heard of her afterwards. . to george and georgiana keats [october or , ] i came by ship from inverness, and was nine days at sea without being sick. a little qualm now and then put me in mind of you; however, as soon as you touch the shore, all the horrors of sickness are soon forgotten, as was the case with a lady on board, who could not hold her head up all the way. we had not been in the thames an hour before her tongue began to some tune--paying off, as it was fit she should, all old scores. i was the only englishman on board. there was a downright scotchman, who, hearing that there had been a bad crop of potatoes in england, had brought some triumphant specimens from scotland. these he exhibited with national pride to all the ignorant lightermen and watermen from the nore to the bridge. i fed upon beef all the way; not being able to eat the thick porridge which the ladies managed to manage, with large, awkward, horn spoons into the bargain. reynolds has returned from a six-weeks' enjoyment in devonshire; he is well, and persuades me to publish my "pot of basil" as an answer to the attacks made on me in "blackwood's magazine" and the "quarterly review." there have been two letters in my defence in the chronicle and one in the examiner, copied from the exeter paper, and written by reynolds. i do not know who wrote those in the chronicle. this is a mere matter of the moment--i think i shall be among the english poets after my death. even as a matter of present interest the attempt to crush me in the "quarterly" has only brought me more into notice, and it is a common expression among book-men, "i wonder the quarterly should cut its own throat." it does me not the least harm in society to make me appear little and ridiculous: i know when a man is superior to me and give him all due respect; he will be the last to laugh at me; and as for the rest i feel that i make an impression upon them which insures me personal respect while i am in sight, whatever they may say when my back is turned. the misses ---- are very kind to me, but they have lately displeased me much, and in this way: now i am coming the richardson! on my return, the first day i called, they were in a sort of taking or bustle about a cousin of theirs, who, having fallen out with her grandpapa in a serious manner, was invited by mrs. ---- to take asylum in her house. she is an east-indian, and ought to be her grandfather's heir. at the time i called, mrs. ---- was in conference with her upstairs, and the young ladies were warm in her praises downstairs, calling her genteel, interesting and a thousand other pretty things to which i gave no heed, not being partial to nine-days' wonders--now all is completely changed--they hate her, and from what i hear she is not without faults of a real kind: but she has others, which are more apt to make women of inferior charms hate her. she is not a cleopatra, but is, at least, a charmian. she has a rich eastern look; she has fine eyes and fine manners. when she comes into the room she makes an impression the same as the beauty of a leopardess. she is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any man who may address her; from habit she thinks that nothing _particular_. i always find myself more at ease with such a woman: the picture before me always gives me a life and animation which i cannot possibly feel with anything inferior. i am at such times too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble: i forget myself entirely, because i live in her. you will, by this time, think that i am in love with her, so, before i go any further, i will tell you i am not. she kept me awake one night, as a tune of mozart's might do. i speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which i can feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very "yes" and "no" of whose life is to me a banquet. i don't cry to take the moon home with me in my pocket, nor do i fret to leave her behind me. i like her, and her like, because one has no _sensations_; what we both are is taken for granted. you will suppose i have by this had much talk with her--no such thing; there are the misses ----on the look out. they think i don't admire her because i don't stare at her; they call her a flirt to me--what a want of knowledge! she walks across a room in such a manner that a man is drawn towards her with a magnetic power; this they call flirting! they do not know things; they do not know what a woman is. i believe, though, she has faults; the same as charmian and cleopatra might have had. yet she is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way; for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things--the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal. in the former, buonaparte, lord byron and this charmian hold the first place in our minds; in the latter, john howard, bishop hooker rocking his child's cradle, and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feelings. as a man of the world i love the rich talk of a charmian; as an eternal being i love the thought of you. i should like her to ruin me, and i should like you to save me. "i am free from men of pleasure's cares, by dint of feelings far more deep than theirs." this is "lord byron," and is one of the finest things he has said. the carlyles--thomas ( - ) and jane welsh ( - ) a paradoxer, even of a less virulent-frivolous type than that with which we have been recently afflicted, might sustain, for some little time at any rate, the argument against preservation of letters from the case of this eminent couple. if mrs. carlyle had not written hers, or if they had remained unknown, the whole sickening controversy about the character and married life of the pair might, as was said in the introduction, never have existed. and if carlyle himself had written none, persons of any intelligence would still have had a pretty adequate idea of him from his _works_. on the other hand the addition to knowledge in his case is quite welcome: and in hers it practically gives us what we could hardly have known otherwise--one of the most remarkable of woman-natures, and one of the most striking confirmations of the merciless adage "whom the gods curse, to them they grant the desires of their hearts." for she wanted above all things to be the wife of a man of genius--and she was. so the _pro_ and the _con_ in this matter may so far be set against each other. but there remains to credit a considerable amount of most welcome and (notably in the instance specified in the introduction) almost consummate literature of the epistolary kind. this instance itself is perhaps too tragic for our little collection: indeed it might help to spread the exaggerated idea of the writer's unhappiness which has been too prevalent already. there is some "metal more attractive" in her letters, which perhaps, taken all round, put her with madame de sévigné and "lady mary" at the head of all _published_ women letter-writers. and carlyle's annotations to them, when not too bilious or too penitent, show him almost at his best. his own (given below) to fitzgerald (the way in which epistolary literature interconnects itself has been noted) appears to me one of his most characteristic though least volcanic utterances. it was written while he was in the depths of what his wife called "the valley of the shadow of frederick," (_i.e._ his vast book on that amiable monarch) and had retired to _extra_-solitude in consequence. "farlingay" refers to a recent stay in suffolk with fitzgerald. as often with carlyle, there may be more than one interpretation of his inverted commas at "gentleman" as regards voltaire, to whom he certainly would not have allotted the word in its best sense. the phrase about chaos and the evil genius is carlyle shut up in narrow space like the other genius or genie in the arabian nights. the "_awful jangle_ of bells" speaks his horror of any invading sound. the "naseby matter" refers to a monument which he and fitzgerald had planned, and which (with the precedent investigation as to the battle which f. had conducted years before for his _cromwell_), occupies a good deal of fitzgerald's own correspondence. indeed, it is thanks to naseby that we possess this very letter. fitzgerald says elsewhere that he kept only these naseby letters of all carlyle's correspondence with him, destroying the rest, as he did thackeray's and tennyson's, lest "private personal history should fall into some unscrupulous hands." one admires the conduct while one feels the loss. as for the monument, it never came off: though it was talked about for some thirty years. mrs. carlyle's--one of the early and, despite complaints, cheerful time, the other later and, despite its resignation, from "the valley of the shadow"--require no annotation, save in respect of carlyle's own on _deerbrook_. he might well call it "poor": it is indeed one of the few novels by a writer of any distinction, which one tolerably voracious novel-reader has found incapable of being read. and this is curious: for she had written good stories earlier. . to edward fitzgerald addiscombe farm, croydon. th septr. dear fitzgerald, i have been here ever since the day you last heard of me; leading the strangest life of absolute _latrappism_; and often enough remembering farlingay and you. i live perfectly alone, and without speech at all,--there being in fact nobody to speak to, except one austerely punctual housemaid, who does her functions, like an eight-day clock, generally without bidding. my wife comes out now and then to give the requisite directions; but commonly withdraws again on the morrow, leaving the monster to himself and his own ways. i have books; a complete edition of _voltaire_, for one book, in which i read for _use_, or for idleness oftenest,--getting into endless reflexions over it, mostly of a sad and not very utterable nature. i find v. a 'gentleman,' living in a world partly furnished with such; and that there are now almost no 'gentlemen' (not quite _none_): this is one great head of my reflexions, to which there is no visible _tail_ or finish. i have also a horse (borrowed from my fat yeoman friend, who is at sea-bathing in sussex); and i go riding, at great lengths daily, over hill and dale; this i believe is really the main good i am doing,--if in this either there be much good. but it is a strange way of life to me, for the time; perhaps not unprofitable; to let _chaos_ say out its say, then, and one's evil genius give one the very worst language he has, for a while. it is still to last for a week or more. today, for the first time, i ride back to chelsea, but mean to return hither on monday. there is a great circle of yellow light all the way from shooter's hill to primrose hill, spread round my horizon every night, i see it while smoking my pipe before bed (so bright, last night, it cast a visible shadow of me against the white window-shutters); and this is all i have to do with london and its _gases_ for a fortnight or more. my wife writes to me, there was an awful jangle of bells last day she went home from this; a quaker asked in the railway, of some porter, 'can thou tell me what these bells mean?'--'well, i suppose something is up. they say sebastopol is took, and the rushans run away.'--_À la bonne heure_; but won't they come back again, think you? on the whole i say, when you get your little suffolk cottage, you must have in it a 'chamber in the wall' for me, _plus_ a pony that can trot, and a cow that gives good milk: with these outfits we shall make a pretty rustication now and then, not wholly _latrappish_, but only _half_, on much easier terms than here; and i shall be right willing to come and try it, i for one party.--meanwhile, i hope the naseby matter is steadily going ahead; sale _completed_; and even the _monument_ concern making way. tell me a little how that and other matters are. if you are at home, a line is rapidly conveyed hither, steam all the way: after the beginning of the next week, i am at chelsea, and (i dare so) there is a fire in the evenings now to welcome you there. shew face in some way or other. and so adieu; for my hour of riding is at hand. yours ever truly, t. carlyle. . to mrs. walsh, chelsea: sept. , . my dear aunt, now that i am fairly settled at home again, and can look back over my late travels with the coolness of a spectator, it seems to me that i must have tired out all men, women and children that have had to do with me by the road. the proverb says 'there is much ado when cadgers ride.' i do not know precisely what 'cadger' means, but i imagine it to be a character like me, liable to head-ache, to sea-sickness, to all the infirmities 'that flesh is heir to,' and a few others besides; the friends and relations of cadgers should therefore use all soft persuasions to induce them to remain at home.[ ] i got into that mail the other night with as much repugnance and trepidation as if it had been a phalaris' brazen bull, instead of a christian vehicle, invented for purposes of mercy--not of cruelty. there were three besides myself when we started, but two dropped off at the end of the first stage, and the rest of the way i had, as usual, half of the coach to myself. my fellow-passenger had that highest of all terrestrial qualities, which for me a fellow-passenger can possess--he was silent. i think his name was roscoe, and he read sundry long papers to himself, with the pondering air of a lawyer. we breakfasted at lichfield, at five in the morning, on muddy coffee and scorched toast, which made me once more lyrically recognise in my heart (not without a sign of regret) the very different coffee and toast with which you helped me out of my headache. at two there was another stop of ten minutes, that might be employed in lunching or otherwise. feeling myself more fevered than hungry, i determined on spending the time in combing my hair and washing my face and hands with vinegar. in the midst of this solacing operation i heard what seemed to be the mail running its rapid course, and quick as lightning it flashed on me, 'there it goes! and my luggage is on the top of it, and my purse is in the pocket of it, and here am i stranded on an unknown beach, without so much as a sixpence in my pocket to pay for the vinegar i have already consumed!' without my bonnet, my hair hanging down my back, my face half dried, and the towel, with which i was drying it, firm grasped in my hand, i dashed out--along, down, opening wrong doors, stumbling over steps, cursing the day i was born, still more the day on which i took a notion to travel, and arrived finally at the bar of the inn, in a state of excitement bordering on lunacy. the barmaids looked at me 'with wonder and amazement.' 'is the coach gone?' i gasped out. 'the coach? yes!' 'oh! and you have let it away without me! oh! stop it, cannot you stop it?' and out i rushed into the street, with streaming hair and streaming towel, and almost brained myself against--the mail! which was standing there in all stillness, without so much as a horse in it! what i had heard was a heavy coach. and now, having descended like a maniac, i ascended again like a fool, and dried the other half of my face, and put on my bonnet, and came back 'a sadder and a wiser woman.' i did not find my husband at the 'swan with two necks'; for we were in a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. so i had my luggage put on the backs of two porters, and walked on to cheapside, where i presently found a chelsea omnibus. by and by, however, the omnibus stopped, and amid cries of 'no room, sir,' 'can't get in,' carlyle's face, beautifully set off by a broad-brimmed white hat, gazed in at the door, like the peri, who, 'at the gate of heaven, stood disconsolate.' in hurrying along the strand, pretty sure of being too late, amidst all the imaginable and unimaginable phenomena which the immense thoroughfare of a street presents, his eye (heaven bless the mark!) had lighted on my trunk perched on the top of the omnibus, and had recognised it. this seems to me one of the most indubitable proofs of genius which he ever manifested. happily, a passenger went out a little further on, and then he got in. my brother-in-law had gone two days before, so my arrival was most well-timed. i found all at home right and tight; my maid seems to have conducted herself quite handsomely in my absence; my best room looked really inviting. a bust of shelley (a present from leigh hunt), and a fine print of albert durer, handsomely framed (also a present) had still further ornamented it during my absence. i also found (for i wish to tell you all my satisfaction) every grate in the house furnished with a supply of coloured clippings, and the holes in the stair-carpet all darned, so that it looks like new. they gave me tea and fried bacon, and staved off my headache as well as might be. they were very kind to me, but, on my life, everybody is kind to me, and to a degree that fills me with admiration. i feel so strong a wish to make you all convinced how very deeply i feel your kindness, and just the more i would say, the less able i am to say anything. god bless you all. love to all, from the head of the house down to johnny. your affectionate, jane w. carlyle. . to mrs. stirling, hill street, edinburgh. cheyne row, chelsea: october , . you dear nice woman! there you are! a bright cheering apparition to surprise one on a foggy october morning, over one's breakfast--that most trying institution for people who are 'nervous' and 'don't sleep!' it (the photograph) made our breakfast this morning 'pass off,' like the better sort of breakfasts in deerbrook,[ ] in which people seemed to have come into the world chiefly to eat breakfast in every possible variety of temper! blessed be the inventor of photography! i set him above even the inventor of chloroform! it has given more positive pleasure to poor suffering humanity than anything that has 'cast[ ] up' in my time or is like to--this art by which even the 'poor' can possess themselves of tolerable likenesses of their absent dear ones. and mustn't it be acting favourably on the morality of the country? i assure you i have often gone into my own room, in the devil's own humour--ready to answer at 'things in general,' and some things in particular--and, my eyes resting by chance on one of my photographs of long-ago places and people, a crowd of sad, gentle thoughts has rushed into my heart, and driven the devil out, as clean as ever so much holy water and priestly exorcism could have done! i have a photograph of haddington church tower, and my father's tombstone in it--of every place i ever lived at as a home--photographs of old lovers! old friends, old servants, old dogs! in a day or two, you, dear, will be framed and hung up among the 'friends.' and that bright, kind, indomitable face of yours will not be the least efficacious face there for exorcising my devil, when i have him! thank you a thousand times for keeping your word! of course you would--that is just the beauty of you, that you never deceive nor disappoint. oh my dear! my dear! how awfully tired i was with the journey home, and yet i had taken two days to it, sleeping--that is, attempting to sleep--at york. what a pity it is that scotland is so far off! all the good one has gained there gets shaken off one in the terrific journey home again, and then the different atmosphere is so trying to one fresh from the pure air of fife--so exhausting and depressing. if it hadn't been that i had a deal of housemaiding to execute during the week i was here before mr. c. returned, i must have given occasion for newspaper paragraphs under the head of 'melancholy suicide.' but dusting books, making chair covers, and 'all that sort of thing,' leads one on insensibly to live--till the crisis gets safely passed. my dear! i haven't time nor inclination for much letter-writing--nor have you, i should suppose, but do let us exchange letters now and then. a friendship which has lived on air for so many years together is worth the trouble of giving it a little human sustenance. give my kind regards to your husband--i like him--and believe me, your ever affectionate, jane welsh carlyle. footnotes: [ ] clever as she was, she surely made a mistake here--unless she did it on purpose, which is quite possible. "cadger" is of course only "beggar," and the proverb is the scotch equivalent of ours about the "beggar on horseback," pretty frequently illustrated now-a-days. [ ] the deerbrook breakfasts refer to miss martineau's poor novel. (t. c.) [ ] turned. (t. c.) thomas babington macaulay ( - ) there are very few examples in biography where the publication of letters has had a happier effect on the general idea of the writer than in macaulay's case. it is not here a question of historical trustworthiness, or even of literary-style, in both which respects he has come in for severe strictures and sometimes for rather half-hearted defence. nor do the letters display any purely literary gifts in him (except perhaps a playfulness of humour or at least wit) which do not appear in the _history_ and the _essays_. but, as the exception may perhaps partly indicate, they extend and improve the notion of his personality in the most remarkable fashion. even those who did not quarrel with his views sometimes, before sir george trevelyan's book, disliked and regretted what have been called his "pistolling ways"--the positive, hectoring "hold-your-tongue" sort of tone which dominated his productions. with the very rarest exceptions, themselves sometimes of a revealing and excusable frankness, this tone is, if not quite absent[ ] from, much seldomer present in, his letters. he jokes without difficulty; talks without in the least monopolising the conversation; shows himself often willing to live and let live; and is on the whole as different a person as possible from the macaulay who is sure that "every schoolboy" knows better than the author he is reviewing, and who finds johnson guilty of superstition and swift of apostasy. "happy thrice and more also" are those whose letters thus vindicate them. i have purposely chosen the following example (written to his sister) from the most _mundane_ class. "appointment" was to the _indian_ council, which explains the "cotton" and "muslin" and other things. "ellis" (thomas flower), a friend of macaulay's from cambridge days and his literary executor in part. "lushington" (stephen), a civilian lawyer of great eminence as a judge in admiralty and ecclesiastical matters, but a rather violent politician. "town"--leeds. "miss berry" is annotated elsewhere. "sir stratford canning," later viscount stratford de redcliffe, george canning's cousin, and one of the most famous diplomatists of the nineteenth century, especially during his long tenure of the embassy at constantinople. _vivian grey_--disraeli's first novel. "lady holland," the most famous hostess on the whig side in the first half of the nineteenth century, but, by all accounts, a person now and then quite intolerable. "allen" (john), an _edinburgh reviewer_, was familiarly called her "tame atheist" (all the company were of the holland house "set"). "bobus"--robert percy smith, sydney's elder brother, a great wit and scholar. "cosher," an irish word, is not always used in this sense of "chat." . to his sister london: november . dear hannah, things stand as they stood; except that the report of my appointment is every day spreading more widely; and that i am beset by advertising dealers begging leave to make up a hundred cotton shirts for me, and fifty muslin gowns for you, and by clerks out of place begging to be my secretaries. i am not in very high spirits to-day, as i have just received a letter from poor ellis, to whom i had not communicated my intentions till yesterday. he writes so affectionately and so plaintively that he quite cuts me to the heart. there are few indeed from whom i shall part with so much pain; and he, poor fellow, says that, next to his wife, i am the person for whom he feels the most thorough attachment, and in whom he places the most unlimited confidence. on the th of this month there is to be a dinner given to lushington by the electors of the tower hamlets. he has persecuted me with importunities to attend and make a speech for him; and my father has joined in the request. it is enough, in these times, heaven knows, for a man who represents, as i do, a town of a hundred and twenty thousand people to keep his own constituents in good humour; and the spitalfields weavers and whitechapel butchers are nothing to me. but, ever since i succeeded in what everybody allows to have been the most hazardous attempt of the kind ever made,--i mean in persuading an audience of manufacturers, all whigs or radicals, that the immediate alteration of the corn-laws was impossible,--i have been considered as a capital physician for desperate cases in politics. however, to return from that delightful theme, my own praises, lushington, who is not very popular with the rabble of the tower hamlets, thinks that an oration from me would give him a lift. i could not refuse him directly, backed as he was by my father. i only said that i would attend if i were in london on the th, but i added that, situated as i was, i thought it very probable that i should be out of town. i shall go to-night to miss berry's _soirée_. i do not know whether i told you that she resented my article on horace walpole so much that sir stratford canning advised me not to go near her. she was walpole's greatest favourite. his reminiscences are addressed to her in terms of the most gallant eulogy. when he was dying at past eighty, he asked her to marry him, merely that he might make her a countess and leave her his fortune. you know that in _vivian grey_ she is called miss otranto. i always expected that my article would put her into a passion, and i was not mistaken; but she has come round again, and sent me a most pressing and kind invitation the other day. i have been racketing lately, having dined twice with rogers, and once with grant. lady holland is in a most extraordinary state. she came to rogers's, with allen, in so bad a humour that we were all forced to rally, and make common cause against her. there was not a person at table to whom she was not rude; and none of us were inclined to submit. rogers sneered; sydney made merciless sport of her; tom moore looked excessively impertinent; bobus put her down with simple straightforward rudeness; and i treated her with what i meant to be the coldest civility. allen flew into a rage with us all, and especially with sydney, whose guffaws, as the scotch say, were indeed tremendous. when she and all the rest were gone, rogers made tom moore and me sit down with him for half an hour, and we coshered over the events of the evening. rogers said that he thought allen's firing up in defence of his patroness the best thing that he has seen in him. no sooner had tom and i got into the street than he broke forth: "that such an old stager as rogers should talk such nonsense, and give allen credit for attachment to anything but his dinner! allen was bursting with envy to see us so free, while he was conscious of his own slavery." her ladyship has been the better for this discipline. she has overwhelmed me ever since with attentions and invitations. i have at last found out the cause of her ill-humour, or at least of that portion of it of which i was the object. she is in a rage at my article on walpole, but at what part of it i cannot tell. i know that she is very intimate with the waldegraves, to whom the manuscripts belong, and for whose benefit the letters were published. but my review was surely not calculated to injure the sale of the book. lord holland told me, in an aside, that he quite agreed with me, but that we had better not discuss the subject. a note; and, by my life, from my lady holland: "dear mr. macaulay, pray wrap yourself very warm, and come to us on wednesday." no, my good lady. i am engaged on wednesday to dine at the albion tavern with the directors of the east india company; now my servants; next week, i hope, to be my masters. ever yours, t. b. m. footnotes: [ ] indeed it exemplifies defoe's favourite proverb about "what is bred in the bone," etc.--as for instance when, while admitting chesterfield's high position in some ways, he calls the _letters_ "for the most part trash." it is scarcely too much to call such criticism itself "trashy." thomas lovell beddoes ( - ) beddoes belongs to the small but remarkable company of authors who, making little mark in their own time and none at all for some time afterwards, before very long come into something like their due, though they never can be exactly popular. he was certainly very eccentric and possibly quite mad: the circumstances of his suicide do more than justify the hopes of charity and the convention of coroners' juries, as to the latter conclusion. but he was an extremely poetical poet and a letter-writer of remarkable individuality and zest. little notice seems to have been taken, by any save a very few elect, of the first collected publication of his work just after his death: though a single piece, _the bride's tragedy_, not by any means his best, had obtained praise in --a time between the great poetical outburst of the early nineteenth century and the revival of its middle period. but mr. gosse's reissue in completer form of the _poems_ in and the _letters_ four years later, lodged him at once in the affection of all competent critics. with something of the more eccentric spirit of the seventeenth century in him, and something of the romantic revival as shown in coleridge, shelley and keats, he had much of his own, though he never got it thoroughly or sustainedly organised and expressed. his mingled passion and humour (especially the latter) "escape"--make fitful spurts and explosions--in his correspondence. latterly this reflects his mental breakdown, increasingly in the prose; though only a few years before the end it contains wonderful verse such as the song, "the swallow leaves her nest," which is a link between blake and canon dixon. but earlier, as in the following, there is nothing beyond oddity. of this there may seem to be a good share, but a few notes will make it intelligible. it clearly heralds, though the thing is first definitely indicated in a later letter, beddoes' marvellous tragedy _death's jest-book_, which he wrote and re-wrote till it became like the picture in balzac's story an "unknown [and unknowable] masterpiece." the letter is further remarkable as combining intense admiration for the _old_ masterpieces with a quite "modern" insistence on "begetting" rather than "reviving"--on "giving the literature of the age a spirit of its own," etc. for details: "sulky" (compare the french _désobligeante_, celebrated by sterne)--an obsolete form of chaise. "breaking priscian's head" is familiar enough for "using bad grammar," which the book-keeper very likely did; but the explanation may be more remote. "like a ghost from the tomb" though not "quoted" is, of course, his beloved shelley's ("the cloud"). "_biped_ knock" = merely "double"--the peculiar rat-tat which postmen have mostly forgotten or not learnt--perhaps regarding it as a badge of slavery like "tips." _the fatal dowry_--attributed to (field and) massinger, and spoilt by rowe into his nevertheless popular _fair penitent_,--is one of the finest examples of the second stage of elizabethan drama. _ultracrepidarian_--a term derived from the latin proverb _ne sutor supra_ (or _ultra_) _crepidam_ and specially applied to the unpopular critic gifford who had been a shoemaker--meaning generally "some one who _does_ go beyond his last and meddles with things he does not understand." "mccready's" (macready, the famous actor and manager) friend walker was probably sidney walker the shakespearian critic. . to thomas forbes kelsall mall, clifton. (postmark, jan. . ) dear kelsall-- day after day since christmas i have intended to write or go to london, and day after day i have deferred both projects; and now i will give you the adventures and mishaps of this present sunday. remorse, and startling conscience, in the form of an old, sulky, and a shying, horse, hurried me to the 'regulator' coach-office on saturday: 'does the regulator and its team conform to the mosaic decalogue, mr. book-keeper?' he broke priscian's head, and through the aperture, assured me that it did not: i was booked for the inside:--"call at mall for me."--"yes, sir, at / past five, a.m."--at five i rose like a ghost from the tomb, and betook me to coffee. no wheels rolled through the streets but the inaudible ones of that uncreated hour. it struck six,--a coach was called,--we hurried to the office but _the_ coach was gone. here followed a long brutus-and-cassius discourse between a shilling-buttoned-waistcoatteer of a porter and myself, which ended in my extending mercy to the suppliant coach-owners, and agreeing to accept a place for monday. all well thus far. the biped knock of the post alighted on the door at twelve, and two letters were placed upon my german dictionary,--your own, which i at first intended to reply to vivâ voce, had not the second informed me of my brother's arrival in england, his short leave of absence, and his intention to visit me here next week. this twisted my strong purpose like a thread, and disposed me to remain here about ten days longer. on the st at latest i go to london. be there and i will join you, or, if not, pursue you to southampton. the fatal dowry has been cobbled, i see, by some purblind ultra-crepidarian--mccready's friend, walker, very likely; but nevertheless, i maintain 'tis a good play, and might have been rendered very effective by docking it of the whole fifth act, which is an excrescence,--re-creating novall, and making beaumelle a great deal more ghost-gaping and moonlightish. the cur-tailor has taken out the most purple piece in the whole web--the end of the fourth act--and shouldered himself into toleration through the prejudices of the pit, when he should have built his admiration on their necks. say what you will, i am convinced the man who is to awaken the drama must be a bold trampling fellow, no creeper into worm-holes, no reviver even, however good. these reanimations are vampire-cold. such ghosts as marloe, webster &c. are better dramatists, better poets, i dare say, than any contemporary of ours, but they are ghosts; the worm is in their pages; and we want to see something that our great-grandsires did not know. with the greatest reverence for all the antiquities of the drama, i still think that we had better beget than revive; attempt to give the literature of this age an idiosyncrasy and spirit of its own, and only raise a ghost to gaze on, not to live with--just now the drama is a haunted ruin. * * * * * elizabeth barrett browning ( - ) mrs. browning was in the habit of using rather extravagant language herself: and she has certainly been the victim of language extravagant enough both in praise (the more damaging of the two) and blame from others. fitzgerald's unlucky exaggeration (see introduction) in one way may be set off by such opposite assertions as that some of her poems are "the best of their kind in the english language." but her letters need cause no such alarums and excursions. if they are sometimes what is called by youth "early victorian"--"early anything," and "middle anything" and "late anything," are sure to be found sooner or later by all wise persons to have their own place in life and history. and sentimentalism has, in private prose, an infinitely less provocative character than when it is displayed in published verse. a distinguished scotch philosopher of the last generation laid it down that, in literature, for demonstrative exhibitions of affection and sorrow "the occasion should be adequate, and the actuality rare." but letter-writing, though it can be eminently literary, is always literature with a certain license attached to it: arising from the fact that it was not--or ought not to have been--intended for publication. and that naturalness of which so much has been said is displayed constantly and by no means disagreeably in elizabeth barrett browning's epistles. in fact, you cannot help liking her the better for them--which in one way at least is the supreme test. the following, written soon after her marriage--an elopement of a kind, but certainly justifiable if ever one was--is a very pleasant specimen in more ways than one, as regards taste, temper, and descriptive powers. it also contains no criticism, which in her case was apt to be extremely uncertain. . to mrs. martin (pisa) november , ( ) it was pleasant to me, my dearest friend, to think while i was reading your letter yesterday, that almost by that time you had received mine, and could not even seem to doubt a moment longer whether i admitted your claim of hearing and of speaking to the uttermost. i recognised you too entirely as my friend. because you had put faith in me, so much the more reason there was that i should justify it as far as i could, and with as much frankness (which was a part of my gratitude to you) as was possible from a woman to a woman. always i have felt that you have believed in me and loved me, and, for the sake of the past and of the present, your affection and your esteem are more to me than i could afford to lose, even in these changed and happy circumstances. so i thank you once more, my dear kind friends, i thank you both--i never shall forget your goodness. i feel it, of course, the more deeply, in proportion to the painful disappointment in other quarters.... am i bitter? the feeling, however, passes while i write it out, and my own affection for everybody will wait patiently to be 'forgiven' in the proper form, when everybody shall be at leisure properly. assuredly, in the meanwhile, however, my case is not to be classed with other cases--what happened to me could not have happened, perhaps, with any other family in england.... i hate and loathe everything too which is clandestine--we _both_ do, robert and i; and the manner the whole business was carried on in might have instructed the least acute of the bystanders. the flowers standing perpetually on my table for the last two years were brought there by one hand, as everybody knew; and really it would have argued an excess of benevolence in an unmarried man with quite enough resources in london, to pay the continued visits he paid to me without some strong motive indeed. was it his fault that he did not associate with everybody in the house as well as with me? he desired it; but no--that was not to be. the endurance of the pain of the position was not the least proof of his attachment to me. how i thank you for believing in him--how grateful it makes me! he will justify to the uttermost that faith. we have been married two months, and every hour has bound me to him more and more; if the beginning was well, still better it is now--that is what he says to me, and i say back again day by day. then it is an 'advantage' to have an inexhaustible companion who talks wisdom of all things in heaven and earth, and shows besides as perpetual a good humour and gaiety as if he were--a fool, shall i say? or a considerable quantity more, perhaps. as to our domestic affairs, it is not to _my_ honour and glory that the 'bills' are made up every week and paid more regularly 'than bard beseems,' while dear mrs. jameson laughs outright at our miraculous prudence and economy, and declares that it is past belief and precedent that we should not burn the candles at both ends, and the next moment will have it that we remind her of the children in a poem of heine's who set up housekeeping in a tub, and inquired gravely the price of coffee. ah, but she has left pisa at last--left it yesterday. it was a painful parting to everybody. seven weeks spent in such close neighbourhood--a month of it under the same roof and in the same carriages--will fasten people together, and then travelling _shakes_ them together. a more affectionate, generous woman never lived than mrs. jameson[ ] and it is pleasant to be sure that she loves us both from her heart, and not only _du bout des lèvres_. think of her making robert promise (as he has told me since) that in the case of my being unwell he would write to her instantly, and she would come at once if anywhere in italy. so kind, so like her. she spends the winter in rome, but an intermediate, month at florence, and we are to keep tryst with her somewhere in the spring, perhaps at venice. if not, she says that she will come back here, for that certainly she will see us. she would have stayed altogether perhaps, if it had not been for her book upon art which she is engaged to bring out next year, and the materials for which are to be _sought_. as to pisa, she liked it just as we like it. oh, it is so beautiful and so full of repose, yet not _desolate_: it is rather the repose of sleep than of death. then after the first ten days of rain, which seemed to refer us fatally to alfieri's 'piove e ripiove' came as perpetual a divine sunshine, such cloudless, exquisite weather that we ask whether it may not be june instead of november. every day i am out walking while the golden oranges look at me over the walls, and when i am tired robert and i sit down on a stone to watch the lizards. we have been to your seashore, too, and seen your island, only he insists on it (robert does) that it is not corsica but gorgona, and that corsica is not in sight. _beautiful_ and blue the island was, however, in any case. it might have been romero's instead of either. also we have driven up to the foot of the mountains, and seen them reflected down in the little pure lake of ascuno, and we have seen the pine woods, and met the camels laden with faggots all in a line. so now ask me again if i enjoy my liberty as you expect. my head goes round sometimes, that is all. i never was happy before in my life. ah, but, of course, the painful thoughts recur! there are some whom i love too tenderly to be easy under their displeasure, or even under their injustice. only it seems to me that with time and patience my poor dearest papa will be melted into opening his arms to us--will be melted into a clear understanding of motives and intentions; i cannot believe that he will forget me, as he says he will, and go on thinking me to be dead rather than alive and happy. so i manage to hope for the best, and all that remains, all my life here, _is_ best already, could not be better or happier. and willingly tell dear mr. martin i would take him and you for witnesses of it, and in the meanwhile he is not to send me tantalising messages; no, indeed, unless you really, really, should let yourselves be wafted our way, and could you do so much better at pau? particularly if fanny hanford should come here. will she really? the climate is described by the inhabitants as a 'pleasant spring throughout the winter,' and if you were to see robert and me threading our path along the shady side everywhere to avoid the 'excessive heat of the sun' in this november (?) it would appear a good beginning. we are not in the warm orthodox position by the arno because we heard with our ears one of the best physicians of the place advise against it. 'better,' he said, 'to have cool rooms to live in and warm walks to go out along.' the rooms we have are rather over-cool perhaps; we are obliged to have a little fire in the sitting-room, in the mornings and evenings that is; but i do not fear for the winter, there is too much difference to my feelings between this november and any english november i ever knew. we have our dinner from the trattoria at two o'clock, and can dine our favourite way on thrushes and chianti with a miraculous cheapness, and no trouble, no cook, no kitchen; the prophet elijah or the lilies of the field took as little thought for their dining, which exactly suits us. it is a continental fashion which we never cease commending. then at six we have coffee, and rolls of milk, made of milk, i mean, and at nine our supper (call it supper, if you please) of roast chestnuts and grapes. so you see how primitive we are, and how i forget to praise the eggs at breakfast. the worst of pisa is, or would be to some persons, that, socially speaking, it has its dullnesses; it is not lively like florence, not in that way. but we do not want society, we shun it rather. we like the duomo and the campo santo instead. then we know a little of professor ferucci, who gives us access to the university library, and we subscribe to a modern one, and we have plenty of writing to do of our own. if we can do anything for fanny hanford, let us know. it would be too happy, i suppose, to have to do it for yourselves. think, however, i am quite well, quite well. i can thank god, too, for being alive and well. make dear mr. martin keep well, and not forget himself in the herefordshire cold--draw him into the sun somewhere. now write and tell me everything of your plans and of you both, dearest friends. my husband bids me say that he desires to have my friends for his own friends, and that he is grateful to you for not crossing that feeling. let him send his regards to you. and let me be throughout all changes, your ever faithful and most affectionate, ba. footnotes: [ ] anna jameson ( - ) was a woman of letters and an art-critic at one time of immense influence through her illustrated books on "sacred and legendary" (as well as some other) "art." but, as somehow or other happens not infrequently, the objects of her "affection and generosity" did not include her husband. edward fitzgerald ( - ) not much need be added to what was said in the introduction about this famous translator and almost equally, though less uniquely, remarkable letter-writer. his life was entirely uneventful and his friendships have been already commemorated. the version of omar khayyàm appeared in ; was an utter "drug"--remainder copies going at a few pence--for a time; but became one of the most admired books of the english nineteenth century before very long. some of his _letters_ were published at various times from to (those to fanny kemble in ). it is not perhaps merely fanciful to suggest that the "uniqueness" above glanced at does supply a sort of connection between the _letters_ and the _works_. the faculty of at once retaining the matter of a subject and transforming it in treatment has perhaps never, as regards translation, been exhibited in such transcendence as in the english _rubaiyàt_. but something of this same faculty must belong to every good letter-writer--and a good deal of it certainly is shown by fitzgerald in _his_ letters. indeed one of the processes of letter-and memoir-study (the memoir as has been said is practically an "open" letter) is that of comparing the treatments of the same subject by different persons--say of the great fire by pepys and evelyn, of the riots of ' by walpole and johnson. he himself, as will be seen, calls the letter given below "not very interesting." it seems to me very interesting indeed: and likely to be increasingly so as time goes on. few things could be more characteristic of the writer than his way of "visiting his sister" by living alone in lodgings all _day_ for a month. the "_old_ age"--forty-five--is hardly less so. the allusions to "alfred" (tennyson); "old" thackeray, for whom he constantly keeps the affectionate school and college use of the adjective; landor[ ] (who unluckily did _not_ die at bath though he might have done so but for one of the last and least creditable of his eccentricities); beckford ("old vathek"), and a fourth "old," rogers (who was one of fitzgerald's aversions); oxford (as yet almost unstained by any modernities spiritual or material); and bath[ ] (to remain still longer a "haunt of ancient peace")--are precious. the fifth "old," spedding, who devoted chiefly to bacon talents worthy of more varied exercise, was one of the innermost tennyson set, as was "harry" lushington, who died very soon after this letter was written. "your book" is f. tennyson's _days and hours_, a volume of poetry while reading which probably many people have wondered in what respect it came short of really great poetry, though they felt it did so. . to frederic tennyson bath may / . my dear frederic, you see to what fashionable places i am reduced in my old age. the truth is however i am come here by way of visit to a sister i have scarce seen these six years; my visit consisting in this that i live alone in a lodging of my own by day, and spend two or three hours with her in the evening. this has been my way of life for three weeks, and will be so for some ten days more: after which i talk of flying back to more native counties. i was to have gone on to see alfred in his "island home" from here: but it appears he goes to london about the same time i quit this place: so i must and shall defer my visit to him. perhaps i shall catch a sight of him in london; as also of old thackeray who, donne writes me word, came suddenly on him in pall mall the other day: while all the while people supposed _the newcomes_ were being indited at rome or naples. if ever you live in england you must live here at bath. it really is a splendid city in a lovely, even a noble, country. did you ever see it? one beautiful feature in the place is the quantity of garden and orchard it is all through embroidered with. then the streets, when you go into them, are as handsome and gay as london, gayer and handsomer because cleaner and in a clearer atmosphere; and if you want the country you get into it (and a very fine country) on all sides and directly. then there is such choice of houses, cheap as well as dear, of all sizes, with good markets, railways etc. i am not sure i shall not come here for part of the winter. it is a place you would like, i am sure: though i do not say but you are better in florence. then on the top of the hill is old vathek's tower, which he used to sit and read in daily, and from which he could see his own fonthill, while it stood. old landor quoted to me 'nullus in orbe locus, etc.,' apropos of bath: he, you may know, has lived here for years, and i should think would die here, though not yet. he seems so strong that he may rival old rogers; of whom indeed one newspaper gave what is called an 'alarming report of mr. rogers' health' the other day, but another contradicted it directly and indignantly, and declared the venerable poet never was better. landor has some hundred and fifty pictures; each of which he thinks the finest specimen of the finest master, and has a long story about, how he got it, when, etc. i dare say some are very good: but also some very bad. he appeared to me to judge of them as he does of books and men; with a most uncompromising perversity which the phrenologists must explain to us after his death. by the bye, about your book, which of course you wish me to say something about. parker sent me down a copy 'from the author' for which i hereby thank you. if you believe my word, you already know my estimation of so much that is in it: you have already guessed that i should have made a different selection from the great volume which is now in tatters. as i differ in taste from the world, however, quite as much as from you, i do not know but you have done very much better in choosing as you have; the few people i have seen are very much pleased with it, the cowells at oxford delighted. a bookseller there sold all his copies the first day they came down: and even in bath a bookseller (and not one of the principal) told me a fortnight ago he had sold some twenty copies. i have not been in town since it came out: and have now so little correspondence with literati i can't tell you about them. there was a very unfair review in the _athenaeum_; which is the only literary paper i see: but i am told there are laudatory ones in _examiner_ and _spectator_. i was five weeks at oxford, visiting the cowells in just the same way that i am visiting my sister here. i also liked oxford greatly: but not so well i think as bath: which is so large and busy that one is drowned in it as much as in london. there are often concerts, etc., for those who like them; i only go to a shilling affair that comes off every saturday at what they call the pump room. on these occasions there is sometimes some good music if not excellently played. last saturday i heard a fine trio of beethoven. mendelssohn's things are mostly tiresome to me. i have brought my old handel book here and recreate myself now and then with pounding one of the old giant's overtures on my sister's piano, as i used to do on that spinnet at my cottage. as to operas, and exeter halls, i have almost done with them: they give me no pleasure, i scarce know why. i suppose there is no chance of your being over in england this year, and perhaps as little chance of my being in italy. all i can say is, the latter is not impossible, which i suppose i may equally say of the former. but pray write me. you can always direct to me at donne's, , st. james' square, or at rev. g. crabbe's, bredfield, woodbridge. either way the letter will soon reach me. write soon, frederic, and let me hear how you and yours are: and don't wait, as you usually do, for some inundation of the arno to set your pen agoing. write ever so shortly and whatever-about-ly. i have no news to tell you of friends. i saw old spedding in london; only doubly calm after the death of a niece he dearly loved and whose deathbed at hastings he had just been waiting upon. harry lushington wrote a martial ode on seeing the guards march over waterloo bridge towards the east: i did not see it, but it was much admired and handed about, i believe. and now my paper is out: and i am going through the rain (it is said to rain very much here) to my sister's. so goodbye, and write to me, as i beg you, in reply to this long if not very interesting letter. footnotes: [ ] "fitz's" remarks on landor's judgment of "pictures, books and men" are very amusing; for they have been often repeated in regard to his own on all these subjects. in fact the two, though fitzgerald was not so childish as landor, had much in common. [ ] the curious eulogy--preferring it to oxford as being "large and busy" enough to "drown one as much" as london--is also very characteristic of fitzgerald. you can be alone in the country _and_ in a large town--hardly in a small one. frances anne kemble ( - ) to what has been said before of this remarkably gifted lady little need be added. the two letters which follow, derived from _further records_ (london, ), were written rather late in her life, but are characteristic, in ways partly coinciding, partly divergent, of her strong intellect[ ] and her powers of expression. the note to the ghost-story leaves open the question whether fanny did or did not know the accepted doctrine that the master and mistress of a haunted house are exempt from actual haunting. the "whiff of grape-shot" (as carlyle might have called it) on the "bakespearian" absurdity is one of the best things on the subject that the present writer, in a long and wide experience, has come across. . to h---- [extract] york farm, branchtown, philadelphia, monday may th, . one evening that my maid was sitting in the room from which she could see the whole of the staircase and upper landing, she saw the door of my bedroom open, and an elderly woman in a flannel dressing-gown, with a bonnet on her head, and a candle in her hand come out, walk the whole length of the passage, and return again into the bedroom, shutting the door after her. my maid knew that i was in the drawing-room below in my usual black velvet evening dress; moreover, the person she had seen bore no resemblance either in figure or face to me, or to any member of my household, which consisted of three young servant women besides herself, and a negro man-servant. my maid was a remarkably courageous and reasonable person, and, though very much startled (for she went directly upstairs and found no one in the rooms), she kept her counsel, and mentioned the circumstance to nobody, though, as she told me afterwards, she was so afraid lest i should have a similar visitation, that she was strongly tempted to ask dr. w----'s advice as to the propriety of mentioning her experience to me. she refrained from doing so, however, and some time later, as she was sitting in the dusk in the same room, the man-servant came in to light the gas and made her start, observing which, he said, "why, lors, miss ellen, you jump as if you had seen a ghost." in spite of her late experience, ellen very gravely replied, "nonsense, william, how can you talk such stuff! you don't believe in such things as ghosts, do you?" "well," he said, "i don't know just so sure what to say to that, seeing it's very well known there was a ghost in this house." "pshaw!" said ellen. "whose ghost?" "well, poor mrs. r----'s ghost, it's very well known, walks about this house, and no great wonder either, seeing how miserably she lived and died here." to ellen's persistent expressions of contemptuous incredulity, he went on, "well, miss ellen, all i can say is, several girls" (_i.e._ maid-servants) "have left this house on account of it"; and there the conversation ended. some days after this, ellen coming into the drawing-room to speak to me, stopped abruptly at the door, and stood there, having suddenly recognized in a portrait immediately opposite to it, and which was that of the dead mistress of the house, the face of the person she had seen come out of my bedroom. i think this a very tidy ghost story; and i am bound to add, as a proper commentary on it, that i have never inhabited a house which affected me with a sense of such intolerable melancholy gloominess as this; without any assignable reason whatever, either in its situation or any of its conditions. my maid, to the present day, persists in every detail (and without the slightest variation) of this experience of hers, absolutely rejecting my explanation of it; that she had heard, without paying any particular attention to it, some talk among the other servants about the ghost in the house, which had remained unconsciously to her in her memory, and reproduced itself in this morbid nervous effect of her imagination. . to h---- [extract] york farm, sunday, december th, . my dearest h----, it is not possible for me to feel the slightest interest in the sort of literary feat which i consider writing upon "who wrote shakespeare?" to be. i was very intimate with harness, milman, dyce, collier--all shakespearian editors, commentators, and scholars--and this absurd theory about bacon, which was first broached a good many years ago, never obtained credit for a moment with them; nor did they ever entertain for an instant a doubt that the plays attributed to william shakespeare of stratford-on-avon were really written by him. now i am intimately acquainted and in frequent communication with william donne, edward fitzgerald, and james spedding, all thorough shakespeare scholars, and the latter a man who has just published a work upon bacon, which has been really the labour of his life; none of these men, competent judges of the matter, ever mentions the question of "who wrote shakespeare?" except as a ludicrous thing to be laughed at, and i think they may be trusted to decide whether it is or is not so. i have a slight feeling of disgust at the attack made thus on the personality of my greatest mental benefactor; and consider the whole thing a misapplication, not to say waste, of time and ingenuity that might be better employed. as i regard the memory of shakespeare with love, veneration, and gratitude, and am proud and happy to be his countrywoman, considering it among the privileges of my english birth, i resent the endeavour to prove that he deserved none of these feelings, but was a mere literary impostor. i wonder the question had any interest for you, for i should not have supposed you imagined shakespeare had not written his own plays, irish though you be. do you remember the servant's joke in the farce of "high life below stairs" where the cook asks, "who wrote shakespeare?" and one of the others answers, with, at any rate, partial plausibility, "oh! why, colley cibber, to be sure!" footnotes: [ ] sometimes one thinks her the wisest woman who ever lived. "nothing seems stranger than the delusions of other people _when they have ceased to be our own_" suggests la rochefoucauld and comes near to solomon; but whosoever may have anticipated or prompted her, he is not at the moment within my memory. but she is often not wise at all: and even her good wits are not always left unaffected by her bad temper. it is really amusing to read mrs. carlyle's rather mischievous account of mrs. butler (f. k.'s married name) calling and carrying a whip "to keep her hand in": and _then_ to come on f. k.'s waspish resentment at these words, when they were published. william makepeace thackeray ( - ) so much has been said of thackeray's letter-writing powers in the introduction that not much need be added here on the general side. but a few words may be allowed on what we may call the _conditioning_ circumstances which affected these powers, and made the result so peculiar. except in swift's case--a thing piquant in itself considering the injustice of the later writer to the earlier--hardly any body of letters exhibits these conditions so obviously and in so varied a fashion. in both there was the utmost intellectual satire combined with the utmost tenderness of feeling. thackeray of course, partly from nature and partly from the influence of time, did not mask his tenderness and double-edge his severity with roughness and coarseness. but the combination was intrinsically not very different. there has also to be taken into account in thackeray's case domestic sorrow--coming quickly and life-long after it began; means long restricted (partly by his own folly but not so more tolerable); recognition of genius almost as long deferred; and yet other "maladies of the soul." the result was a constant ferment, of which the letters are in a way the relieving valve or tap. that they are often apparently light-hearted has nothing surprising in it: for when a man habitually "eats his heart" it naturally becomes lighter--till there is nothing of it left. he is, however, not easy to "sample," there being, as has been said, no authorised collection to draw upon and other difficulties in the way. what follows may serve for fault of a better: and the _spectator_ letter-pastiche referred to above under walpole, will complete it perhaps more appropriately than may at first appear. for while the latter is quite addisonian, not merely in dress but in body, its soul is blended of two natures--the model's and the artist's--in the rather uncanny fashion which makes _esmond_ as a whole so marvellous, except to those stalwarts who hold that, as nobody before the twentieth century knew anything about anything, thackeray could not know about the eighteenth. . to miss lucy baxter washington, saturday feb. . . my dear little kind lucy: i began to write you a letter in the railroad yesterday, but it bumped with more than ordinary violence, and i was forced to give up the endeavour. i did not know how ill lucy was at that time, only remembered that i owed her a letter for that pretty one you wrote me at philadelphia, when sarah was sick and you acted as her secretary. is there going to be always somebody sick at the brown house? if i were to come there now, i wonder should i be allowed to come and see you in your night-cap--i wonder even do you wear a night-cap? i should step up, take your little hand, which i daresay is lying outside the coverlet, give it a little shake; and then sit down and talk all sorts of stuff and nonsense to you for half an hour; but very kind and gentle, not so as to make you laugh too much or your little back ache any more. did i not tell you to leave off that beecely jimnayshum? i am always giving fine advice to girls in brown houses, and they always keep on never minding. it is not difficult to write lying in bed--this is written not in bed, but on a sofa. if you write the upright hand it's quite easy; slanting-dicular is not so pleasant, though. i have just come back from baltimore and find your mother's and sister's melancholy letters. i thought to myself, perhaps i might see them on this very sofa and pictured to myself their kind faces. mr. crampton was going to ask them to dinner, i had made arrangements to get sarah nice partners at the ball--why did dear little lucy tumble down at the gymnasium? many a pretty plan in life tumbles down so, miss lucy, and falls on its back. but the good of being ill is to find how kind one's friends are; of being at a pinch (i do not know whether i may use the expression--whether "pinch" is an indelicate word in this country; it is used by our old writers to signify poverty, narrow circumstances, res angusta)--the good of being poor, i say, is to find friends to help you, i have been both ill and poor, and found, thank god, such consolation in those evils; and i daresay at this moment, now you are laid up, you are the person of the most importance in the whole house--sarah is sliding about the room with cordials in her hands and eyes; libby is sitting quite disconsolate by the bed (poor libby! when one little bird fell off the perch, i wonder the other did not go up and fall off, too!) the expression of sympathy in ben's eyes is perfectly heart-rending; even george is quiet; and your father, mother and uncle (all so notorious for their violence of temper and language) have actually forgotten to scold. "ach, du lieber himmel," says herr strumpf--isn't his name herr strumpf?--the german master, "die schöne fräulein ist krank!" and bursts into tears on the pianofortyfier's shoulder when they hear the news (through his sobs) from black john. we have an ebony femme de chambre here; when i came from baltimore just now i found her in the following costume and attitude standing for her picture to mr. crowe. she makes the beds with that pipe in her mouf and leaves it about in the rooms. wouldn't she have been a nice lady's-maid for your mother and miss bally saxter? but even if miss lucy had not had her fall, i daresay there would have been no party. here is a great snow-storm falling, though yesterday was as bland and bright as may (english may, i mean) and how could we have lionized baltimore, and gone to mount vernon, and taken our diversion in the snow? there would have been nothing for it but to stay in this little closet of a room, where there is scarce room for people, and where it is not near so comfortable as the brown house. dear old b.h., shall i see it again soon? i shall not go farther than charleston, and savannah probably, and then i hope i shall get another look at you all again before i commence farther wanderings--o, stop! i didn't tell you why i was going to write you--well, i went on thursday to dine with governor and mrs. fish, a dinner in honor of me--and before i went i arrayed myself in a certain white garment of which the collar-button-holes had been altered, and i thought of the kind, friendly little hand that had done that deed for me; and when the fisheses told me how they lived in the second avenue (i had forgotten all about 'em)--their house and the house opposite came back to my mind, and i liked them times better for living near some friends of mine. she is a nice woman, madam fish, besides; and didn't i abuse you all to her? good bye, dear little lucy--i wish the paper wasn't full. but i have been sitting half an hour by the poor young lady's sofa, and talking stuff and nonsense, haven't i? and now i get up, and shake your hand with a god bless you! and walk down stairs, and please to give everybody my kindest regards, and remember that i am truly your friend. w. m. t. . the "trumpet" coffee-house, whitehall. 'mr spectator-- 'i am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town, though i have had a university education, and passed some years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the coffee-houses and st. james's. 'two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the county of kent; and being at tunbridge wells last summer, after my mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great kentish house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more good than the best-intentioned man can), i was greatly fascinated by a young lady of london, who was the toast of all the company at the wells. everyone knows saccharissa's beauty; and i think, mr. spectator, no one better than herself. 'my table-book informs me that i danced no less than seven-and-twenty sets with her at the assembly. i treated her to the fiddles twice. i was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. it was only when i found, from common talk of the company at the wells, and from narrowly watching one, who i once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that i became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature was but a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. 'tis admiration such women want, not love that touches them; and i can conceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her. 'business calling me to london, i went to st. james's church last sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the wells. her behaviour during the whole service was so pert, languishing and absurd; she flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that i was obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever i opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring at me. i fell in with her afterwards at court, and at the playhouse; and here nothing would satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her house, nor very far from ch--r--ng cr--ss. 'having made her a promise to attend, of course i kept my promise; and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers. i made the best bow i could, and advanced towards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name. 'her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that i had guessed aright. she turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names and words; and i replied with as ridiculous, fulsome compliments as i could pay her; indeed, one in which i compared her to an angel visiting the sick-wells, went a little too far; nor should i have employed it, but that the allusion came from the second lesson last sunday, which we both had heard, and i was pressed to answer her. 'then she came to the question, which i knew was awaiting me, and asked how i _spelt_ my name? "madam," says i, turning on my heel, "i spell it with the y." and so i left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader. 'cymon wyldoats. 'you know my real name, mr. spectator, in which there is no such a letter as _hupsilon_. but if the lady, whom i have called saccharissa, wonders that i appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed the reason y.' charles dickens ( - ) there are few better examples by converse of the saying (familiar in various forms and sometimes specially applied to writing and answering letters) that it is only idle people who have no time to do anything, than dickens. he was by no means long-lived: and for the last three-fifths--practically the whole busy time--of his life, he was one of the busiest of men. he wrote many universally known books, and not a few, in some cases not so well known, articles. he travelled a great deal; edited periodicals for many years, taking that duty by no means in the spirit of olympian aloofness which some popular opinion connects with editorship; only sometimes shirked society; and had all sorts of miscellaneous occupations and avocations. his very fancy for long walks might seem one of the least compatible with letter-writing; yet a very large bulk of his letters (by no means mainly composed of editorial ones) has been published, and there are no doubt many unpublished. there have been different opinions as to their comparative rank as letters, but there can be no difference as to the curious full-bloodedness and plenitude of life which, in this as in all other divisions of his writing, characterises dickens's expression of his thoughts and feelings. perhaps, as might be generally though not universally expected, the comic ones are the more delightful: at any rate they seem best worth giving here. the first--to a schoolboy who had written to him about _nicholas nickleby_--is quite charming; the second, to the famous actor-manager who after being a londoner by birth and residence for half a century had just retired, is almost charles lamb-like; and the third deserved to have been put in the original mouth of mrs. gamp![ ] . to master hastings hughes doughty street, london. dec. th. . respected sir, i have given squeers one cut on the neck and two on the head, at which he appeared much surprised and began to cry, which, being a cowardly thing, is just what i should have expected from him--wouldn't you? i have carefully done what you told me in your letter about the lamb and the two "sheeps" for the little boys. they have also had some good ale and porter, and some wine. i am sorry you didn't say _what_ wine you would like them to have. i gave them some sherry, which they liked very much, except one boy, who was a little sick and choked a good deal. he was rather greedy, and that's the truth, and i believe it went the wrong way, which i say served him right, and i hope you will say so too. nicholas had his roast lamb, as you said he was to, but he could not eat it all, and says if you do not mind his doing so he should like to have the rest hashed to-morrow with some greens, which he is very fond of, and so am i. he said he did not like to have his porter hot, for he thought it spoilt the flavour, so i let him have it cold. you should have seen him drink it. i thought he never would have left off. i also gave him three pounds of money, all in sixpences, to make it seem more, and he said directly that he should give more than half to his mamma and sister, and divide the rest with poor smike. and i say he is a good fellow for saying so; and if anybody says he isn't i am ready to fight him whenever they like--there! fanny squeers shall be attended to, depend upon it. your drawing of her is very like, except that i don't think the hair is quite curly enough. the nose is particularly like hers, and so are the legs. she is a nasty disagreeable thing, and i know it will make her very cross when she sees it; and what i say is that i hope it may. you will say the same i know--at least i think you will. i meant to have written you a long letter, but i cannot write very fast when i like the person i am writing to, because that makes me think about them, and i like you, and so i tell you. besides, it is just eight o'clock at night, and i always go to bed at eight o'clock, except when it is my birthday, and then i sit up to supper. so i will not say anything more besides this--and that is my love to you and neptune; and if you will drink my health every christmas day i will drink yours--come. i am, respected sir, your affectionate friend. p.s. i don't write my name very plain,[ ] but you know what it is you know, so never mind. . to mr. w. c. macready saturday, may th, . my dear macready, we are getting in a good heap of money for the guild. the comedy has been very much improved, in many respects, since you read it. the scene to which you refer is certainly one of the most telling in the play. and there _is_ a farce to be produced on tuesday next, wherein a distinguished amateur will sustain a variety of assumption-parts, and in particular, samuel weller and mrs. gamp, of which i say no more. i am pining for broadstairs, where the children are at present. i lurk from the sun, during the best part of the day, in a villainous compound of darkness, canvas, sawdust, general dust, stale gas (involving a vague smell of pepper), and disenchanted properties. but i hope to get down on wednesday or thursday. ah! you country gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how little do you think of us among the london fleas! but they tell me you are coming in for dorsetshire. you must be very careful, when you come to town to attend to your parliamentary duties, never to ask your way of people in the streets. they will misdirect you for what the vulgar call "a lark," meaning, in this connection, a jest at your expense. always go into some respectable shop or apply to a policeman. you will know him by his being dressed in blue, with very dull silver buttons, and by the top of his hat being made of sticking-plaster. you may perhaps see in some odd place an intelligent-looking man, with a curious little wooden table before him and three thimbles on it. he will want you to bet, but don't do it. he really desires to cheat you. and don't buy at auctions where the best plated goods are being knocked down for next to nothing. these, too, are delusions. if you wish to go to the play to see real good acting (though a little more subdued than perfect tragedy should be), i would recommend you to see ---- at the theatre royal, drury lane. anybody will show it to you. it is near the strand, and you may know it by seeing no company whatever at any of the doors. cab fares are eightpence a mile. a mile london measure is half a dorsetshire mile, recollect. porter is twopence per pint; what is called stout is fourpence. the zoological gardens are in the regent's park, and the price of admission is one shilling. of the streets, i would recommend you to see regent street and the quadrant, bond street, piccadilly, oxford street, and cheapside. i think these will please you after a time, though the tumult and bustle will at first bewilder you. if i can serve you in any way, pray command me. and with my best regards to your happy family, so remote from this babel. believe me, my dear friend, ever affectionately yours. [charles dickens] p.s. i forgot to mention just now that the black equestrian figure you will see at charing cross, as you go down to the house, is a statue of _king charles the first_.[ ] . to mr. edmund yates tavistock house, tuesday, feb. nd. . my dear yates, your quotation is, as i supposed, all wrong. the text _is not_ "which his 'owls was organs." when mr. harris went into an empty dog-kennel, to spare his sensitive nature the anguish of overhearing mrs. harris's exclamations on the occasion of the birth of her first child (the princess royal of the harris family), "he never took his hands away from his ears, or came out once, till he was showed the baby." on encountering that spectacle, he was (being of a weakly constitution) "took with fits." for this distressing complaint he was medically treated; the doctor "collared him, and laid him on his back upon the airy stones"--please to observe what follows--"and she was told, to ease her mind, his 'owls was organs." that is to say, mrs. harris, lying exhausted on her bed, in the first sweet relief of freedom from pain, merely covered with the counterpane, and not yet "put comfortable," hears a noise apparently proceeding from the backyard, and says, in a flushed and hysterical manner: "what 'owls are those? who is a-'owling? not my ugebond?" upon which the doctor, looking round one of the bottom posts of the bed, and taking mrs. harris's pulse in a reassuring manner, says, with much admirable presence of mind: "howls, my dear madam?--no, no, no! what are we thinking of? howls, my dear mrs. harris? ha, ha, ha! organs, ma'am, organs. organs in the streets, mrs. harris; no howls." yours faithfully, [c. d.] footnotes: [ ] one of the pleasantest, _to me_, of dickens's letters is that in which, extravagant anti-tory as he was, he refuses to let a contributor echo the too common grudges at lockhart (see _inf._ under stevenson). but it is very short, and perhaps of no general interest. [ ] referring, i suppose, to the well-known and "inimitable" (but by no means indispensable) flourish of his signature. [ ] "the comedy" is bulwer-lytton's _not so bad as we seem_, acted by dickens and other amateurs for charity at devonshire house seventy years ago, and about to be reproduced _in loco_ as these proofs are being revised. charles kingsley ( - ) there are some people who, while thinking that the author of _westward ho!_ has not, at least recently, been given his due rank in critical estimation, admit certain explanations of this. as a historian and in almost all his writings kingsley was inaccurate,--almost (as his friend and brother-in-law froude was once said to be) "congenitally inaccurate"; in his novels and elsewhere he went out of his way to tread on the corns of all sorts of people; he constantly ventured out of his depth in such subjects as philosophy and theology; and he suffered a terrible defeat by rashly engaging, and by tactical ineptitude, in his contest with newman. his politics, in which matter at one time he engaged hotly, were those of a busier and more educated colonel newcome. his poems, which were his least unequal work, seem never to have attracted due notice. but none of his foibles--not even corn-treading--is a fatal defect in familiar letter-writing: consequently he has good chance here, and his _letters and memoirs_ have been deservedly often reprinted. it is true that letters cannot show in full the really exceptional versatility which enabled the same man to write _yeast_ and _westward ho!_, _andromeda_ and _the water babies_, the best of the essays and the best of the sermons, _alton locke_ and _at last_. but they can and they do show it in part: and it gives them the interest which has been noticed in other cases. indeed in one respect--as a writer--kingsley is perhaps better in his letters than in his _essays_, where he too often affects a macaulayesque positiveness on rather inadequate grounds. the following specimen should show him in pleasantly varied character--as a thoroughly human person, a good sportsman, and what matthew arnold (by no means himself very liberal of praise to his literary contemporaries) thought him--"the most generous man [he had] ever known; the most forward to praise, the most willing to admire, the most free from all thought of himself in praising and admiring and the most incapable of being made ill-natured by having to support ill-natured attacks upon himself." it is to be feared that mr. arnold did not go far wrong when he declared, "among men of letters i know nothing so rare as this." it is true that the author of _tom brown's schooldays_ was an intimate personal friend, and in politics and other things a close comrade of kingsley's; but he was as generous to others, and while the scars of the battle with newman were almost fresh, he writes that he has read _the dream of gerontius_ "with admiration and awe." [greek: thymos], in this sense = "spirit." "jaques" = "jack" = "pike," while on the other side we get, through him of _as you like it_, an explanation of "melancholies." and in fact the pike is not a cheerful-looking fish. even two whom the present writer once saw tugging at the two ends of one dead trout in a shallow, did it sulkily. . to tom hughes, esq. jan. . . i have often been minded to write to you about 'tom brown.' i have puffed it everywhere i went, but i soon found how true the adage is that good wine needs no bush, for every one had read it already, and from every one, from the fine lady on her throne to the red-coat on his cock-horse and the school-boy on his forrum (as our irish brethren call it), i have heard but one word, and that is, that it is the jolliest book they ever read. among a knot of red-coats at the cover-side, some very fast fellow said, 'if i had had such a book in my boyhood, i should have been a better man now!' and more than one capped his sentiment frankly. now isn't it a comfort to your old bones to have written such a book, and a comfort to see that fellows are in a humour to take it in? so far from finding men of our rank in a bad vein, or sighing over the times and prospects of the rising generation, i can't help thinking they are very teachable, humble, honest fellows, who want to know what's right, and if they don't go and do it, still think the worst of themselves therefor. i remark now, that with hounds and in fast company, i never hear an oath, and that, too, is a sign of self-restraint. moreover, drinking is gone out, and, good god, what a blessing! i have good hopes, of our class, and better than of the class below. they are effeminate, and that makes them sensual. pietists of all ages (george fox, my dear friend, among the worst) never made a greater mistake than in fancying that by keeping down manly [greek: thymos], which plato saith is the root of all virtue, they could keep down sensuality. they were dear good old fools. however, the day of 'pietism' is gone, and 'tom brown' is a heavy stone on its grave. 'him no get up again after that,' as the niggers say of a buried obi-man. i am trying to polish the poems: but maurice's holidays make me idle; he has come home healthier and jollier than ever he was in all his life, and is truly a noble boy. sell your last coat and buy a spoon. i have a spoon of huge size (farlow his make). i killed forty pounds weight of pike, &c., on it the other day, at strathfieldsaye, to the astonishment and delight of ----, who cut small jokes on 'a spoon at each end,' &c., but altered his tone when he saw the melancholies coming ashore, one every ten minutes, and would try his own hand. i have killed heaps of big pike round with it. i tried it in lord eversley's lakes on monday, when the fish wouldn't have even his fly. capricious party is jaques. next day killed a seven pounder at hurst.... we had a pretty thing on friday with garth's, the first run i've seen this year. out of the clay vale below tilney hall, pace as good as could be, fields three acres each, fences awful, then over hazeley heath to bramshill, shoved him through a false cast, and a streamer over hartford bridge flat, into an unlucky earth. time fifty-five minutes, falls plentiful, started thirty, and came in eight, and didn't the old mare go? oh, tom, she is a comfort; even when a bank broke into a lane, and we tumbled down, she hops up again before i'd time to fall off, and away like a four-year old. and if you can get a horse through that clay vale, why then you can get him 'mostwards'; leastwise so i find, for a black region it is, and if you ain't in the same field with the hounds, you don't know whether you are in the same parish, what with hedges, and trees, and woods, and all supernumerary vegetations. actually i was pounded in a 'taty-garden,' so awful is the amount of green stuff in these parts. come and see me, and take the old mare out, and if you don't break her neck, she won't break yours. john ruskin ( - ) the peculiar wilfulness--the unkind called it wrong-headedness--which flecked and veined mr. ruskin's genius, had, owing to his wealth and to his entire indifference to any but his own opinion, opportunities of displaying itself in all his work, public as well as private, which are not common. naturally, it showed itself nowhere more than in letters, and perhaps not unnaturally he often adopted the epistolary form in books which, had he chosen, might as well have taken another--while he might have chosen this in some which do not actually _call_ themselves "letters." there is, however, little difference, except "fuller dress" of expression, between any of the classes of his work, whether it range from the first volume of _modern painters_ to _verona_ in time, or from _the seven lamps of architecture_ to _unto this last_ in subject. if anybody ever could "write beautifully about a broomstick" he could: though perhaps it is a pity that he so often did. but this faculty, and the entire absence of bashfulness which accompanied it, are no doubt grand accommodations for letter-writing; and the reader of mr. ruskin's letters gets the benefit of both very often--of a curious study of high character and great powers uncontrolled by logical self-criticism almost always. the following--part of a still longer letter which he addressed to the _daily telegraph_, sep. , , on the eternal servant question--was of course written for publication, but so, practically, was everything that ever came from its author. it so happens too that, putting aside his usual king charles's head of demand and supply, there is little in it of his more mischievous crotchets, nothing of the petulance (amounting occasionally to rudeness) of language in which he sometimes indulged, but much of his nobler idealism, while it is a capital example of his less florid style. "launce," "grumio" and "old adam" are of course shakespeare's: "fairservice" (of whom, tormenting and selfish as he was, mr. ruskin perhaps thought a little too harshly) and "mattie," scott's. "latinity enough"--the unfortunate man had written, and the newspaper had printed, _hoc_ instead of _hac_. "a book of scripture," colenso's work had just been finished. "charlotte winsor" a baby-farmer of the day. . from "the daily telegraph" september , . domestic servants: sonship and slavery. to the editor of "the daily telegraph." sir, i have been watching the domestic correspondence in your columns with much interest, and thought of offering you a short analysis of it when you saw good to bring it to a close, and perhaps a note or two of my own experience, being somewhat conceited on the subject just now, because i have a gardener who lets me keep old-fashioned plants in the greenhouse, understands that my cherries are grown for the blackbirds, and sees me gather a bunch of my own grapes without making a wry face. but your admirable article of yesterday causes me to abandon my purpose; the more willingly, because among all the letters you have hitherto published there is not one from any head of a household which contains a complaint worth notice. all the masters or mistresses whose letters are thoughtful or well written say they get on well enough with their servants; no part has yet been taken in the discussion by the heads of old families. the servants' letters, hitherto, furnish the best data; but the better class of servants are also silent, and must remain so. launce, grumio, or fairservice may have something to say for themselves; but you will hear nothing from old adam nor from carefu' mattie. one proverb from sancho, if we could get it, would settle the whole business for us; but his master and he are indeed "no more." i would have walked down to dulwich to hear what sam weller had to say; but the high-level railway went through mr. pickwick's parlour two months ago, and it is of no use writing to sam, for, as you are well aware, he is no penman. and, indeed, sir, little good will come of any writing on the matter. "the cat will mew, the dog will have its day." you yourself, excellent as is the greater part of what you have said, and to the point, speak but vainly when you talk of "probing the evil to the bottom." this is no sore that can be probed, no sword nor bullet wound. this is a plague spot. small or great, it is in the significance of it, not in the depth, that you have to measure it. it is essentially bottomless, cancerous; a putrescence through the constitution of the people is indicated by this galled place. because i know this thoroughly, i say so little, and that little, as your correspondents think, who know nothing of me, and as you say, who might have known more of me, unpractically. pardon me, i am no seller of plasters, nor of ounces of civet. the patient's sickness is his own fault, and only years of discipline will work it out of him. that is the only really "practical" saying that can be uttered to him. the relation of master and servant involves every other--touches every condition of moral health through the state. put that right, and you put all right; but you will find that it can only come ultimately, not primarily, right; you cannot begin with it. some of the evidence you have got together is valuable, many pieces of partial advice very good. you need hardly, i think, unless you wanted a type of british logic, have printed a letter in which the writer accused (or would have accused, if he had possessed latinity enough) all london servants of being thieves because he had known one robbery to have been committed by a nice-looking girl. but on the whole there is much common sense in the letters; the singular point in them all, to my mind, being the inapprehension of the breadth and connection of the question, and the general resistance to, and stubborn rejection of, the abstract ideas of sonship and slavery, which include whatever is possible in wise treatment of servants. it is very strange to see that, while everybody shrinks at abstract suggestions of there being possible error in a book of scripture, your sensible english housewife fearlessly rejects solomon's opinion when it runs slightly counter to her own, and that not one of your many correspondents seems ever to have read the epistle to philemon. it is no less strange that while most english boys of ordinary position hammer through their horace at one time or other time of their school life, no word of his wit or his teaching seems to remain by them: for all the good they get out of them, the satires need never have been written. the roman gentleman's account of his childhood and of his domestic life possesses no charm for them; and even men of education would sometimes start to be reminded that his "_noctes coenaeque deum!_" meant supping with his merry slaves on beans and bacon. will you allow me, on this general question of liberty and slavery, to refer your correspondents to a paper of mine touching closely upon it, the leader in the _art-journal_ for july last? and to ask them also to meditate a little over the two beautiful epitaphs on epictetus and zosima, quoted in the last paper of the _idler_? "i, epictetus, was a slave; and sick in body, and wretched in poverty; and beloved by the gods." "zosima, who while she lived was a slave only in her body, has now found deliverance for that also." how might we, over many an "independent" englishman, reverse this last legend, and write-- "this man, who while he lived was free only in his body, has now found captivity for that also." i will not pass without notice--for it bears also on wide interests--your correspondent's question, how my principles differ from the ordinary economist's view of supply and demand. simply in that the economy i have taught, in opposition to the popular view, is the science which not merely ascertains the relations of existing demand and supply, but determines what _ought_ to be demanded and what _can_ be supplied. a child demands the moon, and, the supply not being in this case equal to the demand, is wisely accommodated with a rattle; a footpad demands your purse, and is supplied according to the less or more rational economy of the state, with that or a halter; a foolish nation, not able to get into its head that free trade does indeed mean the removal of taxation from its imports, but not of supervision from them, demands unlimited foreign beef, and is supplied with the cattle murrain and the like. there may be all manner of demands, all manner of supplies. the true political economist regulates these; the false political economist leaves them to be regulated by (not divine) providence. for, indeed, the largest final demand anywhere reported of, is that of hell; and the supply of it (by the broad gauge line) would be very nearly equal to the demand at this day, unless there were here and there a swineherd or two who could keep his pigs out of sight of the lake. thus in this business of servants everything depends on what sort of servant you at heart wish for or "demand." if for nurses you want charlotte winsors, they are to be had for money; but by no means for money, such as that german girl who, the other day, on her own scarce-floating fragment of wreck, saved the abandoned child of another woman, keeping it alive by the moisture from her lips. what kind of servant do you want? it is a momentous question for you yourself--for the nation itself. are we to be a nation of shopkeepers, wanting only shop-boys: or of manufacturers, wanting only hands: or are there to be knights among us, who will need squires--captains among us, needing crews? will you have clansmen for your candlesticks, or silver plate? myrmidons at your tents, ant-born, or only a mob on the gillies' hill? are you resolved that you will never have any but your inferiors to serve you, or shall enid ever lay your trencher with tender little thumb, and cinderella sweep your hearth, and be cherished there? it _might_ come to that in time, and plate and hearth be the brighter; but if your servants are to be held your inferiors, at least be sure they _are_ so, and that you are indeed wiser, and better-tempered, and more useful than they. determine what their education ought to be, and organize proper servants' schools, and there give it them. so they will be fit for their position, and will do honour to it, and stay in it: let the masters be as sure they do honour to theirs, and are as willing to stay in that. remember that every people which gives itself to the pursuit of riches, invariably, and of necessity, gets the scum uppermost in time, and is set by the genii, like the ugly bridegroom in the arabian nights, at its own door with its heels in the air, showing its shoe-soles instead of a face. and the reversal is a serious matter, if reversal be even possible, and it comes right end uppermost again, instead of to conclusive wrong-end. robert louis balfour stevenson ( - ) the author of _treasure island_ (invariably known to his friends simply as "louis," the "robert" being reserved in the form of "bob" for his less famous but very admirable cousin the art-critic) will perhaps offer to some matthew arnold of posterity the opportunity of a paradox like that of our matthew on shelley. for a short time some of these friends--not perhaps the wisest of them--were inclined to regard him as, and to urge him to continue to be, a writer of criticisms and miscellaneous articles--a sort of new hazlitt. others no sooner saw the _new arabian nights_ than they recognised a tale-teller such as had not been seen for a long time--such as, in respect of anything imitable, had never been seen before. and he fortunately fell in with these views and hopes. but all his tales are pure romance, and romance has her eclipses with the vulgar. on the other hand his letters are almost as good as his fiction, and not in the least open to the charges of a certain non-naturalness of style--even of thought--which could, justly or not, be brought against his other writings. and it is perhaps worth noting here that letters have held their popularity with all fit judges almost better than any other division of literature. whether this is the effect of their "touches of nature" (using the famous phrase without the blunder so common in regard to it but not without reference to its context) need not be discussed. as, by the kindness of mr. lloyd osbourne, i am enabled to give here an unpublished letter of stevenson's to myself, it may require some explanation, not only of the commentatory and commendatory kind but of fact. stevenson, coming to dine with me, had brought with him, and showed with much pride, a new umbrella (a seven-and-sixpenny one) which, to my surprise, he had bought. but when he went away that night he forgot it; and when i met him next day at the savile and suggested that i should send it to him, there or somewhere, he said he was going abroad almost immediately and begged me to keep it for him. by this or that accident, but chiefly owing to his constant expatriations, no opportunity of restitution ever occurred: though i used to remind him of it as a standing joke, and treasured it religiously, stored and unused. this letter is partly in answer to a last reminder in which i said that i was going to present it to the nation, that it might be kept with king koffee kalcalli's, but as a memory of a "victor in romance" not of a vanquished enemy. i of course told mr. kipling of the contents which concerned him: and he, equally of course, demanded delivery of the goods at once. but, half in joke, i demurred, saying that i was a bailee, and the gift was not formal enough, being undated and only a "suggestion"; he should have it without fail at my death, or stevenson's.[ ] when alas! this latter came, i prepared to act up to my promise; but, alas! again, the umbrella had vanished! some prated of mislaying in house-removal, of illicit use by servants, etc.; but for my part i had and have no doubt that the thing had been enskyed and constellated--like ariadne's crown, berenice's locks, cassiopeia's chair, and a whole galaxy of other now celestial objects--to afford a special place to my dead friend then, and to my live one when (may the time still be far distant) he is ready for it. as for the more serious subject of the letter, i must refer curious readers to an essay of mine on lockhart, originally published in and reprinted in _essays in english literature_ some years later. to this reprint i subjoined, _before_ i got this letter from r. l. s., a reasoned defence of lockhart from the charge of cowardice and "caddishness": but it is evident that stevenson had not yet seen it. when he did see it, he wrote me another letter chiefly about my book itself, and so of no interest to the public, but touching again on this lockhart question. he avowed himself still dissatisfied: but said he was sorry for his original remark which was "ungracious and unhandsome" if not untrue, adding, "for to whom do i owe more pleasure than to lockhart?" . my dear saintsbury, thanks for yours. why did i call lockhart a cad? that calls for an answer, and i give it. "scorpion"[ ] literature seems at the best no very fit employment for a man of genius, which lockhart was--and none at all for a gentleman. but if a man goes in for such a trade, he must be ready for the consequences; and i do not conceive a gentleman as a coward; the white feather is not his crest, it _almost_ excludes--and i put the "almost" with reluctance. well, now about the duel? even bel-ami[ ] turned up on the _terrain_. but lockhart? _et responsum est ab omnibus, non est inventus._[ ] i have often wondered how scott took that episode.[ ] i do not know how this view will strike you;[ ] it seems to me the "good old honest" fashion of our fathers, though i own it does not agree with the new morality. "cad" may be perhaps an expression too vivacious and not well chosen; it is, at least upon my view, substantially just. now if you mean to comb my wig, comb it from the right parting--i know you will comb it well. an infinitely small jest occurs to me in connection with the historic umbrella: and perhaps its infinite smallness attracts me. would you mind handing it to rudyard kipling with the enclosed note?[ ] it seems to me fitly to consecrate and commemorate this most absurd episode. yours very sincerely, robert louis stevenson. [_enclosure_] this umbrella purchased in the year by robert louis stevenson (and faithfully stabled for more than twelve years in the halls of george saintsbury) is now handed on at the suggestion of the first and by the loyal hands of the second, to rudyard kipling. printed in great britain by robert maclehose and co. ltd. the university press, glasgow. footnotes: [ ] of this _moratorium_ i believe i duly advised r. l. s. and i don't think he objected. there was, if i remember rightly, a further reason for it--that i was living in two places at the time and the subject was not immediately at hand. [ ] lockhart's (self-given) name in the "_chaldee ms._" was "the scorpion that delighteth to sting the faces of men." [ ] maupassant's ineffable hero and title-giver. [ ] hardly any school-boy of my or stevenson's generation would have needed a reference to the _essay on murder_. but i am told that de quincey has gone out of fashion, with school-boys and others. [ ] we know now: also what "the duke" said when consulted. they did not agree with stevenson, but then they knew all the facts and he did not. [ ] i should have held it myself, if the facts had been what r. l. s. thought them. [ ] which of course is mr. kipling's property, not mine. but he has most kindly joined in, authorising its publication, and that of the rest of the letter as far as he is concerned. by the same author the peace of the augustans a survey of eighteenth century literature as a place of rest and refreshment _demy vo. s. d. net_ "no one living," according to the _times_, "knows english eighteenth century literature as well as mr. saintsbury knows it.... if you do not know and like your eighteenth century, then he will make you; and if you do, he will show you that even what you thought the dullest parts are full of rest and refreshment." in the opinion of the _spectator_, "mr. saintsbury in his new book has given to the world a singularly delightful gift. _the peace of the augustans_ is in no sense written down. yet every page is so subtly seasoned with amusing comment, and the whole book is so charmingly garnished that none but a dullard could fail to find delight in its perusal, however little he knew of the spirit which animated the eighteenth century. one can hardly imagine better reading after a day of hard or uncongenial work." "no bush is necessary to proclaim where good wine may be had," says the _glasgow herald_, "and no author's name was required to indicate the source of this always fresh and in some respects original treatment of the augustan literature.... in literature there are many mansions, and mr. saintsbury is at home in them all.... a book it has been very pleasant and very profitable to read." london: g. bell and sons, ltd. york house, portugal street, w.c. handbooks of english literature edited by the late j. w. hales, m.a. professor of english literature, king's college, london _small crown vo. s. net each_ =the age of alfred= ( - ). by f. j. snell, m.a. =the age of chaucer= ( - ). by f. j. snell, m.a., with an introduction by professor hales. _third edition._ =the age of transition= ( - ). by f. j. snell, m.a. in vols. with introduction by professor hales, vol. i.--poetry. vol. ii.--prose and drama. _third edition._ =the age of shakespeare= ( - ). by thomas seccombe and j. w. allen. in vols. vol. i.--poetry and prose, with an introduction by professor hales. vol. ii.--drama. _seventh edition._ =the age of milton= ( - ). by rev. canon j. h. b. masterman, m.a., with an introduction, &c., by j. bass mullinger, m.a. _eighth edition._ =the age of dryden= ( - ). by the late richard garnett, c.b., ll.d. _eighth edition._ =the age of pope= ( - ). by john dennis. _tenth edition._ =the age of johnson= ( - ). by thomas seccombe. _seventh edition._ =the age of wordsworth= ( - ). by professor c. h. herford, litt.d. _twelfth edition._ =the age of tennyson= ( - ). by professor hugh walker, m.a. _ninth edition._ london: g. bell and sons, ltd. york house, portugal street, w.c. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's notes | | | | page : full stop inserted after "duke of burgundy" | | page : second opening parenthesis from before "cambridge | | university press" removed | | page : removed closing parenthesis following "the valley | | of the shadow of frederick" | | page : "sunday" _sic_ | | | | generally spelling, capitalization and punctuation in | | letters has been retained as per the book, with the | | following exceptions: | | | | page : removed closing quote marks following "terrain" | | (letter ) | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ the indiscreet letter by eleanor hallowell abbott author of _molly make believe_, _the sick-a-bed lady_, etc., etc. new york the century co. the indiscreet letter the railroad journey was very long and slow. the traveling salesman was rather short and quick. and the young electrician who lolled across the car aisle was neither one length nor another, but most inordinately flexible, like a suit of chain armor. more than being short and quick, the traveling salesman was distinctly fat and unmistakably dressy in an ostentatiously new and pure-looking buff-colored suit, and across the top of the shiny black sample-case that spanned his knees he sorted and re-sorted with infinite earnestness a large and varied consignment of "ladies' pink and blue ribbed undervests." surely no other man in the whole southward-bound canadian train could have been at once so ingenuous and so nonchalant. there was nothing dressy, however, about the young electrician. from his huge cowhide boots to the lead smouch that ran from his rough, square chin to the very edge of his astonishingly blond curls, he was one delicious mess of toil and old clothes and smiling, blue-eyed indifference. and every time that he shrugged his shoulders or crossed his knees he jingled and jangled incongruously among his coil-boxes and insulators, like some splendid young viking of old, half blacked up for a modern minstrel show. more than being absurdly blond and absurdly messy, the young electrician had one of those extraordinarily sweet, extraordinarily vital, strangely mysterious, utterly unexplainable masculine faces that fill your senses with an odd, impersonal disquietude, an itching unrest, like the hazy, teasing reminder of some previous existence in a prehistoric cave, or, more tormenting still, with the tingling, psychic prophecy of some amazing emotional experience yet to come. the sort of face, in fact, that almost inevitably flares up into a woman's startled vision at the one crucial moment in her life when she is not supposed to be considering alien features. out from the servient shoulders of some smooth-tongued waiter it stares, into the scared dilating pupils of the white satin bride with her pledged hand clutching her bridegroom's sleeve. up from the gravelly, pick-and-shovel labor of the new-made grave it lifts its weirdly magnetic eyes to the widow's tears. down from some petted princeling's silver-trimmed saddle horse it smiles its electrifying, wistful smile into the peasant's sodden weariness. across the slender white rail of an always _out-going_ steamer it stings back into your gray, land-locked consciousness like the tang of a scarlet spray. and the secret of the face, of course, is "lure"; but to save your soul you could not decide in any specific case whether the lure is the lure of personality, or the lure of physiognomy--a mere accidental, coincidental, haphazard harmony of forehead and cheek-bone and twittering facial muscles. something, indeed, in the peculiar set of the young electrician's jaw warned you quite definitely that if you should ever even so much as hint the small, sentimental word "lure" to him he would most certainly "swat" you on first impulse for a maniac, and on second impulse for a liar--smiling at you all the while in the strange little wrinkly tissue round his eyes. the voice of the railroad journey was a dull, vague, conglomerate, cinder-scented babble of grinding wheels and shuddering window frames; but the voices of the traveling salesman and the young electrician were shrill, gruff, poignant, inert, eternally variant, after the manner of human voices which are discussing the affairs of the universe. "every man," affirmed the traveling salesman sententiously--"every man has written one indiscreet letter during his lifetime!" "only one?" scoffed the young electrician with startling distinctness above even the loudest roar and rumble of the train. with a rather faint, rather gaspy chuckle of amusement the youngish girl in the seat just behind the traveling salesman reached forward then and touched him very gently on the shoulder. "oh, please, may i listen?" she asked quite frankly. with a smile as benevolent as it was surprised, the traveling salesman turned half-way around in his seat and eyed her quizzically across the gold rim of his spectacles. "why, sure you can listen!" he said. the traveling salesman was no fool. people as well as lisle thread were a specialty of his. even in his very first smiling estimate of the youngish girl's face, neither vivid blond hair nor luxuriantly ornate furs misled him for an instant. just as a preacher's high waistcoat passes him, like an official badge of dignity and honor, into any conceivable kind of a situation, so also does a woman's high forehead usher her with delicious impunity into many conversational experiences that would hardly be wise for her lower-browed sister. with an extra touch of manners the salesman took off his neat brown derby hat and placed it carefully on the vacant seat in front of him. then, shifting his sample-case adroitly to suit his new twisted position, he began to stick cruel little prickly price marks through alternate meshes of pink and blue lisle. "why, sure you can listen!" he repeated benignly. "traveling alone's awful stupid, ain't it? i reckon you were glad when the busted heating apparatus in the sleeper gave you a chance to come in here and size up a few new faces. sure you can listen! though, bless your heart, we weren't talking about anything so very specially interesting," he explained conscientiously. "you see, i was merely arguing with my young friend here that if a woman really loves you, she'll follow you through any kind of blame or disgrace--follow you anywheres, i said--anywheres!" "not anywheres," protested the young electrician with a grin. "'not up a telegraph pole!'" he requoted sheepishly. "y-e-s--i heard that," acknowledged the youngish girl with blithe shamelessness. "follow you '_anywheres_,' was what i said," persisted the traveling salesman almost irritably. "follow you '_anywheres_'! run! walk! crawl on her hands and knees if it's really necessary. and yet--" like a shaggy brown line drawn across the bottom of a column of figures, his eyebrows narrowed to their final calculation. "and yet--" he estimated cautiously, "and yet--there's times when i ain't so almighty sure that her following you is any more specially flattering to you than if you was a burglar. she don't follow you so much, i reckon, because you _are_ her love as because you've _got_ her love. god knows it ain't just you, yourself, she's afraid of losing. it's what she's already invested in you that's worrying her! all her pinky-posy, cunning kid-dreams about loving and marrying, maybe; and the pretty-much grown-up winter she fought out the whisky question with you, perhaps; and the summer you had the typhoid, likelier than not; and the spring the youngster was born--oh, sure, the spring the youngster was born! gee! if by swallowing just one more yarn you tell her, she can only keep on holding down all the old yarns you ever told her--if, by forgiving you just one more forgive-you, she can only hang on, as it were, to the original worth-whileness of the whole darned business--if by--" "oh, that's what you meant by the 'whole darned business,' was it?" cried the youngish girl suddenly, edging away out to the front of her seat. along the curve of her cheeks an almost mischievous smile began to quicken. "oh, yes! i heard that, too!" she confessed cheerfully. "but what was the beginning of it all? the very beginning? what was the first thing you said? what started you talking about it? oh, please, excuse me for hearing anything at all," she finished abruptly; "but i've been traveling alone now for five dreadful days, all the way down from british columbia, and--if--you--will--persist--in--saying interesting things--in trains--you must take the consequences!" there was no possible tinge of patronage or condescension in her voice, but rather, instead, a bumpy, naive sort of friendliness, as lonesome royalty sliding temporarily down from its throne might reasonably contend with each bump, "a king may look at a cat! he may! he may!" along the edge of the young electrician's cheek-bones the red began to flush furiously. he seemed to have a funny little way of blushing just before he spoke, and the physical mannerism gave an absurdly italicized sort of emphasis to even the most trivial thing that he said. "i guess you'll have to go ahead and tell her about 'rosie,'" he suggested grinningly to the traveling salesman. "yes! oh, do tell me about 'rosie,'" begged the youngish girl with whimsical eagerness. "who in creation was 'rosie'?" she persisted laughingly. "i've been utterly mad about 'rosie' for the last half-hour!" "why, 'rosie' is nobody at all--probably," said the traveling salesman a trifle wryly. "oh, pshaw!" flushed the young electrician, crinkling up all the little smile-tissue around his blue eyes. "oh, pshaw! go ahead and tell her about 'rosie.'" "why, i tell you it wasn't anything so specially interesting," protested the traveling salesman diffidently. "we simply got jollying a bit in the first place about the amount of perfectly senseless, no-account truck that'll collect in a fellow's pockets; and then some sort of a scorched piece of paper he had, or something, got him telling me about a nasty, sizzling close call he had to-day with a live wire; and then i got telling him here about a friend of mine--and a mighty good fellow, too--who dropped dead on the street one day last summer with an unaddressed, typewritten letter in his pocket that began 'dearest little rosie,' called her a 'honey' and a 'dolly girl' and a 'pink-fingered precious,' made a rather foolish dinner appointment for thursday in new haven, and was signed--in the lord's own time--at the end of four pages, 'yours forever, and then some. tom.'--now the wife of the deceased was named--martha." quite against all intention, the youngish girl's laughter rippled out explosively and caught up the latent amusement in the young electrician's face. then, just as unexpectedly, she wilted back a little into her seat. "i don't call that an 'indiscreet letter'!" she protested almost resentfully. "you might call it a knavish letter. or a foolish letter. because either a knave or a fool surely wrote it! but 'indiscreet'? u-m-m, no!" "well, for heaven's sake!" said the traveling salesman. "if--you--don't--call--that--an--indiscreet letter, what would you call one?" "yes, sure," gasped the young electrician, "what would you call one?" the way his lips mouthed the question gave an almost tragical purport to it. "what would i call an 'indiscreet letter'?" mused the youngish girl slowly. "why--why--i think i'd call an 'indiscreet letter' a letter that was pretty much--of a gamble perhaps, but a letter that was perfectly, absolutely legitimate for you to send, because it would be your own interests and your own life that you were gambling with, not the happiness of your wife or the honor of your husband. a letter, perhaps, that might be a trifle risky--but a letter, i mean, that is absolutely on the square!" "but if it's absolutely 'on the square,'" protested the traveling salesman, worriedly, "then where in creation does the 'indiscreet' come in?" the youngish girl's jaw dropped. "why, the 'indiscreet' part comes in," she argued, "because you're not able to prove in advance, you know, that the stakes you're gambling for are absolutely 'on the square.' i don't know exactly how to express it, but it seems somehow as though only the very little things of life are offered in open packages--that all the big things come sealed very tight. you can poke them a little and make a guess at the shape, and you can rattle them a little and make a guess at the size, but you can't ever open them and prove them--until the money is paid down and gone forever from your hands. but goodness me!" she cried, brightening perceptibly; "if you were to put an advertisement in the biggest newspaper in the biggest city in the world, saying: 'every person who has ever written an indiscreet letter in his life is hereby invited to attend a mass-meeting'--and if people would really go--you'd see the most distinguished public gathering that you ever saw in your life! bishops and judges and statesmen and beautiful society women and little old white-haired mothers--everybody, in fact, who had ever had red blood enough at least once in his life to write down in cold black and white the one vital, quivering, questioning fact that happened to mean the most to him at that moment! but your 'honey' and your 'dolly girl' and your 'pink-fingered precious' nonsense! why, it isn't real! why, it doesn't even _make sense_!" again the youngish girl's laughter rang out in light, joyous, utterly superficial appreciation. even the serious traveling salesman succumbed at last. "oh, yes, i know it sounds comic," he acknowledged wryly. "sounds like something out of a summer vaudeville show or a cheap sunday supplement. but i don't suppose it sounded so specially blamed comic to the widow. i reckon she found it plenty-heap indiscreet enough to suit her. oh, of course," he added hastily, "i know, and martha knows that thomkins wasn't at all that kind of a fool. and yet, after all--when you really settle right down to think about it, thomkins' name was easily 'tommy,' and thursday sure enough was his day in new haven, and it was a yard of red flannel that martha had asked him to bring home to her--not the scarlet automobile veil that they found in his pocket. but 'martha,' i says, of course, 'martha, it sure does beat all how we fellows that travel round so much in cars and trains are always and forever picking up automobile veils--dozens of them, _dozens_--red, blue, pink, yellow--why, i wouldn't wonder if my wife had as many as thirty-four tucked away in her top bureau drawer!'--'i wouldn't wonder,' says martha, stooping lower and lower over thomkins's blue cotton shirt that she's trying to cut down into rompers for the baby. 'and, martha,' i says, 'that letter is just a joke. one of the boys sure put it up on him!'--'why, of course,' says martha, with her mouth all puckered up crooked, as though a kid had stitched it on the machine. 'why, of course! how dared you think--'" forking one bushy eyebrow, the salesman turned and stared quizzically off into space. "but all the samey, just between you and i," he continued judicially, "all the samey, i'll wager you anything you name that it ain't just death that's pulling martha down day by day, and night by night, limper and lanker and clumsier-footed. martha's got a sore thought. that's what ails her. and god help the crittur with a sore thought! god help anybody who's got any one single, solitary sick idea that keeps thinking on top of itself, over and over and over, boring into the past, bumping into the future, fussing, fretting, eternally festering. gee! compared to it, a tight shoe is easy slippers, and water dropping on your head is perfect peace!--look close at martha, i say. every night when the blowsy old moon shines like courting time, every day when the butcher's bill comes home as big as a swollen elephant, when the crippled stepson tries to cut his throat again, when the youngest kid sneezes funny like his father--'who was rosie? who was rosie?'" "well, who was rosie?" persisted the youngish girl absent-mindedly. "why, rosie was _nothing_!" snapped the traveling salesman; "nothing at all--probably." altogether in spite of himself, his voice trailed off into a suspiciously minor key. "but all the same," he continued more vehemently, "all the same--it's just that little darned word 'probably' that's making all the mess and bother of it--because, as far as i can reckon, a woman can stand absolutely anything under god's heaven that she knows; but she just up and can't stand the littlest, teeniest, no-account sort of thing that she ain't sure of. answers may kill 'em dead enough, but it's questions that eats 'em alive." for a long, speculative moment the salesman's gold-rimmed eyes went frowning off across the snow-covered landscape. then he ripped off his glasses and fogged them very gently with his breath. "now--i--ain't--any--saint," mused the traveling salesman meditatively, "and i--ain't very much to look at, and being on the road ain't a business that would exactly enhance my valuation in the eyes of a lady who was actually looking out for some safe place to bank her affections; but i've never yet reckoned on running with any firm that didn't keep up to its advertising promises, and if a man's courtship ain't his own particular, personal advertising proposition--then i don't know anything about--_anything_! so if i should croak sudden any time in a railroad accident or a hotel fire or a scrap in a saloon, i ain't calculating on leaving my wife any very large amount of 'sore thoughts.' when a man wants his memory kept green, he don't mean--gangrene! "oh, of course," the salesman continued more cheerfully, "a sudden croaking leaves any fellow's affairs at pretty raw ends--lots of queer, bitter-tasting things that would probably have been all right enough if they'd only had time to get ripe. lots of things, i haven't a doubt, that would make my wife kind of mad, but nothing, i'm calculating, that she wouldn't understand. there'd be no questions coming in from the office, i mean, and no fresh talk from the road that she ain't got the information on hand to meet. life insurance ain't by any means, in my mind, the only kind of protection that a man owes his widow. provide for her future--if you can!--that's my motto!--but a man's just a plain bum who don't provide for his own past! she may have plenty of trouble in the years to come settling her own bills, but she ain't going to have any worry settling any of mine. i tell you, there'll be no ladies swelling round in crape at my funeral that my wife don't know by their first names!" with a sudden startling guffaw the traveling salesman's mirth rang joyously out above the roar of the car. "tell me about your wife," said the youngish girl a little wistfully. around the traveling salesman's generous mouth the loud laugh flickered down to a schoolboy's bashful grin. "my wife?" he repeated. "tell you about my wife? why, there isn't much to tell. she's little. and young. and was a school-teacher. and i married her four years ago." "and were happy--ever--after," mused the youngish girl teasingly. "no!" contradicted the traveling salesman quite frankly. "no! we didn't find out how to be happy at all until the last three years!" again his laughter rang out through the car. "heavens! look at me!" he said at last. "and then think of her!--little, young, a school-teacher, too, and taking poetry to read on the train same as you or i would take a newspaper! gee! what would you expect?" again his mouth began to twitch a little. "and i thought it was her fault--'most all of the first year," he confessed delightedly. "and then, all of a sudden," he continued eagerly, "all of a sudden, one day, more mischievous-spiteful than anything else, i says to her, 'we don't seem to be getting on so very well, do we?' and she shakes her head kind of slow. 'no, we don't!' she says.--'maybe you think i don't treat you quite right?' i quizzed, just a bit mad.--'no, you don't! that is, not--exactly right,' she says, and came burrowing her head in my shoulder as cozy as could be.--'maybe you could show me how to treat you--righter,' i says, a little bit pleasanter.--'i'm perfectly sure i could!' she says, half laughing and half crying. 'all you'll have to do,' she says, 'is just to watch me!'--'just watch what _you_ do?' i said, bristling just a bit again.--'no,' she says, all pretty and soft-like; 'all i want you to do is to watch what i _don't_ do!'" with slightly nervous fingers the traveling salesman reached up and tugged at his necktie as though his collar were choking him suddenly. "so that's how i learned my table manners," he grinned, "and that's how i learned to quit cussing when i was mad round the house, and that's how i learned--oh, a great many things--and that's how i learned--" grinning broader and broader--"that's how i learned not to come home and talk all the time about the 'peach' whom i saw on the train or the street. my wife, you see, she's got a little scar on her face--it don't show any, but she's awful sensitive about it, and 'johnny,' she says, 'don't you never notice that i don't ever rush home and tell _you_ about the wonderful _slim_ fellow who sat next to me at the theater, or the simply elegant _grammar_ that i heard at the lecture? i can recognize a slim fellow when i see him, johnny,' she says, 'and i like nice grammar as well as the next one, but praising 'em to you, dear, don't seem to me so awfully polite. bragging about handsome women to a plain wife, johnny,' she says, 'is just about as raw as bragging about rich men to a husband who's broke.' "oh, i tell you a fellow's a fool," mused the traveling salesman judicially, "a fellow's a fool when he marries who don't go to work deliberately to study and understand his wife. women are awfully understandable if you only go at it right. why, the only thing that riles them in the whole wide world is the fear that the man they've married ain't quite bright. why, when i was first married i used to think that my wife was awful snippety about other women. but, lord! when you point a girl out in the car and say, 'well, ain't that girl got the most gorgeous head of hair you ever saw in your life?' and your wife says: 'yes--jordan is selling them puffs six for a dollar seventy-five this winter,' she ain't intending to be snippety at all. no!--it's only, i tell you, that it makes a woman feel just plain silly to think that her husband don't even know as much as she does. why, lord! she don't care how much you praise the grocer's daughter's style, or your stenographer's spelling, as long as you'll only show that you're _equally wise_ to the fact that the grocer's daughter sure has a nasty temper, and that the stenographer's spelling is mighty near the best thing about her. "why, a man will go out and pay every cent he's got for a good hunting dog--and then snub his wife for being the finest untrained retriever in the world. yes, sir, that's what she is--a retriever; faithful, clever, absolutely unscarable, with no other object in life except to track down and fetch to her husband every possible interesting fact in the world that he don't already know. and then she's so excited and pleased with what she's got in her mouth that it 'most breaks her heart if her man don't seem to care about it. now, the secret of training her lies in the fact that she won't never trouble to hunt out and fetch you any news that she sees you already know. and just as soon as a man once appreciates all this--then joy is come to the home! "now there's ella, for instance," continued the traveling salesman thoughtfully. "ella's a traveling man, too. sells shotguns up through the aroostook. yes, shotguns! funny, ain't it, and me selling undervests? ella's an awful smart girl. good as gold. but cheeky? oh, my!--well, once i would have brought her down to the house for sunday, and advertised her as a 'peach,' and a 'dandy good fellow,' and praised her eyes, and bragged about her cleverness, and generally done my best to smooth over all her little deficiencies with as much palaver as i could. and that little retriever of mine would have gone straight to work and ferreted out every single, solitary, uncomplimentary thing about ella that she could find, and 'a' fetched 'em to me as pleased and proud as a puppy, expecting, for all the world, to be petted and patted for her astonishing shrewdness. and there would sure have been gloom in the sabbath. "but now--now--what i say now is: 'wife, i'm going to bring ella down for sunday. you've never seen her, and you sure will hate her. she's big, and showy, and just a little bit rough sometimes, and she rouges her cheeks too much, and she's likelier than not to chuck me under the chin. but it would help your old man a lot in a business way if you'd be pretty nice to her. and i'm going to send her down here friday, a day ahead of me.'--and oh, gee!--i ain't any more than jumped off the car saturday night when there's my little wife out on the street corner with her sweater tied over her head, prancing up and down first on one foot and then on the other--she's so excited, to slip her hand in mine and tell me all about it. 'and johnny,' she says--even before i've got my glove off--'johnny,' she says, 'really, do you know, i think you've done ella an injustice. yes, truly i do. why, she's _just as kind_! and she's shown me how to cut my last year's coat over into the nicest sort of a little spring jacket! and she's made us a chocolate cake as big as a dish-pan. yes, she has! and johnny, don't you dare tell her that i told you--but do you know she's putting her brother's boy through dartmouth? and you old johnny clifford, i don't care a darn whether she rouges a little bit or not--and you oughtn't to care--either! so there!'" with sudden tardy contrition the salesman's amused eyes wandered to the open book on the youngish girl's lap. "i sure talk too much," he muttered. "i guess maybe you'd like half a chance to read your story." the expression on the youngish girl's face was a curious mixture of humor and seriousness. "there's no special object in reading," she said, "when you can hear a bright man talk!" as unappreciatingly as a duck might shake champagne from its back, the traveling salesman shrugged the compliment from his shoulders. "oh, i'm bright enough," he grumbled, "but i ain't refined." slowly to the tips of his ears mounted a dark red flush of real mortification. "now, there's some traveling men," he mourned, "who are as slick and fine as any college president you ever saw. but me? i'd look coarse sipping warm milk out of a gold-lined spoon. i haven't had any education. and i'm fat, besides!" almost plaintively he turned and stared for a second from the young electrician's embarrassed grin to the youngish girl's more subtle smile. "why, i'm nearly fifty years old," he said, "and since i was fifteen the only learning i've ever got was what i picked up in trains talking to whoever sits nearest to me. sometimes it's hens i learn about. sometimes it's national politics. once a young canuck farmer sitting up all night with me coming down from st. john learned me all about the french revolution. and now and then high school kids will give me a point or two on astronomy. and in this very seat i'm sitting in now, i guess, a red-kerchiefed dago woman, who worked on a pansy farm just outside of boston, used to ride in town with me every night for a month, and she coached me quite a bit on dago talk, and i paid her five dollars for that." "oh, dear me!" said the youngish girl, with unmistakable sincerity. "i'm afraid you haven't learned anything at all from me!" "oh, yes, i have too!" cried the traveling salesman, his whole round face lighting up suddenly with real pleasure. "i've learned about an entirely new kind of lady to go home and tell my wife about. and i'll bet you a hundred dollars that you're a good deal more of a 'lady' than you'd even be willing to tell us. there ain't any provincial-- 'don't-you-dare-speak-to-me--this-is-the-first-time-i-ever-was-on-a-train air about you! i'll bet you've traveled a lot--all round the world--froze your eyes on icebergs and scorched 'em some on tropics." "y-e-s," laughed the youngish girl. "and i'll bet you've met the governor-general at least once in your life." "yes," said the girl, still laughing. "he dined at my house with me a week ago yesterday." "and i'll bet you, most of anything," said the traveling salesman shrewdly, "that you're haughtier than haughty with folks of your own kind. but with people like us--me and the electrician, or the soldier's widow from south africa who does your washing, or the eskimo man at the circus--you're as simple as a kitten. all your own kind of folks are nothing but grown-up people to you, and you treat 'em like grown-ups all right--a hundred cents to the dollar--but all our kind of folks are _playmates_ to you, and you take us as easy and pleasant as you'd slide down on the floor and play with any other kind of a kid. oh, you can tackle the other proposition all right--dances and balls and general gold lace glories; but it ain't fine loafers sitting round in parlors talking about the weather that's going to hold you very long, when all the time your heart's up and over the back fence with the kids who are playing the games. and, oh, say!" he broke off abruptly--"would you think it awfully impertinent of me if i asked you how you do your hair like that? 'cause, surer than smoke, after i get home and supper is over and the dishes are washed and i've just got to sleep, that little wife of mine will wake me up and say: 'oh, just one thing more. how did that lady in the train do her hair?'" with her chin lifting suddenly in a burst of softly uproarious delight, the youngish girl turned her head half-way around and raised her narrow, black-gloved hands to push a tortoise-shell pin into place. "why, it's perfectly simple," she explained. "it's just three puffs, and two curls, and then a twist." "and then a twist?" quizzed the traveling salesman earnestly, jotting down the memorandum very carefully on the shiny black surface of his sample-case. "oh, i hope i ain't been too familiar," he added, with sudden contriteness. "maybe i ought to have introduced myself first. my name's clifford. i'm a drummer for sayles & sayles. maine and the maritime provinces--that's my route. boston's the home office. ever been in halifax?" he quizzed a trifle proudly. "do an awful big business in halifax! happen to know the emporium store? the london, liverpool, and halifax emporium?" the youngish girl bit her lip for a second before she answered. then, very quietly, "y-e-s," she said, "i know the emporium--slightly. that is--i--own the block that the emporium is in." "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "oh, gee! now i _know_ i talk too much!" in nervously apologetic acquiescence the young electrician reached up a lean, clever, mechanical hand and smouched one more streak of black across his forehead in a desperate effort to reduce his tousled yellow hair to the particular smoothness that befitted the presence of a lady who owned a business block in any city whatsoever. "my father owned a store in malden, once," he stammered, just a trifle wistfully, "but it burnt down, and there wasn't any insurance. we always were a powerfully unlucky family. nothing much ever came our way!" even as he spoke, a toddling youngster from an overcrowded seat at the front end of the car came adventuring along the aisle after the swaying, clutching manner of tired, fretty children on trains. hesitating a moment, she stared up utterly unsmilingly into the salesman's beaming face, ignored the youngish girl's inviting hand, and with a sudden little chuckling sigh of contentment, climbed up clumsily into the empty place beside the young electrician, rummaged bustlingly around with its hands and feet for an instant, in a petulant effort to make a comfortable nest for itself, and then snuggled down at last, lolling half-way across the young electrician's perfectly strange knees, and drowsed off to sleep with all the delicious, friendly, unconcerned sang-froid of a tired puppy. almost unconsciously the young electrician reached out and unfastened the choky collar of the heavy, sweltering little overcoat; yet not a glance from his face had either lured or caressed the strange child for a single second. just for a moment, then, his smiling eyes reassured the jaded, jabbering french-canadian mother, who turned round with craning neck from the front of the car. "she's all right here. let her alone!" he signaled gesticulatingly from child to mother. then, turning to the traveling salesman, he mused reminiscently: "talking's--all--right. but where in creation do you get the time to _think_? got any kids?" he asked abruptly. "n-o," said the traveling salesman. "my wife, i guess, is kid enough for me." around the young electrician's eyes the whimsical smile-wrinkles deepened with amazing vividness. "huh!" he said. "i've got six." "gee!" chuckled the salesman. "boys?" the young electrician's eyebrows lifted in astonishment. "sure they're boys!" he said. "why, of course!" the traveling salesman looked out far away through the window and whistled a long, breathy whistle. "how in the deuce are you ever going to take care of 'em?" he asked. then his face sobered suddenly. "there was only two of us fellows at home--just daniel and me--and even so--there weren't ever quite enough of anything to go all the way round." for just an instant the youngish girl gazed a bit skeptically at the traveling salesman's general rotund air of prosperity. "you don't look--exactly like a man who's never had enough," she said smilingly. "food?" said the traveling salesman. "oh, shucks! it wasn't food i was thinking of. it was education. oh, of course," he added conscientiously, "of course, when the crops weren't either too heavy or too blooming light, pa usually managed some way or other to get daniel and me to school. and schooling was just nuts to me, and not a single nut so hard or so green that i wouldn't have chawed and bitten my way clear into it. but daniel--daniel somehow couldn't seem to see just how to enter a mushy bartlett pear without a knife or a fork--in some other person's fingers. he was all right, you know--but he just couldn't seem to find his own way alone into anything. so when the time came--" the grin on the traveling salesman's mouth grew just a little bit wry at one corner--"and so when the time came--it was an awful nice, sweet-smelling june night, i remember, and i'd come home early--i walked into the kitchen as nice as pie, where pa was sitting dozing in the cat's rocking-chair, in his gray stocking feet, and i threw down before him my full year's school report. it was pink, i remember, which was supposed to be the rosy color of success in our school; and i says: 'pa! there's my report! and pa,' i says, as bold and stuck-up as a brass weathercock on a new church, 'pa! teacher says that one of your boys has got to go to college!' and i was grinning all the while, i remember, worse than any chessy cat. "and pa he took my report in both his horny old hands and he spelt it all out real careful and slow and respectful, like as though it had been a lace valentine, and 'good boy!' he says, and 'bully boy!' and 'so teacher says that one of my boys has got to go to college? one of my boys? well, which one? go fetch me daniel's report.' so i went and fetched him daniel's report. it was gray, i remember--the supposed color of failure in our school--and i stood with the grin still half frozen on my face while pa spelt out the dingy record of poor daniel's year. and then, 'oh, gorry!' says pa. 'run away and g'long to bed. i've got to think. but first,' he says, all suddenly cautious and thrifty, 'how much does it cost to go to college?' and just about as delicate and casual as a missionary hinting for a new chapel, i blurted out loud as a bull: 'well, if i go up state to our own college, and get a chance to work for part of my board, it will cost me just $ a year, or maybe--maybe,' i stammered, 'maybe, if i'm extra careful, only $ . , say. for four years that's only $ ,' i finished triumphantly. "'_g-a-w-d!_' says pa. nothing at all except just, '_g-a-w-d!_' "when i came down to breakfast the next morning, he was still sitting there in the cat's rocking-chair, with his face as gray as his socks, and all the rest of him--blue jeans. and my pink school report, i remember, had slipped down under the stove, and the tortoise-shell cat was lashing it with her tail; but daniel's report, gray as his face, was still clutched up in pa's horny old hand. for just a second we eyed each other sort of dumb-like, and then for the first time, i tell you, i seen tears in his eyes. "'johnny,' he says, 'it's daniel that'll have to go to college. bright men,' he says, 'don't need no education.'" even after thirty years the traveling salesman's hand shook slightly with the memory, and his joggled mind drove him with unwonted carelessness to pin price mark after price mark in the same soft, flimsy mesh of pink lisle. but the grin on his lips did not altogether falter. "i'd had pains before in my stomach," he acknowledged good-naturedly, "but that morning with pa was the first time in my life that i ever had any pain in my plans!--so we mortgaged the house and the cow-barn and the maple-sugar trees," he continued, more and more cheerfully, "and daniel finished his schooling--in the lord's own time--and went to college." with another sudden, loud guffaw of mirth all the color came flushing back again into his heavy face. "well, daniel has sure needed all the education he could get," he affirmed heartily. "he's a methodist minister now somewhere down in georgia--and, educated 'way up to the top notch, he don't make no more than $ a year. $ !--oh, glory! why, daniel's piazza on his new house cost him $ , and his wife's last hospital bill was $ , and just one dentist alone gaffed him sixty-five dollars for straightening his oldest girl's teeth!" "not sixty-five?" gasped the young electrician in acute dismay. "why, two of my kids have got to have it done! oh, come now--you're joshing!" "i'm not either joshing," cried the traveling salesman. "sure it was sixty-five dollars. here's the receipted bill for it right here in my pocket." brusquely he reached out and snatched the paper back again. "oh, no, i beg your pardon. that's the receipt for the piazza.--what? it isn't? for the hospital bill then?--oh, hang! well, never mind. it _was_ sixty-five dollars. i tell you i've got it somewhere." "oh--you--paid--for--them--all, did you?" quizzed the youngish girl before she had time to think. "no, indeed!" lied the traveling salesman loyally. "but $ a year? what can a family man do with that? why, i earned that much before i was twenty-one! why, there wasn't a moment after i quit school and went to work that i wasn't earning real money! from the first night i stood on a street corner with a gasoline torch, hawking rasin-seeders, up to last night when i got an eight-hundred-dollar raise in my salary, there ain't been a single moment in my life when i couldn't have sold you my boots; and if you'd buncoed my boots away from me i'd have sold you my stockings; and if you'd buncoed my stockings away from me i'd have rented you the privilege of jumping on my bare toes. and i ain't never missed a meal yet--though once in my life i was forty-eight hours late for one!--oh, i'm bright enough," he mourned, "but i tell you i ain't refined." with the sudden stopping of the train the little child in the young electrician's lap woke fretfully. then, as the bumpy cars switched laboriously into a siding, and the engine went puffing off alone on some noncommittal errand of its own, the young electrician rose and stretched himself and peered out of the window into the acres and acres of snow, and bent down suddenly and swung the child to his shoulder, then, sauntering down the aisle to the door, jumped off into the snow and started to explore the edge of a little, snow-smothered pond which a score of red-mittened children were trying frantically to clear with huge yellow brooms. out from the crowd of loafers that hung about the station a lean yellow hound came nosing aimlessly forward, and then suddenly, with much fawning and many capers, annexed itself to the young electrician's heels like a dog that has just rediscovered its long-lost master. halfway up the car the french canadian mother and her brood of children crowded their faces close to the window--and thought they were watching the snow. and suddenly the car seemed very empty. the youngish girl thought it was her book that had grown so astonishingly devoid of interest. only the traveling salesman seemed to know just exactly what was the matter. craning his neck till his ears reddened, he surveyed and resurveyed the car, complaining: "what's become of all the folks?" a little nervously the youngish girl began to laugh. "nobody has gone," she said, "except--the young electrician." with a grunt of disbelief the traveling salesman edged over to the window and peered out through the deepening frost on the pane. inquisitively the youngish girl followed his gaze. already across the cold, white, monotonous, snow-smothered landscape the pale afternoon light was beginning to wane, and against the lowering red and purple streaks of the wintry sunset the young electrician's figure, with the little huddling pack on its shoulder, was silhouetted vaguely, with an almost startling mysticism, like the figure of an unearthly traveler starting forth upon an unearthly journey into an unearthly west. "ain't he the nice boy!" exclaimed the traveling salesman with almost passionate vehemence. "why, i'm sure i don't know!" said the youngish girl a trifle coldly. "why--it would take me quite a long time--to decide just how--nice he was. but--" with a quick softening of her voice--"but he certainly makes one think of--nice things--blue mountains, and green forests, and brown pine needles, and a long, hard trail, shoulder to shoulder--with a chance to warm one's heart at last at a hearth-fire--bigger than a sunset!" altogether unconsciously her small hands went gripping out to the edge of her seat, as though just a grip on plush could hold her imagination back from soaring into a miraculous, unfamiliar world where women did not idle all day long on carpets waiting for men who came on--pavements. "oh, my god!" she cried out with sudden passion. "i wish i could have lived just one day when the world was new. i wish--i wish i could have reaped just one single, solitary, big emotion before the world had caught it and--appraised it--and taxed it--and licensed it--and _staled_ it!" "oh-ho!" said the traveling salesman with a little sharp indrawing of his breath. "oh-ho!--so that's what the--young electrician makes you think of, is it?" for just an instant the traveling salesman thought that the youngish girl was going to strike him. "i wasn't thinking of the young electrician at all!" she asserted angrily. "i was thinking of something altogether--different." "yes. that's just it," murmured the traveling salesman placidly. "something--altogether--different. every time i look at him it's the darnedest thing! every time i look at him i--forget all about him. my head begins to wag and my foot begins to tap--and i find myself trying to--_hum_ him--as though he was the words of a tune i used to know." when the traveling salesman looked round again, there were tears in the youngish girl's eyes, and an instant after that her shoulders went plunging forward till her forehead rested on the back of the traveling salesman's seat. but it was not until the young electrician had come striding back to his seat, and wrapped himself up in the fold of a big newspaper, and not until the train had started on again and had ground out another noisy mile or so, that the traveling salesman spoke again--and this time it was just a little bit surreptitiously. "what--you--crying--for?" he asked with incredible gentleness. "i don't know, i'm sure," confessed the youngish girl, snuffingly. "i guess i must be tired." "u-m-m," said the traveling salesman. after a moment or two he heard the sharp little click of a watch. "oh, dear me!" fretted the youngish girl's somewhat smothered voice. "i didn't realize we were almost two hours late. why, it will be dark, won't it, when we get into boston?" "yes, sure it will be dark," said the traveling salesman. after another moment the youngish girl raised her forehead just the merest trifle from the back of the traveling salesman's seat, so that her voice sounded distinctly more definite and cheerful. "i've--never--been--to--boston--before," she drawled a little casually. "what!" exclaimed the traveling salesman. "been all around the world--and never been to boston?--oh, i see," he added hurriedly, "you're afraid your friends won't meet you!" out of the youngish girl's erstwhile disconsolate mouth a most surprising laugh issued. "no! i'm afraid they _will_ meet me," she said dryly. just as a soldier's foot turns from his heel alone, so the traveling salesman's whole face seemed to swing out suddenly from his chin, till his surprised eyes stared direct into the girl's surprised eyes. "my heavens!" he said. "you don't mean that _you've_--been writing an--'indiscreet letter'?" "y-e-s--i'm afraid that i have," said the youngish girl quite blandly. she sat up very straight now and narrowed her eyes just a trifle stubbornly toward the traveling salesman's very visible astonishment. "and what's more," she continued, clicking at her watch-case again--"and what's more, i'm on my way now to meet the consequences of said indiscreet letter.'" "alone?" gasped the traveling salesman. the twinkle in the youngish girl's eyes brightened perceptibly, but the firmness did not falter from her mouth. "are people apt to go in--crowds to--meet consequences?" she asked, perfectly pleasantly. "oh--come, now!" said the traveling salesman's most persuasive voice. "you don't want to go and get mixed up in any sensational nonsense and have your picture stuck in the sunday paper, do you?" the youngish girl's manner stiffened a little. "do i look like a person who gets mixed up in sensational nonsense?" she demanded rather sternly. "n-o-o," acknowledged the traveling salesman conscientiously. "n-o-o; but then there's never any telling what you calm, quiet-looking, still-waters sort of people will go ahead and do--once you get started." anxiously he took out his watch, and then began hurriedly to pack his samples back into his case. "it's only twenty-five minutes more," he argued earnestly. "oh, i say now, don't you go off and do anything foolish! my wife will be down at the station to meet me. you'd like my wife. you'd like her fine!--oh, i say now, you come home with us for sunday, and think things over a bit." as delightedly as when the traveling salesman had asked her how she fixed her hair, the youngish girl's hectic nervousness broke into genuine laughter. "yes," she teased, "i can see just how pleased your wife would be to have you bring home a perfectly strange lady for sunday!" "my wife is only a kid," said the traveling salesman gravely, "but she likes what i like--all right--and she'd give you the shrewdest, eagerest little 'helping hand' that you ever got in your life--if you'd only give her a chance to help you out--with whatever your trouble is." "but i haven't any 'trouble,'" persisted the youngish girl with brisk cheerfulness. "why, i haven't any trouble at all! why, i don't know but what i'd just as soon tell you all about it. maybe i really ought to tell somebody about it. maybe--anyway, it's a good deal easier to tell a stranger than a friend. maybe it would really do me good to hear how it sounds out loud. you see, i've never done anything but whisper it--just to myself--before. do you remember the wreck on the canadian pacific road last year? do you? well--i was in it!" "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "'twas up on just the edge of canada, wasn't it? and three of the passenger coaches went off the track? and the sleeper went clear over the bridge? and fell into an awful gully? and caught fire besides?" "yes," said the youngish girl. "i was in the sleeper." even without seeming to look at her at all, the traveling salesman could see quite distinctly that the youngish girl's knees were fairly knocking together and that the flesh around her mouth was suddenly gray and drawn, like an old person's. but the little persistent desire to laugh off everything still flickered about the corners of her lips. "yes," she said, "i was in the sleeper, and the two people right in front of me were killed; and it took almost three hours, i think, before they got any of us out. and while i was lying there in the darkness and mess and everything, i cried--and cried--and cried. it wasn't nice of me, i know, nor brave, nor anything, but i couldn't seem to help it--underneath all that pile of broken seats and racks and beams and things. "and pretty soon a man's voice--just a voice, no face or anything, you know, but just a voice from somewhere quite near me, spoke right out and said: 'what in creation are you crying so about? are you awfully hurt?' and i said--though i didn't mean to say it at all, but it came right out--'n-o, i don't think i'm hurt, but i don't like having all these seats and windows piled on top of me,' and i began crying all over again. 'but no one else is crying,' reproached the voice.--'and there's a perfectly good reason why not,' i said. 'they're all dead!'--'o--h,' said the voice, and then i began to cry harder than ever, and principally this time, i think, i cried because the horrid, old red plush cushions smelt so stale and dusty, jammed against my nose. "and then after a long time the voice spoke again and it said, 'if i'll sing you a little song, will you stop crying?' and i said, 'n-o, i don't think i could!' and after a long time the voice spoke again, and it said, 'well, if i'll tell you a story will you stop crying?' and i considered it a long time, and finally i said, 'well, if you'll tell me a perfectly true story--a story that's never, never been told to any one before--_i'll try and stop!_' "so the voice gave a funny little laugh almost like a woman's hysterics, and i stopped crying right off short, and the voice said, just a little bit mockingly: 'but the only perfectly true story that i know--the only story that's never--never been told to anybody before is the story of my life.' 'very well, then,' i said, 'tell me that! of course i was planning to live to be very old and learn a little about a great many things; but as long as apparently i'm not going to live to even reach my twenty-ninth birthday--to-morrow--you don't know how unutterably it would comfort me to think that at least i knew _everything_ about some one thing!' "and then the voice choked again, just a little bit, and said: 'well--here goes, then. once upon a time--but first, can you move your right hand? turn it just a little bit more this way. there! cuddle it down! now, you see, i've made a little home for it in mine. ouch! don't press down too hard! i think my wrist is broken. all ready, then? you won't cry another cry? promise? all right then. here goes. once upon a time--' "never mind about the story," said the youngish girl tersely. "it began about the first thing in all his life that he remembered seeing--something funny about a grandmother's brown wig hung over the edge of a white piazza railing--and he told me his name and address, and all about his people, and all about his business, and what banks his money was in, and something about some land down in the panhandle, and all the bad things that he'd ever done in his life, and all the good things, that he wished there'd been more of, and all the things that no one would dream of telling you if he ever, ever expected to see daylight again--things so intimate--things so-- "but it wasn't, of course, about his story that i wanted to tell you. it was about the 'home,' as he called it, that his broken hand made for my--frightened one. i don't know how to express it; i can't exactly think, even, of any words to explain it. why, i've been all over the world, i tell you, and fairly loafed and lolled in every conceivable sort of ease and luxury, but the soul of me--the wild, restless, breathless, discontented _soul_ of me--_never sat down before in all its life_--i say, until my frightened hand cuddled into his broken one. i tell you i don't pretend to explain it, i don't pretend to account for it; all i know is--that smothering there under all that horrible wreckage and everything--the instant my hand went home to his, the most absolute sense of serenity and contentment went over me. did you ever see young white horses straying through a white-birch wood in the springtime? well, it felt the way that _looks_!--did you ever hear an alto voice singing in the candle-light? well, it felt the way that _sounds_! the last vision you would like to glut your eyes on before blindness smote you! the last sound you would like to glut your ears on before deafness dulled you! the last touch--before intangibility! something final, complete, supreme--ineffably satisfying! "and then people came along and rescued us, and i was sick in the hospital for several weeks. and then after that i went to persia. i know it sounds silly, but it seemed to me as though just the smell of persia would be able to drive away even the memory of red plush dust and scorching woodwork. and there was a man on the steamer whom i used to know at home--a man who's almost always wanted to marry me. and there was a man who joined our party at teheran--who liked me a little. and the land was like silk and silver and attar of roses. but all the time i couldn't seem to think about anything except how perfectly awful it was that a _stranger_ like me should be running round loose in the world, carrying all the big, scary secrets of a man who didn't even know where i was. and then it came to me all of a sudden, one rather worrisome day, that no woman who knew as much about a man as i did was exactly a 'stranger' to him. and then, twice as suddenly, to great, grown-up, cool-blooded, money-staled, book-tamed _me_--it swept over me like a cyclone that i should never be able to decide anything more in all my life--not the width of a tinsel ribbon, not the goal of a journey, not the worth of a lover--until i'd seen the face that belonged to the voice in the railroad wreck. "and i sat down--and wrote the man a letter--i had his name and address, you know. and there--in a rather maddening moonlight night on the caspian sea--all the horrors and terrors of that other--canadian night came back to me and swamped completely all the arid timidity and sleek conventionality that women like me are hidebound with all their lives, and i wrote him--that unknown, unvisualized, unimagined--man--the utterly free, utterly frank, utterly honest sort of letter that any brave soul would write any other brave soul--every day of the world--if there wasn't any flesh. it wasn't a love letter. it wasn't even a sentimental letter. never mind what i told him. never mind anything except that there, in that tropical night on a moonlit sea, i asked him to meet me here, in boston, eight months afterward--on the same boston-bound canadian train--on this--the anniversary of our other tragic meeting." "and you think he'll be at the station?" gasped the traveling salesman. the youngish girl's answer was astonishingly tranquil. "i don't know, i'm sure," she said. "that part of it isn't my business. all i know is that i wrote the letter--and mailed it. it's fate's move next." "but maybe he never got the letter!" protested the traveling salesman, buckling frantically at the straps of his sample-case. "very likely," the youngish girl answered calmly. "and if he never got it, then fate has surely settled everything perfectly definitely for me--that way. the only trouble with that would be," she added whimsically, "that an unanswered letter is always pretty much like an unhooked hook. any kind of a gap is apt to be awkward, and the hook that doesn't catch in its own intended tissue is mighty apt to tear later at something you didn't want torn." "i don't know anything about that," persisted the traveling salesman, brushing nervously at the cinders on his hat. "all i say is--maybe he's married." "well, that's all right," smiled the youngish girl. "then fate would have settled it all for me perfectly satisfactorily _that_ way. i wouldn't mind at all his not being at the station. and i wouldn't mind at all his being married. and i wouldn't mind at all his turning out to be very, very old. none of those things, you see, would interfere in the slightest with the memory of the--voice or the--chivalry of the broken hand. the only thing i'd mind, i tell you, would be to think that he really and truly was the man who was made for me--and i missed finding it out!--oh, of course, i've worried myself sick these past few months thinking of the audacity of what i've done. i've got such a 'sore thought,' as you call it, that i'm almost ready to scream if anybody mentions the word 'indiscreet' in my presence. and yet, and yet--after all, it isn't as though i were reaching out into the darkness after an indefinite object. what i'm reaching out for is a _light_, so that i can tell exactly just what object is there. and, anyway," she quoted a little waveringly: "he either fears his fate too much, or his, deserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch to gain or lose it all!" "ain't you scared just a little bit?" probed the traveling salesman. all around them the people began bustling suddenly with their coats and bags. with a gesture of impatience the youngish girl jumped up and started to fasten her furs. the eyes that turned to answer the traveling salesman's question were brimming wet with tears. "yes--i'm--scared to death!" she smiled incongruously. almost authoritatively the salesman reached out his empty hand for her traveling-bag. "what you going to do if he ain't there?" he asked. the girl's eyebrows lifted. "why, just what i'm going to do if he _is_ there," she answered quite definitely. "i'm going right back to montreal to-night. there's a train out again, i think, at eight-thirty. even late as we are, that will give me an hour and a half at the station." "gee!" said the traveling salesman. "and you've traveled five days just to see what a man looks like--for an hour and a half?" "i'd have traveled twice five days," she whispered, "just to see what he looked like--for a--second and a half!" "but how in thunder are you going to recognize him?" fussed the traveling salesman. "and how in thunder is he going to recognize you?" "maybe i won't recognize him," acknowledged the youngish girl, "and likelier than not he won't recognize me; but don't you see?--can't you understand?--that all the audacity of it, all the worry of it--is absolutely nothing compared to the one little chance in ten thousand that we _will_ recognize each other?" "well, anyway," said the traveling salesman stubbornly, "i'm going to walk out slow behind you and see you through this thing all right." "oh, no, you're not!" exclaimed the youngish girl. "oh, no, you're not! can't you see that if he's there, i wouldn't mind you so much; but if he doesn't come, can't you understand that maybe i'd just as soon you didn't know about it?" "o-h," said the traveling salesman. a little impatiently he turned and routed the young electrician out of his sprawling nap. "don't you know boston when you see it?" he cried a trifle testily. for an instant the young electrician's sleepy eyes stared dully into the girl's excited face. then he stumbled up a bit awkwardly and reached out for all his coil-boxes and insulators. "good-night to you. much obliged to you," he nodded amiably. a moment later he and the traveling salesman were forging their way ahead through the crowded aisle. like the transient, impersonal, altogether mysterious stimulant of a strain of martial music, the young electrician vanished into space. but just at the edge of the car steps the traveling salesman dallied a second to wait for the youngish girl. "say," he said, "say, can i tell my wife what you've told me?" "y-e-s," nodded the youngish girl soberly. "and say," said the traveling salesman, "say, i don't exactly like to go off this way and never know at all how it all came out." casually his eyes fell on the big lynx muff in the youngish girl's hand. "say," he said, "if i promise, honest-injun, to go 'way off to the other end of the station, couldn't you just lift your muff up high, once, if everything comes out the way you want it?" "y-e-s," whispered the youngish girl almost inaudibly. then the traveling salesman went hurrying on to join the young electrician, and the youngish girl lagged along on the rear edge of the crowd like a bashful child dragging on the skirts of its mother. out of the groups of impatient people that flanked the track she saw a dozen little pecking reunions, where some one dashed wildly into the long, narrow stream of travelers and yanked out his special friend or relative, like a good-natured bird of prey. she saw a tired, worn, patient-looking woman step forward with four noisy little boys, and then stand dully waiting while the young electrician gathered his riotous offspring to his breast. she saw the traveling salesman grin like a bashful school-boy, just as a red-cloaked girl came running to him and bore him off triumphantly toward the street. and then suddenly, out of the blur, and the dust, and the dizziness, and the half-blinding glare of lights, the figure of a man loomed up directly and indomitably across the youngish girl's path--a man standing bare-headed and faintly smiling as one who welcomes a much-reverenced guest--a man tall, stalwart, sober-eyed, with a touch of gray at his temples, a man whom any woman would be proud to have waiting for her at the end of any journey. and right there before all that hurrying, scurrying, self-centered, unseeing crowd, he reached out his hands to her and gathered her frightened fingers close into his. "you've--kept--me--waiting--a--long--time," he reproached her. "yes!" she stammered. "yes! yes! the train was two hours late!" "it wasn't the hours that i was thinking about," said the man very quietly. "it was the--_year_!" and then, just as suddenly, the youngish girl felt a tug at her coat, and, turning round quickly, found herself staring with dazed eyes into the eager, childish face of the traveling salesman's red-cloaked wife. not thirty feet away from her the traveling salesman's shameless, stolid-looking back seemed to be blocking up the main exit to the street. "oh, are you the lady from british columbia?" queried the excited little voice. perplexity, amusement, yet a divine sort of marital confidence were in the question. "yes, surely i am," said the youngish girl softly. across the little wife's face a great rushing, flushing wave of tenderness blocked out for a second all trace of the cruel, slim scar that marred the perfect contour of one cheek. "oh, i don't know at all what it's all about," laughed the little wife, "but my husband asked me to come back and kiss you!" a star book how to write letters (formerly the book of letters) _a complete guide to correct business and personal correspondence_ by mary owens crowther garden city publishing company, inc. new york cl copyright, , by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved printed in the united states at the country life press, garden city, n. y. acknowledgments the forms for engraved invitations, announcements, and the like, and the styles of notepapers, addresses, monograms, and crests are by courtesy of the bailey, banks and biddle company, brentano's, and the gorham company. the western union telegraph company has been very helpful in the chapter on telegrams. contents page chapter i what is a letter? chapter ii the purpose of the letter chapter iii the parts of a letter . the heading . the inside address . the salutation . the body of the letter . the complimentary close . the signature . the superscription chapter iv being appropriate--what to avoid common offenses stock phrases in business letters chapter v personal letters--social and friendly invitations and acknowledgments the letter of condolence letters of sympathy in case of illness letters of congratulation letters of introduction letters of thanks letters between friends chapter vi personal business letters chapter vii the business letter sales and announcement letters keeping the customer selling real estate bank letters letters of order and acknowledgment letters of complaint and adjustment credit and collection letters letters of application letters of reference letters of introduction letters of inquiry chapter viii the use of form paragraphs chapter ix children's letters chapter x telegrams chapter xi the law of letters chapter xii the cost of a letter chapter xiii stationery, crests and monograms list of text illustrations page in the business letterhead appear the name of the firm, its address, and the kind of business engaged in letterheads used by a life insurance company, a law firm, and three associations in the case of widely known firms, or where the name of the firm itself indicates it, reference to the nature of the business is often omitted from letterheads specimens of letterheads used for official stationery as to the use of the symbol "&" and the abbreviation of the word "company," the safest plan in writing to a company is to spell its name exactly as it appears on its letterhead specimen of formal wedding invitation specimens of formal invitations to a wedding reception specimen of wedding announcement specimens of formal dinner invitations specimens of formal invitations "to meet" specimens of formal invitations to a dance specimens of business letterheads arrangement of a business letter (block form) arrangement of a business letter (indented form) specimens of business letterheads used by english firms specimens of addressed social stationery specimens of addressed social stationery the monograms in the best taste are the small round ones, but many pleasing designs may be had in the diamond, square, and oblong shapes specimens of crested letter and notepaper specimens of monogrammed stationery specimens of business letterheads department stores and firms that write many letters to women often employ a notepaper size specimens of stationery used by men for personal business letters how to write letters chapter i what is a letter? it is not so long since most personal letters, after an extremely formal salutation, began "i take my pen in hand." we do not see that so much nowadays, but the spirit lingers. pick up the average letter and you cannot fail to discover that the writer has grimly taken his pen in hand and, filled with one thought, has attacked the paper. that one thought is to get the thing over with. and perhaps this attitude of getting the thing over with at all costs is not so bad after all. there are those who lament the passing of the ceremonious letter and others who regret that the "literary" letter--the kind of letter that can be published--is no longer with us. but the old letter of ceremony was not really more useful than a powdered wig, and as for the sort of letter that delights the heart and lightens the labor of the biographer--well, that is still being written by the kind of person who can write it. it is better that a letter should be written because the writer has something to say than as a token of culture. some of the letters of our dead great do too often remind us that they were not forgetful of posterity. the average writer of a letter might well forget culture and posterity and address himself to the task in hand, which, in other than the most exceptional sort of letter, is to say what he has to say in the shortest possible compass that will serve to convey the thought or the information that he wants to hand on. for a letter is a conveyance of thought; if it becomes a medium of expression it is less a letter than a diary fragment. most of our letters in these days relate to business affairs or to social affairs that, as far as personality is concerned, might as well be business. our average letter has a rather narrow objective and is not designed to be literature. we may, it is true, write to cheer up a sick friend, we may write to tell about what we are doing, we may write that sort of missive which can be classified only as a love letter--but unless such letters come naturally it is better that they be not written. they are the exceptional letters. it is absurd to write them according to rule. in fact, it is absurd to write any letter according to rule. but one can learn the best usage in correspondence, and that is all that this book attempts to present. the heyday of letter writing was in the eighteenth century in england. george saintsbury, in his interesting "a letter book," says: "by common consent of all opinion worth attention that century was, in the two european literatures which were equally free from crudity and decadence--french and english--the very palmiest day of the art. everybody wrote letters, and a surprising number of people wrote letters well. our own three most famous epistolers of the male sex, horace walpole, gray, and cowper--belong wholly to it; and 'lady mary'--our most famous she-ditto--belongs to it by all but her childhood; as does chesterfield, whom some not bad judges would put not far if at all below the three men just mentioned. the rise of the novel in this century is hardly more remarkable than the way in which that novel almost wedded itself--certainly joined itself in the most frequent friendship--to the letter-form. but perhaps the excellence of the choicer examples in this time is not really more important than the abundance, variety, and popularity of its letters, whether good, indifferent, or bad. to use one of the informal superlatives sanctioned by familiar custom it was the 'letter-writingest' of ages from almost every point of view. in its least as in its most dignified moods it even overflowed into verse if not into poetry as a medium. serious epistles had--of course on classical models--been written in verse for a long time. but now in england more modern patterns, and especially anstey's _new bath guide_, started the fashion of actual correspondence in doggerel verse with no thought of print--a practice in which persons as different as madame d'arblay's good-natured but rather foolish father, and a poet and historian like southey indulged; and which did not become obsolete till victorian times, if then." there is a wide distinction between a letter and an epistle. the letter is a substitute for a spoken conversation. it is spontaneous, private, and personal. it is non-literary and is not written for the eyes of the general public. the epistle is in the way of being a public speech--an audience is in mind. it is written with a view to permanence. the relation between an epistle and a letter has been compared to that between a platonic dialogue and a talk between two friends. a great man's letters, on account of their value in setting forth the views of a school or a person, may, if produced after his death, become epistles. some of these, genuine or forgeries, under some eminent name, have come down to us from the days of the early roman empire. cicero, plato, aristotle, demosthenes, are the principal names to which these epistles, genuine and pseudonymous, are attached. some of the letters of cicero are rather epistles, as they were intended for the general reader. the ancient world--babylonia, assyria, egypt, rome, and greece--figures in our inheritance of letters. in egypt have been discovered genuine letters. the papyrus discoveries contain letters of unknowns who had no thought of being read by the general public. during the renaissance, cicero's letters were used as models for one of the most common forms of literary effort. there is a whole literature of epistles from petrarch to the _epistolæ obscurorum virorum_. these are, to some degree, similar to the epistles of martin marprelate. later epistolary satires are pascal's "provincial letters," swift's "drapier letters," and the "letters of junius." pope, soon to be followed by lady mary montagu, was the first englishman who treated letter writing as an art upon a considerable scale. modern journalism uses a form known as the "open letter" which is really an epistle. but we are not here concerned with the letter as literature. chapter ii the purpose of the letter no one can go far wrong in writing any sort of letter if first the trouble be taken to set out the exact object of the letter. a letter always has an object--otherwise why write it? but somehow, and particularly in the dictated letter, the object frequently gets lost in the words. a handwritten letter is not so apt to be wordy--it is too much trouble to write. but a man dictating may, especially if he be interrupted by telephone calls, ramble all around what he wants to say and in the end have used two pages for what ought to have been said in three lines. on the other hand, letters may be so brief as to produce an impression of abrupt discourtesy. it is a rare writer who can say all that need be said in one line and not seem rude. but it can be done. the single purpose of a letter is to convey thought. that thought may have to do with facts, and the further purpose may be to have the thought produce action. but plainly the action depends solely upon how well the thought is transferred. words as used in a letter are vehicles for thought, but every word is not a vehicle for thought, because it may not be the kind of word that goes to the place where you want your thought to go; or, to put it another way, there is a wide variation in the understanding of words. the average american vocabulary is quite limited, and where an exactly phrased letter might completely convey an exact thought to a person of education, that same letter might be meaningless to a person who understands but few words. therefore, it is fatal in general letter writing to venture into unusual words or to go much beyond the vocabulary of, say, a grammar school graduate. statistics show that the ordinary adult in the united states--that is, the great american public--has either no high school education or less than a year of it. you can assume in writing to a man whom you do not know and about whom you have no information that he has only a grammar school education and that in using other than commonplace words you run a double danger--first, that he will not know what you are talking about or will misinterpret it; and second, that he will think you are trying to be highfalutin and will resent your possibly quite innocent parade of language. in a few very effective sales letters the writers have taken exactly the opposite tack. they have slung language in the fashion of a circus publicity agent, and by their verbal gymnastics have attracted attention. this sort of thing may do very well in some kinds of circular letters, but it is quite out of place in the common run of business correspondence, and a comparison of the sales letters of many companies with their day-to-day correspondence shows clearly the need for more attention to the day-to-day letter. a sales letter may be bought. a number of very competent men make a business of writing letters for special purposes. but a higher tone in general correspondence cannot be bought and paid for. it has to be developed. a good letter writer will neither insult the intelligence of his correspondent by making the letter too childish, nor will he make the mistake of going over his head. he will visualize who is going to receive his letter and use the kind of language that seems best to fit both the subject matter and the reader, and he will give the fitting of the words to the reader the first choice. there is something of a feeling that letters should be elegant--that if one merely expresses oneself simply and clearly, it is because of some lack of erudition, and that true erudition breaks out in great, sonorous words and involved constructions. there could be no greater mistake. the man who really knows the language will write simply. the man who does not know the language and is affecting something which he thinks is culture has what might be called a sense of linguistic insecurity, which is akin to the sense of social insecurity. now and again one meets a person who is dreadfully afraid of making a social error. he is afraid of getting hold of the wrong fork or of doing something else that is not done. such people labor along frightfully. they have a perfectly vile time of it, but any one who knows social usage takes it as a matter of course. he observes the rules, not because they are rules, but because they are second nature to him, and he shamelessly violates the rules if the occasion seems to warrant it. it is quite the same with the letter. one should know his ground well enough to do what one likes, bearing in mind that there is no reason for writing a letter unless the objective is clearly defined. writing a letter is like shooting at a target. the target may be hit by accident, but it is more apt to be hit if careful aim has been taken. chapter iii the parts of a letter the mechanical construction of a letter, whether social, friendly, or business, falls into six or seven parts. this arrangement has become established by the best custom. the divisions are as follows: . heading . inside address (always used in business letters but omitted in social and friendly letters) . salutation . body . complimentary close . signature . superscription . the heading the heading of a letter contains the street address, city, state, and the date. the examples below will illustrate: calumet street or eighth avenue chicago, ill. new york, n.y. may , march , [illustration: in the business letterhead appear the name of the firm, its address, and the kind of business engaged in] when the heading is typewritten or written by hand, it is placed at the top of the first letter sheet close to the right-hand margin. it should begin about in the center, that is, it should extend no farther to the left than the center of the page. if a letter is short and therefore placed in the center of a page, the heading will of course be lower and farther in from the edge than in a longer letter. but it should never be less than an inch from the top and three quarters of an inch from the edge. in the business letterhead appear the name of the firm, its address, and the kind of business engaged in. the last is often omitted in the case of widely known firms or where the nature of the business is indicated by the name of the firm. in the case of a printed or engraved letterhead, the written heading should consist only of the date. the printed date-line is not good. to mix printed and written or typed characters detracts from the neat appearance of the letter. in social stationery the address, when engraved, should be about three quarters of an inch from the top of the sheet, either in the center or at the right-hand corner. when the address is engraved, the date may be written at the end of the last sheet, from the left-hand corner, directly after the signature. [illustration: letterheads used by a life insurance company, a law firm, and three associations] [illustration: in the case of widely known firms, or where the name of the firm itself indicates it, reference to the nature of the business is often omitted from letterheads] . the inside address in social correspondence what is known as the inside address is omitted. in all business correspondence it is obviously necessary. the name and address of the person to whom a business letter is sent is placed at the left-hand side of the letter sheet below the heading, about an inch from the edge of the sheet, that is, leaving the same margin as in the body of the letter. the distance below the heading will be decided by the length and arrangement of the letter. the inside address consists of the name of the person or of the firm and the address. the address should comprise the street number, the city, and the state. the state may, in the case of certain very large cities, be omitted. either of the following styles may be used--the straight edge or the diagonal: wharton & whaley co. madison avenue & forty-fifth street new york, n. y. or wharton & whaley co. madison avenue & forty-fifth street new york, n. y. punctuation at the ends of the lines of the heading and the address may or may not be used. there is a growing tendency to omit it. the inside address may be written at the end of the letter, from the left, below the signature. this is done in official letters, both formal and informal. these official letters are further described under the heading "salutation" and in the chapter on stationery. . the salutation _social letters_ the salutation, or complimentary address to the person to whom the letter is written, in a social letter should begin at the left-hand side of the sheet about half an inch below the heading and an inch from the edge of the paper. the form "my dear" is considered in the united states more formal than "dear." thus, when we write to a woman who is simply an acquaintance, we should say "my dear mrs. evans." if we are writing to someone more intimate we should say "dear mrs. evans." the opposite is true in england--that is, "my dear mrs. evans" would be written to a friend and "dear mrs. evans" to a mere acquaintance. in writing to an absolute stranger, the full name should be written and then immediately under it, slightly to the right, "dear madam" or "dear sir." for example: mrs. john evans, dear madam: or mr. william sykes, dear sir: the salutation is followed by a colon or a comma. _business letters_ in business letters the forms of salutation in common use are: "dear sir," "gentlemen," "dear madam," and "mesdames." in the still more formal "my dear sir" and "my dear madam" note that the second word is not capitalized. a woman, whether married or unmarried, is addressed "dear madam." if the writer of the letter is personally acquainted with the person addressed, or if they have had much correspondence, he may use the less formal address, as "my dear mr. sykes." the salutation follows the inside address and preserves the same margin as does the first line of the address. the following are correct forms: white brothers co. fifth avenue new york gentlemen: or white brothers co. fifth avenue new york gentlemen: "dear sirs" is no longer much used--although in many ways it seems to be better taste. in the case of a firm or corporation with a single name, as daniel davey, inc., or of a firm or corporation consisting of men and women, the salutation is also "gentlemen" (or "dear sirs"). in letters to or by government officials the extremely formal "sir" or "sirs" is used. these are known as formal official letters. the informal official letter is used between business men and concerns things not in the regular routine of business affairs. these letters are decidedly informal and may be quite conversational in tone. the use of a name alone as a salutation is not correct, as: mr. john evans: i have your letter of-- forms of salutation to be avoided are "dear miss," "dear friend," "messrs." in memoranda between members of a company the salutations are commonly omitted--but these memoranda are not letters. they are messages of a "telegraphic" nature. _titles_ in the matter of titles it has been established by long custom that a title of some kind be used with the name of the individual or firm. the more usual titles are: "mr.," "mrs.," "miss," "messrs.," "reverend," "doctor," "professor," and "honorable." "esquire," written "esq." is used in england instead of the "mr." in common use in the united states. although still adhered to by some in this country, its use is rather restricted to social letters. of course it is never used with "mr." write either "mr. george l. ashley" or "george l. ashley, esq." the title "messrs." is used in addressing two or more persons who are in business partnership, as "messrs. brown and clark" or "brown & clark"; but the national cash register company, for example, should not be addressed "messrs. national cash register company" but "the national cash register company." the form "messrs." is an abbreviation of "messieurs" and should not be abbreviated in any way other than "messrs." the title "miss" is not recognized as an abbreviation and is not followed by a period. honorary degrees, such as "m.d.," "ph.d.," "m.a.," "b.s.," "ll.d.," follow the name of the person addressed. the initials "m.d." must not be used in connection with "doctor" as this would be a duplication. write either "dr. herbert reynolds" or "herbert reynolds, m.d." the titles of "doctor," "reverend," and "professor" precede the name of the addressed, as: "dr. herbert reynolds," "rev. philip bentley," "prof. lucius palmer." it will be observed that these titles are usually abbreviated on the envelope and in the inside address, but in the salutation they must be written out in full, as "my dear doctor," or "my dear professor." in formal notes one writes "my dear doctor reynolds" or "my dear professor palmer." in less formal notes, "dear doctor reynolds" and "dear professor palmer" may be used. a question of taste arises in the use of "doctor." the medical student completing the studies which would ordinarily lead to a bachelor's degree is known as "doctor," and the term has become associated in the popular mind with medicine and surgery. the title "doctor" is, however, an academic distinction, and although applied to all graduate medical practitioners is, in all other realms of learning, a degree awarded for graduate work, as doctor of philosophy (ph.d.), or for distinguished services that cause a collegiate institution to confer an honorary degree such as doctor of common law (d.c.l.), doctor of law and literature (ll.d.), doctor of science (sc.d.), and so on. every holder of a doctor's degree is entitled to be addressed as "doctor," but in practice the salutation is rarely given to the holders of the honorary degrees--mostly because they do not care for it. do not use "mr." or "esq." with any of the titles mentioned above. the president of the united states should be addressed formally as "sir," informally as "my dear mr. president." members of congress and of the state legislatures, diplomatic representatives, judges, and justices are entitled "honorable," as "honorable samuel sloane," thus: (formal) honorable (or hon.) john henley sir: (informal) honorable (or hon.) john henley my dear mr. henley: titles such as "cashier," "secretary," and "agent" are in the nature of descriptions and follow the name; as "mr. charles hamill, cashier." when such titles as "honorable" and "reverend" are used in the body of the letter they are preceded by the article "the." thus, "the honorable samuel sloane will address the meeting." a woman should never be addressed by her husband's title. thus the wife of a doctor is not "mrs. dr. royce" but "mrs. paul royce." the titles of "judge," "general," and "doctor" belong to the husband only. of course, if a woman has a title of her own, she may use it. if she is an "m.d." she will be designated as "dr. elizabeth ward." in this case her husband's christian name would not be used. in writing to the clergy, the following rules should be observed: for a cardinal the only salutation is "your eminence." the address on the envelope should read "his eminence john cardinal farley." to an archbishop one should write "most rev. patrick j. hayes, d.d., archbishop of new york." the salutation is usually "your grace," although it is quite admissible to use "dear archbishop." the former is preferable and of more common usage. the correct form of address for a bishop is "the right reverend john jones, d.d., bishop of ----." the salutation in a formal letter should be "right reverend and dear sir," but this would be used only in a strictly formal communication. in this salutation "dear" is sometimes capitalized, so that it would read "right reverend and dear sir"; although the form in the text seems preferable, some bishops use the capitalized "dear." the usual form is "my dear bishop," with "the right reverend john jones, d.d., bishop of ----" written above it. in the protestant episcopal church a dean is addressed "the very reverend john jones, d.d., dean of ----." the informal salutation is "my dear dean jones" and the formal is "very reverend and dear sir." in addressing a priest, the formal salutation is "reverend and dear sir," or "reverend dear father." the envelope reads simply: "the rev. joseph j. smith," followed by any titles the priest may enjoy. the form used in addressing the other clergy is "the reverend john jones," and the letter, if strictly formal, would commence with "reverend and dear sir." the more usual form, however, is "my dear mr. brown" (or "dr. brown," as the case may be). the use of the title "reverend" with the surname only is wholly inadmissible. in general usage the salutation in addressing formal correspondence to a foreign ambassador is "his excellency," to a minister or chargé d'affaires, "sir." in informal correspondence the general form is "my dear mr. ambassador," "my dear mr. minister," or "my dear mr. chargé d'affaires." . the body of the letter in the placing of a formal note it must be arranged so that the complete note appears on the first page only. the social letter is either formal or informal. the formal letter must be written according to certain established practice. it is the letter used for invitations to formal affairs, for announcements, and for the acknowledgment of these letters. the third person must always be used. if one receives a letter written in the third person one must answer in kind. it would be obviously incongruous to write mr. and mrs. john evans regret that we are unable to accept mrs. elliott's kind invitation for the theatre on thursday, may the fourth as we have a previous engagement it should read mr. and mrs. john evans regret that they are unable to accept mrs. elliott's kind invitation for the theatre on thursday, may the fourth as they have a previous engagement in these notes, the hour and date are never written numerically but are spelled out. if the family has a coat-of-arms or crest it may be used in the centre of the engraved invitation at the top, but monograms or stamped addresses are never so used. for the informal letter there are no set rules except that of courtesy, which requires that we have our thought distinctly in mind before putting it on paper. it may be necessary to pause a few moments before writing, to think out just what we want to say. a rambling, incoherent letter is not in good taste any more than careless, dishevelled clothing. spelling should be correct. if there is any difficulty in spelling, a small dictionary kept in the desk drawer is easily consulted. begin each sentence with a capital. start a new paragraph when you change to a new subject. put periods (or interrogation points as required) at the ends of the sentences. it is neater to preserve a margin on both sides of the letter sheet. in the body of a business letter the opening sentence is in an important position, and this is obviously the place for an important fact. it ought in some way to state or refer to the subject of or reason for the letter, so as to get the attention of the reader immediately to the subject. it ought also to suggest a courteous personal interest in the recipient's business, to give the impression of having to do with his interests. for instance, a reader might be antagonized by yours of the th regarding the shortage in your last order received. how much more tactful is we regret to learn from your letter of march th that there was a shortage in your last order. paragraphs should show the division of the thought of the letter. if you can arrange and group your subjects and your thoughts on them logically in your mind, you will have no trouble in putting them on paper. it is easier for the reader to grasp your thought if in each paragraph are contained only one thought and the ideas pertaining to it. the appearance of a business letter is a matter to which all too little concern has been given. a firm or business which would not tolerate an unkempt salesman sometimes will think nothing of sending out badly typed, badly placed, badly spelled letters. the first step toward a good-looking letter is proper stationery, though a carefully typed and placed letter on poor stationery is far better than one on good stationery with a good letterhead but poor typing and placing. the matter of correct spelling is merely a case of the will to consult a dictionary when in doubt. the proper placing of a letter is something which well rewards the care necessary at first. estimate the matter to go on the page with regard to the size of the page and arrange so that the centre of the letter will be slightly above the centre of the letter sheet. the margins should act as a frame or setting for the letter. the left-hand space should be at least an inch and the right-hand at least a half inch. of course if the letter is short the margins will be wider. the top and bottom margins should be wider than the side margins. the body of the letter should begin at the same distance from the edge as the first line of the inside address and the salutation. all paragraphing should be indicated by indenting the same distances from the margin--about an inch--or if the block system is used no paragraph indentation is made but double or triple spacing between the paragraphs indicates the divisions. if the letter is handwritten, the spacing between the paragraphs should be noticeably greater than that between other lines. never write on both sides of a sheet. in writing a business letter, if the letter requires more than one page, use plain sheets of the same size and quality without the letterhead. these additional sheets should be numbered at the top. the name or initials of the firm or person to whom the letter is going should also appear at the top of the sheets. this letter should never run over to a second sheet if there are less than three lines of the body of the letter left over from the first page. in the formal official letter, that is, in letters to or by government officials, members of congress, and other dignitaries, the most rigid formality in language is observed. no colloquialisms are allowed and no abbreviations. [illustration: specimens of letterheads used for official stationery] . the complimentary close the complimentary close follows the body of the letter, about two or three spaces below it. it begins about in the center of the page under the body of the letter. only the first word should be capitalized and a comma is placed at the end. the wording may vary according to the degree of cordiality or friendship. in business letters the forms are usually restricted to the following: yours truly (or) truly yours (not good form) yours very truly (or) very truly yours yours respectfully (or) respectfully yours yours very respectfully. if the correspondents are on a more intimate basis they may use faithfully yours cordially yours sincerely yours. in formal official letters the complimentary close is respectfully yours yours respectfully. the informal social letter may close with yours sincerely yours very sincerely yours cordially yours faithfully yours gratefully (if a favor has been done) yours affectionately very affectionately yours yours lovingly lovingly yours. the position of "yours" may be at the beginning or at the end, but it must never be abbreviated or omitted. if a touch of formal courtesy is desired, the forms "i am" or "i remain" may be used before the complimentary closing. these words keep the same margin as the paragraph indenting. but in business letters they are not used. . the signature the signature is written below the complimentary close and a little to the right, so that it ends about at the right-hand margin. in signing a social letter a married woman signs herself as "evelyn rundell," not "mrs. james rundell" nor "mrs. evelyn rundell." the form "mrs. james rundell" is used in business letters when the recipient might be in doubt as to whether to address her as "mrs." or "miss." thus a married woman would sign such a business letter: yours very truly, evelyn rundell (mrs. james rundell). an unmarried woman signs as "ruth evans," excepting in the case of a business letter where she might be mistaken for a widow. she then prefixes "miss" in parentheses, as (miss) ruth evans. a woman should not sign only her given name in a letter to a man unless he is her fiancé or a relative or an old family friend. a widow signs her name with "mrs." in parentheses before it, as (mrs.) susan briggs geer. a divorced woman, if she retains her husband's name, signs her letters with her given name and her own surname followed by her husband's name, thus: janet hawkins carr. and in a business communication: janet hawkins carr (mrs. janet hawkins carr). a signature should always be made by hand and in ink. the signature to a business letter may be simply the name of the writer. business firms or corporations have the name of the firm typed above the written signature of the writer of the letter. then in type below comes his official position. thus: hall, haines & company (typewritten) _alfred jennings_ (handwritten) cashier (typewritten). if he is not an official, his signature is preceded by the word "by." in the case of form letters or routine correspondence the name of the person directly responsible for the letter may be signed by a clerk with his initials just below it. some business firms have the name of the person responsible for the letter typed immediately under the name of the firm and then his signature below that. this custom counteracts illegibility in signatures. in circular letters the matter of a personal signature is a very important one. some good points on this subject may be gathered from the following extract from _printers' ink_. who shall sign a circular letter depends largely on circumstances entering individual cases. generally speaking, every letter should be tested on a trial list before it is sent out in large quantities. it is inadvisable to hazard an uncertain letter idea on a large list until the value of the plan, as applied to that particular business, has been tried out. there are certain things about letter procedure, however, that experience has demonstrated to be fundamental. one of these platforms is that it is best to sign the letter with some individual's name. covering up the responsibility for the letter with such a general term as "sales department" or "advertising department" takes all personality out of the missive and to that extent weakens the power of the message. but even in this we should be chary of following inflexible rules. we can conceive of circumstances where it would be advisable to have the letter come from a department rather than from an individual. of course the management of many business organizations still holds that all letters should be signed by the company only. if the personal touch is permitted at all, the extent of it is to allow the writer of the letter to subscribe his initials. this idea, however, is pretty generally regarded as old-fashioned and is fast dying out. most companies favor the plan of having the head of the department sign the circular letters emanating from his department. if he doesn't actually dictate the letter himself, no tell-tale signs such as the initials of the actual dictator should be made. if it is a sales matter, the letter would bear the signature of the sales manager. if the communication pertained to advertising, it would be signed by the advertising manager. where it is desired to give unusual emphasis to the letter, it might occasionally be attributed to the president or to some other official higher up. the big name idea should not be overdone. people will soon catch on that the president would not have time to answer all of the company's correspondence. if he has, it is evident that a very small business must be done. a better idea that is coming into wide vogue is to have the letter signed by the man in the company who comes into occasional personal contact with the addressee. one concern has the house salesman who waits on customers coming from that section of the country when they visit headquarters sign all promotion letters going to them. the house salesman is the only one in the firm whom the customer knows. it is reasoned that the latter will give greater heed to a letter coming from a man with whom he is on friendly terms. another company has its branch managers take the responsibility for circular letters sent to the trade in that territory. another manufacturer has his salesmen bunched in crews of six. each crew is headed by a leader. this man has to sell, just as his men do, but in addition he acts as a sort of district sales manager. all trade letters going out in his district carry the crew leader's signature. there is much to be said in favor of this vogue. personal contact is so valuable in all business transactions that its influence should be used in letters, in so far as it is practicable to do so. the signature should not vary. do not sign "g. smith" to one letter, "george smith" to another, and "g. b. smith" to a third. a man should never prefix to his signature any title, as "mr.," "prof.," or "dr." a postscript is sometimes appended to a business letter, but the letters "p.s." do not appear. it is not, however, used as formerly--to express some thought which the writer forgot to include in the letter, or an afterthought. but on account of its unique position in the letter, it is used to place special emphasis on an important thought. . the superscription in the outside address or superscription of a letter the following forms are observed: a letter to a woman must always address her as either "mrs." or "miss," unless she is a professional woman with a title such as "dr." but this title is used only if the letter is a professional one. it is not employed in social correspondence. a woman is never addressed by her husband's title, as "mrs. captain bartlett." a married woman is addressed with "mrs." prefixed to her husband's name, as "mrs. david greene." this holds even if her husband is dead. a divorced woman is addressed (unless she is allowed by the courts to use her maiden name) as "mrs." followed by her maiden name and her former husband's surname, as: "mrs. edna boyce blair," "edna boyce" being her maiden name. a man should be given his title if he possess one. otherwise he must be addressed as "mr." or "esq." titles of those holding public office, of physicians, of the clergy, and of professors, are generally abbreviated on the envelope except in formal letters. it is rather customary to address social letters to "edward beech, esq.," business letters to "mr. edward beech," and a tradesman's letter to "peter moore." a servant is addressed as "william white." the idea has arisen, and it would seem erroneous, that if the man addressed had also "sr." or "jr." attached, the title "mr." or "esq." should not be used. there is neither rhyme nor reason for this, as "sr." and "jr." are certainly not titles and using "mr." or "esq." would not be a duplication. so the proper mode of address would be mr. john evans, jr. or john evans, jr., esq. the "sr." is not always necessary as it may be understood. business envelopes should have the address of the writer printed in the upper left-hand corner as a return address. this space should not be used for advertising. in addressing children's letters, it should be remembered that a letter to a girl child is addressed to "miss jane green," regardless of the age of the child. but a little boy should be addressed as "master joseph green." the address when completed should be slightly below the middle of the envelope and equidistant from right and left edges. the slanting or the straight-edge form may be used, to agree with the indented or the block style of paragraphing respectively. punctuation at the ends of the lines in the envelope address is not generally used. the post office prefers the slanting edge form of address, thus: (not) ---------------- ---------------- ---------------- ---------------- ---------------- ---------------- if there is a special address, such as "general delivery," "personal," or "please forward," it should be placed at the lower left-hand corner of the envelope. chapter iv being appropriate--what to avoid common offenses under this head are grouped a few of the more common offenses against good form in letter writing; some of these have been touched on in other chapters. never use ruled paper for any correspondence. never use tinted paper for business letters. do not have date lines on printed letterheads. this of course has to do with business stationery. do not use simplified spelling, if for no other reason than that it detracts from the reader's absorption of the contents of the letter itself. "enthuse" is not a word--do not use it. avoid blots, fingermarks, and erasures. do not use two one-cent stamps in place of a two-cent stamp. somehow one-cent stamps are not dignified. never use "dear friend," "friend jack," "my dear friend," or "friend bliss" as a form of salutation. in the case of a business letter where a salutation for both sexes may be necessary, use "gentlemen." never cross the writing in a letter with more writing. never use "oblige" in the place of the complimentary close. do not double titles, as "mr. john walker, esq." write either "mr. john walker" or "john walker, esq." a woman should never sign herself "mrs." or "miss" to a social letter. in business letters (see chapter ) it may be necessary to prefix "mrs." or "miss" in parentheses to show how an answer should be addressed to her. never omit "yours" in the complimentary close. always write "yours sincerely," "yours truly," or whatever it may be. never write a letter in the heat of anger. sleep on it if you do and the next morning will not see you so anxious to send it. in some business offices it has become the custom to have typed at the bottom of a letter, or sometimes even rubber-stamped, such expressions as: dictated but not read. dictated by but signed in the absence of ----. dictated by mr. jones, but, as mr. jones was called away, signed by miss walker. while these may be the circumstances under which the letter was written and may be necessary for the identification of the letter, they are no less discourtesies to the reader. and it cannot improve the situation to call them to the reader's attention. in the matter of abbreviations of titles and the like a safe rule is "when in doubt do not abbreviate." sentences like "dictated by mr. henry pearson to miss oliver" are in bad form, not to speak of their being bad business. they intrude the mechanics of the letter on the reader and in so doing they take his interest from the actual object of the communication. all necessary identification can be made by initials, as: l. s. b.--t. do not write a sales letter that gives the same impression as a strident, raucous-voiced salesman. if the idea is to attract attention by shouting louder than all the rest, it might be well to remember that the limit of screeching and of words that hit one in the eye has probably been reached. the tack to take, even from a result-producing standpoint and aside from the question of good taste, is to have the tone of the letter quiet but forceful--the firm, even tone of a voice heard through a yelling mob. do not attempt to put anything on paper without first thinking out and arranging what you want to say. complimentary closings in business letters, such as "yours for more business," should be avoided as the plague. stock phrases in business letters there are certain expressions, certain stock phrases, which have in the past been considered absolutely necessary to a proper knowledge of so-called business english. but it is gratifying to notice the emphasis that professors and teachers of business english are placing on the avoidance of these horrors and on the adoption of a method of writing in which one says exactly what one means and says it gracefully and without stiltedness or intimacy. their aim seems to be the ability to write a business letter which may be easily read, easily understood, and with the important facts in the attention-compelling places. but for the sake of those who still cling to these hackneyed improprieties (which most of them are), let us line them up for inspection. many of them are inaccurate, and a moment's thought will give a better method of conveying the ideas. "we beg to state," "we beg to advise," "we beg to remain." there is a cringing touch about these. a courteous letter may be written without begging. "your letter has come to hand" or "is at hand" belongs to a past age. say "we have your letter of ----" or "we have received your letter." "we shall advise you of ----" this is a legal expression. say "we shall let you know" or "we shall inform you." "as per your letter." also of legal connotation. say "according to" or "in agreement with." "your esteemed favor" is another relic. this is a form of courtesy, but is obsolete. "favor," used to mean "communication" or "letter," is obviously inaccurate. "replying to your letter, would say," or "wish to say." why not say it at once and abolish the wordiness? "state" gives the unpleasant suggestion of a cross-examination. use "say." "and oblige" adds nothing to the letter. if the reader is not already influenced by its contents, "and oblige" will not induce him to be. the telegraphic brevity caused by omitting pronouns and all words not necessary to the sense makes for discourtesy and brusqueness, as: answering yours of the st inst., order has been delayed, but will ship goods at once. how much better to say: we have your letter of st october concerning the delay in filling your order. we greatly regret the delay, but we can now ship the goods at once. "same" is not a pronoun. it is used as such in legal documents, but it is incorrect to employ it in business letters as other than an adjective. use instead "they," "them," or "it." _incorrect:_ we have received your order and same will be forwarded. _correct:_ we have received your order and it will be forwarded. "kindly"--as in: "we kindly request that you will send your subscription." there is nothing kind in your request and if there were, you would not so allude to it. "kindly" in this case belongs to "send," as "we request that you will kindly send your subscription." the word "kind" to describe a business letter--as "your kind favor"--is obviously misapplied. there is no element of "kindness" on either side of an ordinary business transaction. the months are no longer alluded to as "inst.," "ult.," or "prox." [abbreviations of the latin "instant" (present), "ultimo" (past), and "proximo" (next)] as "yours of the th inst." call the months by name, as "i have your letter of th may." "contents carefully noted" is superfluous and its impression on the reader is a blank. "i enclose herewith." "herewith" in this sense means in the envelope. this fact is already expressed in the word "enclose." avoid abbreviations of ordinary words in the body or the closing of a letter, as "resp. yrs." instead of "respectfully yours." the word "company" should not be abbreviated unless the symbol "&" is used. but the safest plan in writing to a company is to write the name exactly as they write it themselves or as it appears on their letterheads. [illustration: as to the use of the symbol "&" and the abbreviation of the word "company," the safest plan in writing to a company is to spell its name exactly as it appears on its letterhead] names of months and names of states may be abbreviated in the heading of the letter but not in the body. but it is better form not to do so. names of states should never be abbreviated on the envelope. for instance, "california" and "colorado," if written "cal." and "col.," may easily be mistaken for each other. the participial closing of a letter, that is, ending a letter with a participial phrase, weakens the entire effect of the letter. this is particularly true of a business letter. close with a clear-cut idea. the following endings will illustrate the ineffective participle: hoping to hear from you on this matter by return mail. assuring you of our wish to be of service to you in the future. thanking you for your order and hoping we shall be able to please you. trusting that you will start an investigation as soon as possible. more effective endings would be: please send a remittance by return mail. if we can be of use to you in the future, will you let us know? we thank you for your order and hope we shall fill it to your satisfaction. please investigate the delay at once. the participial ending is merely a sort of habit. a letter used to be considered lacking in ease if it ended with an emphatic sentence or ended with something that had really to do with the subject of the letter. it might be well in concluding a letter, as in a personal leavetaking, to "stand not on the order of your going." good-byes should be short. chapter v personal letters--social and friendly invitations and acknowledgments _general directions_ the format of an invitation is not so important as its taste. some of the more formal sorts of invitations--as to weddings--have become rather fixed, and the set wordings are carried through regardless of the means at hand for proper presentation. for instance, one often sees a wedding invitation in impeccable form but badly printed on cheap paper. it would be far better, if it is impossible to get good engraving or if first-class work proves to be too expensive, to buy good white notepaper and write the invitations. a typewriter is, of course, out of the question either for sending or answering any sort of social invitation. probably some time in the future the typewriter will be used, but at present it is associated with business correspondence and is supposed to lack the implied leisure of hand writing. the forms of many invitations, as i have said, are fairly fixed. but they are not hallowed. one may vary them within the limits of good taste, but on the whole it is considerably easier to accept the forms in use and not try to be different. if the function itself is going to be very different from usual then the invitation itself may be as freakish as one likes--it may be written or printed on anything from a postcard to a paper bag. the sole question is one of appropriateness. but there is a distinct danger in trying to be ever so unconventional and all that. one is more apt than not to make a fool of one's self. and then, too, being always clever is dreadfully hard on the innocent by-standers. here are things to be avoided: do not have an invitation printed or badly engraved. hand writing is better than bad mechanical work. do not use colored or fancy papers. do not use single sheets. do not use a very large or a very small sheet--either is inappropriate. do not have a formal phraseology for an informal affair. do not abbreviate anything--initials may be used in informal invitations and acceptances, but, in the formal, "h. e. jones" invariably has to become "horatio etherington jones." do not send an answer to a formal invitation in the first person. a formal invitation is written in the third person and must be so answered. do not use visiting cards either for acceptances or regrets even though they are sometimes used for invitations. the practice of sending a card with "accepts" or "regrets" written on it is discourteous. do not seek to be decorative in handwriting--the flourishing spencerian is impossible. do not overdo either the formality or the informality. do not use "r.s.v.p." (the initials of the french words "répondez, s'il vous plaît," meaning "answer, if you please") unless the information is really necessary for the making of arrangements. it ought to be presumed that those whom you take the trouble to invite will have the sense and the courtesy to answer. in sending an evening invitation where there are husband and wife, both must be included, unless, of course, the occasion is "stag." if the invitation is to be extended to a daughter, then her name is included in the invitation. in the case of more than one daughter, they will receive a separate invitation addressed to "the misses smith." each male member of the family other than husband should receive a separately mailed invitation. an invitation, even the most informal, should always be acknowledged within a week of its receipt. it is the height of discourtesy to leave the hostess in doubt either through a tardy answer or through the undecided character of your reply. the acknowledgment must state definitely whether or not you accept. the acknowledgment of an invitation sent to husband and wife must include both names but is answered by the wife only. the name of a daughter also must appear if it appears in the invitation. if mr. and mrs. smith receive an invitation from mr. and mrs. jones, their acknowledgment must include the names of both mr. and mrs. jones, but the envelope should be addressed to mrs. jones only. formal invitations wedding invitations should be sent about three weeks--certainly not later than fifteen days--before the wedding. two envelopes should be used, the name and address appearing on the outside envelope, but only the name on the inside one. the following are correct for formal invitations: _for a church wedding_ (a) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the honour of_ ---- (name written in) _presence at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on the evening of monday, the eighth of june at six o'clock at the church of the heavenly rest fifth avenue, new york city_ [illustration: specimen of formal wedding invitation] (b) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on monday, june the eighth at six o'clock at the church of the heavenly rest fifth avenue, new york_ _for a home wedding_ _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of_ ---- (name written in) _company at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on wednesday, june the tenth at twelve o'clock five hundred park avenue_ or either of the forms a and b for a church wedding may be used. "honour of your presence" is more formal than "pleasure of your company" and hence is more appropriate for a church wedding. it is presumed that an invitation to a home wedding includes the wedding breakfast or reception, but an invitation to a church wedding does not. a card inviting to the wedding breakfast or reception is enclosed with the wedding invitation. good forms are: _for a wedding breakfast_ _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of_ ---- (name written in) _at breakfast on tuesday, june the fourth at twelve o'clock park avenue_ _for a wedding reception_ _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of your company at the wedding reception of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on monday afternoon, june the third at four o'clock five hundred park avenue_ [illustration: specimens of formal invitations to a wedding reception] _for a second marriage_ the forms followed in a second marriage--either of a widow or a divorcée--are quite the same as above. the divorcée uses whatever name she has taken after the divorce--the name of her ex-husband or her maiden name if she has resumed it. the widow sometimes uses simply mrs. philip brewster or a combination, as mrs. dorothy evans brewster. the invitations are issued in the name of the nearest relative--the parent or parents, of course, if living. the forms are: (a) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter dorothy (mrs. philip brewster) to mr. leonard duncan on thursday, april the third at six o'clock trinity chapel_ (b) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter mrs. dorothy evans brewster to mr. leonard duncan on thursday, april the third at six o'clock trinity chapel_ if there are no near relatives, the form may be: (c) _the honour of your presence is requested at the marriage of mrs. dorothy evans brewster and mr. leonard duncan on thursday, april the third at six o'clock trinity chapel_ in formal invitations "honour" is spelled with a "u." _recalling an invitation_ the wedding may have to be postponed or solemnized privately, owing to illness or death, or it may be put off altogether. in such an event the invitations will have to be recalled. the card recalling may or may not give a reason, according to circumstances. the cards should be engraved if time permits, but they may have to be written. convenient forms are: (a) _owing to the death of mr. philip brewster's mother, mr. and mrs. evans beg to recall the invitations for their daughter's wedding on monday, june the eighth._ [illustration: specimen of wedding announcement] (b) _mr. and mrs. john evans beg to recall the invitations for the marriage of their daughter, dorothy, and mr. philip brewster, on monday, june the eighth_ _wedding announcements_ if a wedding is private, no formal invitations are sent out; they are unnecessary, for only a few relatives or intimate friends will be present and they will be asked by word of mouth or by a friendly note. the wedding may be formally announced by cards mailed on the day of the wedding. the announcement will be made by whoever would have sent out wedding invitations--by parents, a near relative, or by the bride and groom, according to circumstances. the custom with the bride's name in the case of a widow or divorcée follows that of wedding invitations. an engraved announcement is not acknowledged (although a letter of congratulations--see page --may often be sent). a card is sent to the bride's parents or whoever has sent the announcements. the announcement may be in the following form: _mr. and mrs. john evans announce the marriage of their daughter dorothy to mr. philip brewster on monday, june the tenth one thousand nineteen hundred and twenty-two_ _replying to the invitation_ the acceptance or the declination of a formal invitation is necessarily formal but naturally has to be written by hand. it is better to use double notepaper than a correspondence card and it is not necessary to give a reason for being unable to be present--although one may be given. it is impolite to accept or regret only a day or two before the function--the letter should be written as soon as possible after the receipt of the invitation. the letter may be indented as is the engraved invitation, but this is not at all necessary. the forms are: _accepting_ mr. and mrs. frothingham smith accept with pleasure mr. and mrs. evans's kind invitation to be present at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on monday, june the twelfth at twelve o'clock (and afterward at the wedding breakfast) or it may be written out: mr. and mrs. frothingham smith accept with pleasure mr. and mrs. evans's kind invitation to be present at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on monday, june the twelfth at twelve o'clock (and afterward at the wedding breakfast). _regretting_ mr. and mrs. frothingham smith regret exceedingly that they are unable to accept mr. and mrs. evans's kind invitation to be present at the marriage of their daughter dorothy and mr. philip brewster on monday, june the twelfth (and afterward at the wedding breakfast) or this also may be written out. the portion in parentheses will be omitted if one has not been asked to the wedding breakfast or reception. _for the formal dinner_ formal dinner invitations are usually engraved, as in the following example. in case they are written, they may follow the same form or the letter form. if addressed paper is used the address is omitted from the end. the acknowledgment should follow the wording of the invitation. (a) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of_ mr. and mrs. trent's _company at dinner on thursday, october the first at seven o'clock and afterward for the play (or opera, etc.)_ _ park avenue_ (b) _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of mr. and mrs. trent's company for dinner and opera on thursday, october the first at seven o'clock_ _accepting_ mr. and mrs. george trent accept with much pleasure mr. and mrs. evans's kind invitation for dinner on thursday, october the first, at seven o'clock and afterward for the opera east forty-sixth street _regretting_ mr. and mrs. george trent regret that they are unable to accept the kind invitation of mr. and mrs. evans for dinner and opera on thursday, october the first, owing to a previous engagement. east forty-sixth street _for a dinner not at home_ _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of mrs. and miss pearson's company at dinner at sherry's on friday, march the thirtieth at quarter past seven o'clock_ _ park avenue_ _accepting_ mrs. richard pearson and miss pearson accept with much pleasure mr. and mrs. evans's very kind invitation for dinner at sherry's on friday, march the thirtieth at quarter past seven o'clock west seventy-second street _regretting_ mrs. richard pearson and miss pearson regret exceedingly that they are unable to accept mr. and mrs. evans's very kind invitation for dinner at sherry's on friday, march the thirtieth owing to a previous engagement to dine with mr. and mrs. spencer west seventy-second street [illustration: specimens of formal dinner invitations] or the reply may follow the letter form: _accepting_ west seventy-second street, march , . mr. and mrs. richard pearson accept with pleasure mrs. john evans's kind invitation for friday evening, march the thirtieth. _regretting_ west seventy-second street march , . mr. and mrs. richard pearson regret sincerely their inability to accept mrs. john evans's kind invitation for friday evening, march the thirtieth. these acknowledgments, being formal, are written in the third person and must be sent within twenty-four hours. _dinner "to meet"_ if the dinner or luncheon is given to meet a person of importance or a friend from out of town, the purpose should appear in the body of the invitation, thus: _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of mr. and mrs. trent's company at dinner on thursday, november the ninth at eight o'clock to meet mr. william h. allen_ _to a formal luncheon_ _mrs. john evans requests the pleasure of miss blake's company at luncheon to meet miss grace flint on tuesday, march the fourth at one o'clock and afterward to the matinée_ _ park avenue_ _accepting_ miss blake accepts with pleasure mrs. evans's very kind invitation for luncheon on tuesday, march the fourth at one o'clock to meet miss flint and to go afterward to the matinée west thirty-first street _regretting_ miss blake regrets that a previous engagement prevents her from accepting mrs. evans's very kind invitation for luncheon on tuesday, march the fourth at one o'clock to meet miss flint and to go afterward to the matinée west thirty-first street [illustration: specimens of formal invitations "to meet"] _for the reception_ afternoon receptions and "at homes" for which engraved invitations are sent out are practically the same as formal "teas." an invitation is engraved as follows: _mr. and mrs. john evans at home wednesday afternoon, september fourth from four until half-past seven o'clock five hundred park avenue_ these cards are sent out by mail in a single envelope about two weeks or ten days before the event. the recipient of such a card is not required to send either a written acceptance or regret. one accepts by attending the "at home." if one does not accept, the visiting card should be sent by mail so that it will reach the hostess on the day of the reception. where an answer is explicitly required, then the reply may be as follows: _accepting_ mrs. john evans accepts with pleasure mrs. emerson's kind invitation for wednesday afternoon november the twenty-eighth _regretting_ mrs. john evans regrets that she is unable to accept mrs. emerson's kind invitation for wednesday afternoon november the twenty-eighth mrs. john evans regrets that she is unable to be present at mrs. emerson's at home on wednesday afternoon november the twenty-eighth _reception "to meet"_ (a) _mrs. bruce wellington requests the pleasure of mrs. evans's presence on thursday afternoon, april fifth to meet the board of governors of the door-of-hope society from four-thirty to seven o'clock_ _accepting_ mrs. john evans accepts with pleasure mrs. wellington's kind invitation to meet the board of governors of the door-of-hope society on thursday afternoon, april fifth _regretting:_ mrs. john evans regrets that a previous engagement prevents her from accepting mrs. wellington's kind invitation to meet the board of governors of the door-of-hope society on thursday afternoon, april fifth _mr. and mrs. john evans request the pleasure of your company to meet general and mrs. robert e. lee on thursday afternoon, february fourth from four until seven o'clock_ _five hundred park avenue_ if one accepts this invitation, one acknowledges simply by attending. if one is unable to attend, then the visiting card is mailed. if unforeseen circumstances should prevent attending, then a messenger is sent with a card in an envelope to the hostess, to reach her during the reception. _invitations for afternoon affairs_ for afternoon affairs--at homes, teas, garden parties--the invitations are sent out in the name of the hostess alone, or if there be a daughter, or daughters, in society, their names will appear immediately below the name of the hostess. _mrs. john evans the misses evans at home thursday afternoon, january eleventh from four until seven o'clock five hundred park avenue_ if the purpose of the reception is to introduce a daughter, her name would appear immediately below that of the hostess, as "miss evans," without christian name or initial. if a second daughter is to be introduced at the tea, her name in full is added beneath that of the hostess: _mrs. john evans miss ruth evans miss evans at home friday afternoon, january twentieth from four until seven o'clock five hundred park avenue_ _for balls and dances_ the word "ball" is used for an assembly or a charity dance, never otherwise. an invitation to a private house bears "dancing" or "cotillion" in one corner of the card. this ball or formal dance invitation is engraved on a white card, sometimes with a blank space so that the guest's name may be written in by the hostess. it would read thus: (a) _mr. and mrs. charles elliott request the pleasure of mr. and mrs. evans's company at a cotillion to be held at the hotel ritz-carlton on saturday, december the third at ten o'clock_ _please address reply to madison avenue_ [illustration: specimens of formal invitations to a dance] (b) _mr. and mrs. charles elliott request the pleasure of _________________________ company on saturday evening january the sixth, at ten o'clock_ _dancing madison avenue_ an older style of invitation--without the blank for the written name, but instead the word "your" engraved upon the card--is in perfectly good form. the invitation would be like this: (c) _mr. and mrs. charles elliott request the pleasure of your company on saturday evening, january the sixth at ten o'clock_ _dancing madison avenue_ _accepting_ mr. and mrs. john evans accept with pleasure mr. and mrs. elliott's very kind invitation to a cotillion to be held at the hotel ritz-carlton on saturday, december the third at ten o'clock _regretting_ mr. and mrs. john evans regret exceedingly that they are unable to accept mr. and mrs. elliott's kind invitation to attend a dance on saturday, january the sixth in sending a regret the hour is omitted, as, since the recipient will not be present, the time is unimportant. (d) _the honour of your presence is requested at the lincoln's birthday eve ball of the dark hollow country club on monday evening, february eleventh at half-past ten o'clock _ _accepting_ miss evans accepts with pleasure the kind invitation of the dark hollow country club for monday evening, february eleventh at half-past ten o'clock _for christenings_ christenings are sometimes made formal. in such case engraved cards are sent out two or three weeks ahead. a good form is: _mr. and mrs. philip brewster request the pleasure of your company at the christening of their son on sunday afternoon, april seventeenth at three o'clock at the church of the redeemer_ _accepting_ mr. and mrs. charles elliot accept with pleasure mr. and mrs. brewster's kind invitation to attend the christening of their son on sunday afternoon, april seventeenth at three o'clock a reason for not accepting may or may not be given--it is better to put in a reason if you have one. _regretting_ mr. and mrs. charles elliott regret that a previous engagement prevents their accepting mr. and mrs. brewster's kind invitation to the christening of their son on sunday afternoon, april seventeenth informal invitations _for a wedding_ an engraved invitation always implies a somewhat large or elaborate formal function. an informal affair requires simply a written invitation in the first person. the informal wedding is one to which are invited only the immediate family and intimate friends. the reason may be simply the desire for a small, quiet affair or it may be a recent bereavement. the bride-to-be generally writes these invitations. the form may be something like this: (a) june , . dear mrs. smith, on wednesday, june the twelfth, at three o'clock mr. brewster and i are to be married. the ceremony will be at home and we are asking only a few close friends. i hope that you and mr. smith will be able to come. yours very sincerely, dorothy evans. (b) june , . dear mary, owing to the recent death of my sister, mr. brewster and i are to be married quietly at home. the wedding will be on wednesday, june the twentieth, at eleven o'clock. we are asking only a few intimate friends and i shall be so glad if you will come. sincerely yours, dorothy evans. _accepting_ june , . dear dorothy, we shall be delighted to attend your wedding on wednesday, june the twelfth, at three o'clock. we wish you and mr. brewster every happiness. sincerely yours, helen gray smith. _regretting_ june , . dear dorothy, i am so sorry that i shall be unable to attend your wedding. the "adriatic" is sailing on the tenth and father and i have engaged passage. let me wish you and mr. brewster every happiness. sincerely yours, mary lyman. _for dinners and luncheons_ an informal invitation to dinner is sent by the wife, for her husband and herself, to the wife. this invitation must include the latter's husband. it is simply a friendly note. the wife signs her christian name, her maiden name (or more usually the initial of her maiden name), and her married name. five hundred park avenue, december th, . my dear mrs. trent, will you and mr. trent give us the pleasure of your company at a small dinner on tuesday, december the twelfth, at seven o'clock? i hope you will not be otherwise engaged on that evening as we are looking forward to seeing you. very sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. _to cancel an informal dinner invitation_ my dear mrs. trent, on account of the sudden death of my brother, i regret to be obliged to recall the invitation for our dinner on tuesday, december the twelfth. sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. december , . _accepting_ east forty-sixth street, december th, . my dear mrs. evans, mr. trent and i will be very glad to dine with you on tuesday, december the twelfth, at seven o'clock. with kind regards, i am very sincerely yours, charlotte b. trent _regretting_ east forty-sixth street, december th, . my dear mrs. evans, we regret deeply that we cannot accept your kind invitation to dine with you on tuesday, december the twelfth. mr. trent and i, unfortunately, have a previous engagement for that evening. with cordial regards, i am yours very sincerely, charlotte b. trent. _the daughter as hostess_ when a daughter must act as hostess in her father's home, she includes his name in every dinner invitation she issues, as in the following: madison avenue, january , . my dear mrs. evans, father wishes me to ask whether you and mr. evans will give us the pleasure of dining with us on wednesday, january the fifteenth, at quarter past seven o'clock. we do hope you can come. very sincerely yours, edith haines. the answer to this invitation of a daughter-hostess must be sent to the daughter, not to the father. _accepting_ my dear miss haines, we shall be delighted to accept your father's kind invitation to dine with you on wednesday, january the fifteenth, at quarter past seven o'clock. with most cordial wishes, i am very sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. january , _regretting_ my dear miss haines, we regret exceedingly that we cannot accept your father's kind invitation to dine with you on wednesday, january the fifteenth. a previous engagement of mr. evans prevents it. will you convey to him our thanks? very sincerely yours, katherine gerard evans. january , . _adding additional details_ the invitation to an informal dinner may necessarily include some additional details. for example: five hundred park avenue, september , . my dear mr. allen, mr. evans and i have just returned from canada and we hear that you are in new york for a short visit. we should like to have you take dinner with us on friday, the twentieth, at half-past seven o'clock, if your time will permit. we hope you can arrange to come as there are many things back home in old sharon that we are anxious to hear about. yours very sincerely, katherine gerard evans. mr. roger allen hotel gotham new york _accepting_ hotel gotham, september , . my dear mrs. evans, i shall be very glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner on friday, september the twentieth, at half-past seven o'clock. the prospect of seeing you and mr. evans again is very delightful and i am sure i have several interesting things to tell you. yours very sincerely, roger allen. mrs. john evans park avenue new york _regretting_ hotel gotham, september , . my dear mrs. evans, i am sorry to miss the pleasure of accepting your kind invitation to dinner on friday, september the twentieth. a business engagement compels me to leave new york to-morrow. there are indeed many interesting bits of news, but i shall have to wait for a chat until my next visit. with kindest regards to you both, i am very sincerely yours, roger allen. mrs. john evans park avenue new york _a last-moment vacancy:_ a last-moment vacancy may occur in a dinner party. to send an invitation to fill such a vacancy is a matter requiring tact, and the recipient should be made to feel that you are asking him to fill in as a special courtesy. frankly explain the situation in a short note. it might be something like this: park avenue, february , . my dear mr. jarrett, will you help me out? i am giving a little dinner party to-morrow evening and one of my guests, harry talbot, has just told me that on account of a sudden death he cannot be present. it is an awkward situation. if you can possibly come, i shall be very grateful. cordially yours, katherine g. evans. mr. harold jarrett washington square south new york _accepting_ washington square south, february , . my dear mrs. evans, it is indeed a fortunate circumstance for me that harry talbot will not be able to attend your dinner. let me thank you for thinking of me and i shall be delighted to accept. yours very sincerely, harold jarrett. if the recipient of such an invitation cannot accept, he should, in his acknowledgment, give a good reason for declining. it is more considerate to do so. _for an informal luncheon_ an informal luncheon invitation is a short note sent about five to seven days before the affair. park avenue, april , . my dear mrs. emerson, will you come to luncheon on friday, may the fifth, at half-past one o'clock? the misses irving will be here and they want so much to meet you. cordially yours, katherine g. evans. _accepting_ sutton place, may , . my dear mrs. evans, i shall be very glad to take luncheon with you on friday, may the fifth, at half-past one o'clock. it will be a great pleasure to meet the misses irving. with best wishes, i am yours sincerely, grace emerson. _regretting_ sutton place, may , . my dear mrs. evans, thank you for your very kind invitation to luncheon on friday, may the fifth, but i am compelled, with great regret, to decline it. my mother and aunt are sailing for europe on friday and their ship is scheduled to sail at one. i have arranged to see them off. it was good of you to ask me. very sincerely yours, grace emerson. _for an informal tea_ my dear miss harcourt, will you come to tea with me on tuesday afternoon, april the fourth, at four o'clock? i have asked a few of our friends. cordially yours, katherine gerard evans. april first telephone invitations are not good form and may be used only for the most informal occasions. invitations to the theatre, concert, and garden party, are mostly informal affairs and are sent as brief letters. a garden party is a sort of out-of-doors at home. _to a garden party which is not formal or elaborate_ locust lawn, june , . my dear miss burton, will you come to tea with me informally on the lawn on thursday afternoon, july the fourth, at four o'clock? i know you always enjoy tennis and i have asked a few enthusiasts. do try to come. cordially yours, ruth l. anson. such an invitation is acknowledged in kind--by an informal note. it may be of interest to read a letter or two from distinguished persons along these lines. here, for example, is the delightfully informal way in which thomas bailey aldrich invited his friend william h. rideing to dinner on one occasion:[ ] april , . dear rideing: will you come and take an informal bite with me to-morrow (friday) at p. m. at my hamlet, no. charles street? mrs. aldrich and the twins are away from home, and the thing is to be _sans ceremonie_. costume prescribed: sack coat, paper collar, and celluloid sleeve buttons. we shall be quite alone, unless henry james should drop in, as he promises to do if he gets out of an earlier engagement. suppose you drop in at my office to-morrow afternoon about o'clock and i act as pilot to charles street. yours very truly, t. b. aldrich. [ ] from "many celebrities and a few others--a bundle of reminiscences," by william h. rideing. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. and one from james russell lowell to henry w. longfellow:[ ] elmwood, may , . dear longfellow: will you dine with me on saturday at six? i have a baltimore friend coming, and depend on you. i had such a pleasure yesterday that i should like to share it with you to whom i owed it. j. r. osgood & co. sent me a copy of your household edition to show me what it was, as they propose one of me. i had been reading over with dismay my own poems to weed out the misprints, and was awfully disheartened to find how bad they (the poems) were. then i took your book to see what the type was, and before i knew it i had been reading two hours and more. i never wondered at your popularity, nor thought it wicked in you; but if i _had_ wondered, i should no longer, for you sang me out of all my worries. to be sure they came back when i opened my own book again--but that was no fault of yours. if not saturday, will you say sunday? my friend is a mrs. ----, and a very nice person indeed. yours always, j. r. l. [ ] from "letters of james russell lowell," edited by c. e. norton. copyright, , by harper & bros. george meredith ("robin") accepting an informal dinner invitation from his friend, william hardman ("tuck"):[ ] jan'y , . dear "at any price" tuck: i come. dinner you give me at half-past five, i presume. a note to foakesden, if earlier. let us have ms. for a pipe, before we go. you know we are always better tempered when this is the case. i come in full dress. and do the honour to the duke's motto. i saw my little man off on monday, after expedition over bank and tower. thence to pym's, poultry: oysters consumed by dozings. thence to purcell's: great devastation of pastry. thence to shoreditch, where sons calmly said: "never mind, papa; it is no use minding it. i shall soon be back to you," and so administered comfort to his forlorn dad.--my salute to the conquered one, and i am your loving, hard-druv, much be-bullied robin. [ ] from "the letters of george meredith." copyright, , by charles scribner's sons. by permission of the publishers. _to a theatre_ madison avenue, december , . my dear miss evans, mr. smith and i are planning a small party of friends to see "the mikado" on thursday evening, december the eighteenth, and we hope that you will be among our guests. we have arranged to meet in the lobby of the garrick theatre at quarter after eight o'clock. i do hope you have no other engagement. very cordially yours, gertrude ellison smith. _accepting_ my dear mrs. smith, i shall be delighted to come to your theatre party on thursday evening, december the eighteenth. i shall be in the lobby of the garrick theatre at a quarter past eight o'clock. it is so kind of you to ask me. sincerely yours, ruth evans. december , . _regretting_ my dear mrs. smith, with great regret i must write that i shall be unable to join your theatre party on thursday evening, december the eighteenth. my two cousins are visiting me and we had planned to go to the hippodrome. i much appreciate your thinking of me. very sincerely yours, ruth evans. for an informal affair, if at all in doubt as to what kind of invitation to issue, it is safe to write a brief note in the first person. two or more sisters may receive one invitation addressed "the misses evans." but two bachelor brothers must receive separate invitations. a whole family should never be included in one invitation. it is decidedly not proper to address one envelope to "mr. and mrs. elliott and family." _to an informal dance_ invitations to smaller and more informal dances may be short notes. or a visiting card is sometimes sent with a notation written in ink below the hostess's name and toward the left, as shown below: (a) mrs. john evans at home dancing at half after nine park avenue january the eighteenth r.s.v.p. if the visiting card is used "r.s.v.p." is necessary, because usually invitations on visiting cards do not presuppose answers. the reply to the above may be either formal, in the third person, or may be an informal note. (b) park avenue, january , . my dear mrs. elliott, will you and mr. elliott give us the pleasure of your company on thursday, january the eighteenth, at ten o'clock? we are planning an informal dance and we should be so glad to have you with us. cordially yours, katherine g. evans. an acknowledgment should be sent within a week. never acknowledge a visiting-card invitation by a visiting card. an informal note of acceptance or regret is proper. _accepting_ madison avenue, january , . my dear mrs. evans, both mr. elliott and i shall be delighted to go to your dance on thursday, january the eighteenth, at ten o'clock. thank you so much for asking us. very sincerely yours, jane s. elliott. _regretting_ madison avenue, january , . my dear mrs. evans, thank you for your kind invitation for thursday, january the eighteenth; i am so sorry that mr. elliott and i shall not be able to accept. mr. elliott has been suddenly called out of town and will not be back for two weeks. with most cordial regards, i am very sincerely yours, jane s. elliott. a young girl sends invitations to men in the name of her mother or the person under whose guardianship she is. the invitation would say that her mother, or mrs. burton, or whoever it may be, wishes her to extend the invitation. _to a house-party_ an invitation to a house-party, which may imply a visit of several days' duration (a week, ten days, or perhaps two weeks) must state exactly the dates of the beginning and end of the visit. the hostess's letter should mention the most convenient trains, indicating them on a timetable. the guest at a week-end party knows he is to arrive on friday afternoon or saturday morning and leave on the following monday morning. it is thoughtful for the hostess to give an idea of the activities or sports planned. the letter might be somewhat in the following manner: (a) glory view, august , . dear miss evans, will you be one of our guests at a house-party we are planning? we shall be glad if you can arrange to come out to glory view on august eighth and stay until the seventeenth. i have asked several of your friends, among them mary elliott and her brother. the swimming is wonderful and there is a new float at the yacht club. be sure to bring your tennis racquet and also hiking togs. i enclose a timetable with the best trains marked. if you take the : on thursday you can be here in time for dinner. let me know what train you expect to get and i will have jones meet you. most cordially yours, myra t. maxwell. _accepting_ park avenue, august , . dear mrs. maxwell, let me thank you and mr. maxwell for the invitation to your house-party. i shall be very glad to come. the : train which you suggest is the most convenient. i am looking forward to seeing you again. very sincerely yours, ruth evans. (b) hawthorne hill, january , . my dear anne, we are asking some of dorothy's friends for this week-end and we should be glad to have you join us. some of them you already know, and i am sure you will enjoy meeting the others as they are all congenial. mr. maxwell has just bought a new flexible flyer and we expect some fine coasting. be sure to bring your skates. goldfish pond is like glass. the best afternoon train on friday is the : , and the best saturday morning train is the : . i hope you can come. very sincerely yours, myra t. maxwell. a letter of thanks for hospitality received at a week-end party or a house-party would seem to be obviously necessary. a cordial note should be written to your hostess thanking her for the hospitality received and telling her of your safe arrival home. this sort of letter has come into the title of the "bread-and-butter-letter." park avenue, august , . dear mrs. maxwell, having arrived home safely i must tell you how much i appreciate the thoroughly good time i had. i very much enjoyed meeting your charming guests. let me thank you and mr. maxwell most heartily, and with kindest regards i am sincerely yours, ruth evans. _to a christening_ most christenings are informal affairs. the invitation may run like this: september , . my dear mary, on next sunday at three o'clock, at st. michael's church, the baby will be christened. philip and i should be pleased to have you there. sincerely yours, dorothy evans brewster. _to bring a friend_ often in the case of a dance or an at home we may wish to bring a friend who we think would be enjoyed by the hostess. we might request her permission thus: riverside drive, april , . my dear mrs. dean, may i ask you the favor of bringing with me on wednesday evening, may the second, my old classmate, mr. arthur price? he is an old friend of mine and i am sure you will like him. if this would not be entirely agreeable to you, please do not hesitate to let me know. yours very sincerely, herbert page. _for a card party_ park avenue my dear mrs. king, will you and mr. king join us on thursday evening next at bridge?[ ] we expect to have several tables, and we do hope you can be with us. cordially yours, katherine gerard evans. march the eighteenth [ ] or whatever the game may be. sometimes the visiting card is used with the date and the word "cards" written in the lower corner as in the visiting-card invitation to a dance. this custom is more often used for the more elaborate affairs. _miscellaneous invitations_ the following are variations of informal party and other invitations: woodlawn avenue, november , . my dear alice, i am having a little party on thursday evening next and i want very much to have you come. if you wish me to arrange for an escort, let me know if you have any preference. sincerely yours, helen westley. park avenue, may , . my dear alice, on saturday next i am giving a small party for my niece, miss edith rice of albany, and i should like very much to have her meet you. i hope you can come. very sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. the letter of condolence a letter of condolence may be written to relatives, close friends, and to those whom we know well. when the recipient of the condolatory message is simply an acquaintance, it is in better taste to send a visiting card with "sincere sympathy." flowers may or may not accompany the card. but in any case the letter should not be long, nor should it be crammed with sad quotations and mushy sentiment. of course, at best, writing a condolence is a nice problem. do not harrow feelings by too-familiar allusions to the deceased. the letter should be sent immediately upon receiving news of death. when a card is received, the bereaved family acknowledge it a few weeks later with an engraved acknowledgment on a black-bordered card. a condolatory letter may be acknowledged by the recipient or by a relative or friend who wishes to relieve the bereaved one of this task. _formal acknowledgment engraved on card_ _mrs. gordon burroughs and family gratefully acknowledge your kind expression of sympathy_ the cards, however, may be engraved with a space for the name to be filled in: _____________________________ _gratefully acknowledge_ _____________________________ _kind expression of sympathy_ when the letter of condolence is sent from a distance, it is acknowledged by a note from a member of the bereaved family. when the writer of the condolence makes the customary call afterward, the family usually makes a verbal acknowledgment and no written reply is required. _letters of condolence_ (a) my dear mrs. burroughs, may every consolation be given you in your great loss. kindly accept my deepest sympathy. sincerely yours, jane everett. october , (b) my dear mrs. burroughs, it is with the deepest regret that we learn of your bereavement. please accept our united and heartfelt sympathies. very sincerely yours, katherine gerard evans. october , (c) my dear eleanor, may i express my sympathy for you in the loss of your dear mother, even though there can be no words to comfort you? she was so wonderful to all of us that we can share in some small part in your grief. with love, i am affectionately yours, ruth evans. july , (d) my dear mrs. burroughs, i am sorely grieved to learn of the death of your husband, for whom i had the greatest admiration and regard. please accept my heartfelt sympathy. yours sincerely, douglas spencer. october , a letter of condolence that is something of a classic is abraham lincoln's famous letter to mrs. bixby, the bereaved mother of five sons who died for their country: washington, november , . dear madam: i have been shown in the files of the war department a statement of the adjutant-general of massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. i feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. but i cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. i pray that our heavenly father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. yours very sincerely and respectfully, abraham lincoln. this is the letter[ ] that robert e. lee, when he was president of washington college, wrote to the father of a student who was drowned: washington college, lexington, virginia, march , . my dear sir: before this you have learned of the affecting death of your son. i can say nothing to mitigate your grief or to relieve your sorrow: but if the sincere sympathy of his comrades and friends and of the entire community can bring you any consolation, i can assure you that you possess it in its fullest extent. when one, in the pureness and freshness of youth, before having been contaminated by sin or afflicted by misery, is called to the presence of his merciful creator, it must be solely for his good. as difficult as this may be for you now to recognize, i hope you will keep it constantly in your memory and take it to your comfort; pray that he who in his wise providence has permitted this crushing sorrow may sanctify it to the happiness of all. your son and his friend, mr. birely, often passed their leisure hours in rowing on the river, and, on last saturday afternoon, the th inst., attempted what they had more than once been cautioned against--to approach the foot of the dam, at the public bridge. unfortunately, their boat was caught by the return-current, struck by the falling water, and was immediately upset. their perilous position was at once seen from the shore, and aid was hurried to their relief, but before it could reach them both had perished. efforts to restore your son's life, though long continued, were unavailing. mr. birely's body was not found until next morning. their remains were, yesterday, sunday, conveyed to the episcopal church in this city, where the sacred ceremonies for the dead were performed by the reverend dr. pendleton, who nineteen years ago, at the far-off home of their infancy, placed upon them their baptismal vows. after the service a long procession of the professors and students of the college, the officers and cadets of the virginia military academy, and the citizens of lexington accompanied their bodies to the packetboat for lynchburg, where they were placed in charge of messrs. wheeler & baker to convey them to frederick city. with great regard and sincere sympathy, i am, most respectfully, r. e. lee. [ ] from "recollections and letters of general robert e. lee," by capt. robert e. lee. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. letters of sympathy in case of illness when president alderman, of the university of virginia, was forced to take a long rest in the mountains in because of incipient tuberculosis, the late walter h. page, at the time editor of the _world's work_, wrote the following tenderly beautiful letter of sympathy to mrs. alderman: cathedral avenue, garden city, l. i., december , . my dear mrs. alderman: in raleigh the other day i heard a rumor of the sad news that your letter brings, which i have just received on my return from a week's absence. i had been hoping that it was merely a rumor. the first impression i have is thankfulness that it had been discovered so soon and that you have acted so promptly. on this i build a great hope. but underlying every thought and emotion is the sadness of it--that it should have happened to _him_, now when he has done that prodigious task and borne that hard strain and was come within sight of a time when, after a period of more normal activity, he would in a few years have got the period of rest that he has won.--but these will all come yet; for i have never read a braver thing than your letter. that bravery on your part and his, together with the knowledge the doctors now have, will surely make his recovery certain and, i hope, not long delayed. if he keep on as well as he has begun, you will, i hope, presently feel as if you were taking a vacation. forget that it is enforced. there comes to my mind as i write man after man in my acquaintance who have successfully gone through this experience and without serious permanent hurt. some of them live here. more of them live in north carolina or colorado as a precaution. i saw a few years ago a town most of whose population of several thousand persons are recovered and active, after such an experience. the disease has surely been robbed of much of its former terror. your own courage and cheerfulness, with his own, are the best physic in the world. add to these the continuous and sincere interest that his thousands of friends feel--these to keep your courage up, if it should ever flag a moment--and we shall all soon have the delight to see and to hear him again--his old self, endeared, if that be possible, by this experience. and i pray you, help me (for i am singularly helpless without suggestions from you) to be of some little service--of any service that i can. would he like letters from me? i have plenty of time and an eagerness to write them, if they would really divert or please him. books? what does he care most to read? i can, of course, find anything in new york. a visit some time? it would be a very real pleasure to me. you will add to my happiness greatly if you will frankly enable me to add even the least to his. and now and always give him my love. that is precisely the word i mean; for, you know, i have known mr. alderman since he was graduated, and i have known few men better or cared for them more. and i cannot thank you earnestly enough for your letter; and i shall hope to have word from you often--if (when you feel indisposed to write more) only a few lines. how can i serve? command me without a moment's hesitation. most sincerely yours, walter h. page. to mrs. edwin a. alderman. joaquin miller wrote the following letter to walt whitman on receiving news that the latter was ill: revere house, boston, may , ' . my dear walt whitman:[ ] your kind letter is received and the sad news of your ill health makes this pleasant weather even seem tiresome and out of place. i had hoped to find you the same hale and whole man i had met in new york a few years ago and now i shall perhaps find you bearing a staff all full of pain and trouble. however my dear friend as you have sung from _within_ and not from _without_ i am sure you will be able to bear whatever comes with that beautiful faith and philosophy you have ever given us in your great and immortal chants. i am coming to see you very soon as you request; but i cannot say to-day or set to-morrow for i am in the midst of work and am not altogether my own master. but i will come and we will talk it all over together. in the meantime, remember that whatever befall you you have the perfect love and sympathy of many if not all of the noblest and loftiest natures of the two hemispheres. my dear friend and fellow toiler good by. yours faithfully, joaquin miller. [ ] from "with walt whitman in camden," by horace traubel. copyright, , , by doubleday, page & co. when theodore roosevelt was ill in hospital, lawrence abbott wrote him this letter:[ ] please accept this word of sympathy and best wishes. some years ago i had a severe attack of sciatica which kept me in bed a good many days: in fact, it kept me in an armchair night and day some of the time because i could not lie down, so i know what the discomfort and pain are. i want to take this opportunity also of sending you my congratulations. for i think your leadership has had very much to do with the unconditional surrender of germany. last friday night i was asked to speak at the men's club of the church of the messiah in this city and they requested me to make you the subject of my talk. i told them something about your experience in egypt and europe in and said what i most strongly believe, that your address at the sorbonne--in strengthening the supporters of law and order against red bolshevism--and your address in guildhall--urging the british to govern or go--contributed directly to the success of those two governments in this war. if great britain had allowed egypt to get out of hand instead of, as an actual result of your guildhall speech, sending kitchener to strengthen the feebleness of sir eldon gorst, the turks and germans might have succeeded in their invasion and have cut off the suez canal. so you laid the ground for preparedness not only in this country but in france and england. i know it was a disappointment to you not to have an actual share in the fighting but i think you did a greater piece of work in preparing the battleground and the battle spirit. [ ] from "impressions of theodore roosevelt," by lawrence f. abbott copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. in reply mr. roosevelt sent mr. abbott this note: that's a dear letter of yours, lawrence. i thank you for it and i appreciate it to the full. _acknowledgments_ (a) my dear mr. spencer, i am grateful to you for your comforting letter. thank you for your sympathy. sincerely yours, mary cole burroughs. october , . (b) my dear mrs. evans, let me thank you in behalf of myself and my family for your sympathy. do not measure our appreciation by the length of time it has taken me to reply. we appreciated your letter deeply. sincerely yours, mary cole burroughs. october , . (c) my dear arthur, i want to thank you for your sympathetic letter received in our bereavement. sincerely yours, mary cole burroughs. october , . (d) dear mr. treadwell, thank you very much for your sympathy. your offer to be of service to me at this time i greatly appreciate, but i shall not need to trouble you, although it is comforting to know that i may call on you. i shall never forget your kindness. sincerely yours, mary cole burroughs. october , . this is the note[ ] that thomas bailey aldrich wrote to his friend william h. rideing upon receiving from the latter a note of condolence: dear rideing: i knew that you would be sorry for us. i did not need your sympathetic note to tell me that. our dear boy's death has given to three hearts--his mother's, his brother's and mine--a wound that will never heal. i cannot write about it. my wife sends her warm remembrance with mine to you both. ever faithfully your friend, t. b. aldrich. [ ] from "many celebrities and a few others--a bundle of reminiscences," by william h. rideing. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. letters of congratulation the letter of congratulation must be natural, not stilted, and must be sincere. in congratulating a new acquaintance on a marriage it is not necessary to send more than the visiting card with "heartiest congratulations." to a bride and groom together a telegram of congratulation may be sent on the day of the wedding, as soon as possible after the ceremony. to a bride one does not send congratulations, but "the best of good wishes." the congratulations are for the groom. the following letters will serve as examples for congratulatory letters for different occasions: _on a birthday_ park avenue, february , . my dear mrs. elliott, congratulations on your birthday! i hope that all your years to come will be as happy and as helpful to others as those past. i am sending you a little gift as a token of appreciation for your kindness to me, which i hope you will enjoy. most sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. _from a gentlemen to a young lady on her birthday_ park avenue, april , . my dear miss judson, may i send you my congratulations on this your birthday? i am sending a little token of my best wishes for you for many years to come. yours sincerely, richard evans. _on a wedding day anniversary_ park avenue, june , . my dear charlotte and george, please accept my heartiest good wishes on this, the fifteenth anniversary of your marriage. may the years to come bring every blessing to you both. sincerely yours, katherine gerard evans. (b) park avenue, december , . my dear mrs. smith, congratulations on this the twentieth anniversary of your wedding. our heartiest wishes to you both from mr. evans and me. yours very sincerely, katherine gerard evans. _on the birth of a child_ east th st., august , . my dear dorothy, congratulations upon the birth of your daughter. may the good fairies shower upon her the gifts of goodness, wisdom, and beauty. very sincerely yours, charlotte b. trent. _on a graduation_ park avenue, june , . my dear john, it is with great pleasure that i hear of your graduation this year. it is a fine thing to have so successfully finished your college course. may i send my heartiest congratulations? sincerely yours, ruth evans. _on an engagement_ in writing to a girl or a man on the occasion of an engagement to be married there is no general rule if one knows the man or woman. one may write as one wishes. if a stranger is to be received into the family, one writes a kindly letter. odell avenue, april , . my dear haines, let me be among the first to congratulate you on your engagement to miss bruce. i have not met her but i know that to reach your high ideals she must indeed be a wonderful girl. i hope i may soon have the pleasure of meeting her. sincerely yours, charles lawson. park avenue, may , . my dear miss bruce, my nephew has told me his great news. i am much pleased to hear that you are soon to come into the family, because i know that the girl of edward's choice must be sweet and charming. i hope that you will learn to love us for our own sake as well as for edward's. sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. park avenue, september , . dear helen, the announcement of your engagement to robert haines is a delightful surprise. he is, as we all know, a splendid chap. i am so happy that this great happiness has come to you. i hope that i may hear all about it, and with best wishes to you both, i am affectionately yours, ruth evans. on the subject of engagements, perhaps the following letter from charles lamb to fanny kelly, and her reply, will be of interest--though the unarduous and somewhat prosaic tone of elia's proposal of marriage--beautifully expressed as it is--is hardly to be recommended as a model calculated to bring about the desired result! dear miss kelly: we had the pleasure, _pain_ i might better call it, of seeing you last night in the new play. it was a most consummate piece of acting, but what a task for you to undergo! at a time when your heart is sore from real sorrow it has given rise to a train of thinking, which i cannot suppress. would to god you were released from this way of life; that you could bring your mind to consent to take your lot with us, and throw off forever the whole burden of your profession. i neither expect nor wish you to take notice of this which i am writing, in your present over occupied and hurried state--but to think of it at your leisure. i have quite income enough, if that were all, to justify for me making such a proposal, with what i may call even a handsome provision for my survivor. what you possess of your own would naturally be appropriated to those, for whose sakes chiefly you have made so many hard sacrifices. i am not so foolish as not to know that i am a most unworthy match for such a one as you, but you have for years been a principal object in my mind. in many a sweet assumed character i have learned to love you, but simply as f. m. kelly i love you better than them all. can you quit these shadows of existence, and come and be a reality to us? can you leave off harassing yourself to please a thankless multitude, who know nothing of you, and begin at last to live to yourself and your friends? as plainly and frankly as i have seen you give or refuse assent in some feigned scene, so frankly do me the justice to answer me. it is impossible i should feel injured or aggrieved by your telling me at once, that the proposal does not suit you. it is impossible that i should ever think of molesting you with idle importunity and prosecution after your mind [is] once firmly spoken--but happier, far happier, could i have leave to hope a time might come, when our friends might be your friends; our interests yours; our book knowledge, if in that inconsiderable particular we have any like advantage, might impart something to you, which you would every day have it in your power ten thousand fold to repay by the added cheerfulness and joy which you could not fail to bring as a dowry into whatever family should have the honor and happiness of receiving _you_, the most welcome accession that could be made to it. in haste, but with entire respect and deepest affection, i subscribe myself c. lamb. to this letter miss kelly replied: henrietta street, july , . an early and deeply rooted attachment has fixed my heart on one from whom no worldly prospect can well induce me to withdraw it, but while i thus _frankly_ and decidedly decline your proposal, believe me, i am not insensible to the high honour which the preference of such a mind as yours confers upon me--let me, however, hope that all thought upon this subject will end with this letter, and that you will henceforth encourage no other sentiment towards me than esteem in my private character and a continuance of that approbation of my humble talents which you have already expressed so much and so often to my advantage and gratification. believe me i feel proud to acknowledge myself your obliged friend, f. m. kelly. to c. lamb, esq. letters of introduction letters of introduction should not be given indiscriminately. if the giver of the letter feels that something of benefit may come to both of the persons concerned, then there is no doubt about the advisability of it. but a letter of introduction should not be given to get rid of the person who asks for it. it is not good form to ask for one. if it is really necessary to have one and the friend to be requested knows that you need it, he will probably give you the letter unsolicited. a letter of introduction should not be sealed by the person giving it. it is written in social form and placed in an unsealed envelope addressed to the person to whom the introduction is made. if the letter is a friendly letter, it is enclosed in an additional envelope by the person who requested the letter, sealed, and with his card on which appears his city address, sent to the person addressed. the person addressed, upon the receipt of the letter, calls within three days upon the person who is introduced. it has been customary to deliver a business letter of introduction in person, but on consideration, it would seem that this is not the wisest course. the letters of introduction most in demand are those to very busy men--men of affairs. if one calls personally at the office of such a man, the chance of seeing him on the occasion of presenting the letter is slight. and, as has often been proved in practice, a telephone call to arrange an appointment seldom gets through. the best plan seems to be to mail the letter with a short note explaining the circumstances under which it was written. sometimes (more often in business) an introduction is made by a visiting card with "introducing mr. halliday" written at the top. this method may be used with a person with whom we are not well acquainted. this introductory card is usually presented in person, but what has been said concerning the letter applies here also. matters of a personal or private nature should not appear in letters of introduction. (a) new york, n. y., june , . dear dick, the bearer of this note, mr. donald ritchie of boston, expects to be in your town for six months or so. he is an old friend of mine--in fact, i knew him at college--and i think you would like him. he is going to black rock in the interest of the sedgwick cement company. he knows nobody in black rock, and anything you can do to make his stay pleasant, i shall greatly appreciate. cordially yours, john hope. (b) canajoharie, new york, june , . my dear mrs. evans, this will introduce to you miss caroline wagner who is the daughter of one of my oldest friends. she will be in new york this winter to continue her music studies. she is a girl of charming personality and has many accomplishments. i am sure you will enjoy her company. she is a stranger in new york and any courtesy you may extend to her i shall be deeply grateful for. very sincerely yours, edna hamilton miller. mrs. john evans park avenue new york, n. y. (c) beacon street, boston, mass., march , . my dear brent, the bearer, william jones, is a young acquaintance of mine who is going to live in cleveland. if there is anything you can do without too much trouble to yourself in recommending a place to board, or assisting him to a situation, i shall be grateful. he has good habits, and if he gets a foothold i am sure he will make good. yours sincerely, robert t. hill. another letter, already immortal as a literary gem, is benjamin franklin's "model of a letter of recommendation of a person you are unacquainted with": sir, the bearer of this, who is going to america, presses me to give him a letter of recommendation, though i know nothing of him, not even his name. this may seem extraordinary, but i assure you it is not uncommon here. sometimes, indeed, one unknown person brings another equally unknown, to recommend him; and sometimes they recommend one another! as to this gentleman, i must refer you to himself for his character and merits, with which he is certainly better acquainted than i can possibly be. i recommend him, however, to those civilities, which every stranger, of whom one knows no harm, has a right to; and i request you will do him all the good offices, and show him all the favor, that, on further acquaintance, you shall find him to deserve. i have the honor to be, etc. letters of thanks _for a wedding gift_ the letter of thanks for a wedding gift must be sent as soon as possible after the receipt of the gift. the bride herself must write it. when the wedding is hurried or when gifts arrive at the last moment, the bride is not required to acknowledge them until after the honeymoon. in all cases the gift is acknowledged both for herself and her husband-elect or husband. (a) east rd street may , . my dear mrs. elliott, the bouillon spoons are exquisite. it was simply lovely of you to send us such a beautiful gift. leonard wishes to express with me our deepest appreciation. with all good wishes, i am sincerely yours, dorothy evans duncan. (b) east rd street may , . my dear mrs. callender, this is the first opportunity i have had to thank you for your wonderful gift. but, as you know, our arrangements were changed at the last moment and many of our wedding gifts we did not have time to open before going away. so we hope you will forgive us for the delay. we are now back in town established in our new home and i want you to know how appropriate are those exquisite candlesticks. mr. duncan and i are both deeply grateful for your thought of us. yours most sincerely, dorothy evans duncan. _for a christmas gift_ bolton place december , . my dear alice, your handsome christmas gift is something i have wanted for a long time, but never could get for myself. the bag and its beautiful fittings are much admired. i send my warmest thanks for your thoughtfulness in selecting it. very sincerely yours, mary scott. _for a gift received by a girl from a man_ ellsworth place april , . my dear mr. everett, thank you for your good wishes and for your lovely gift in remembrance of my birthday. it is a charming book and one which i am very anxious to read. it was most kind of you to think of me. sincerely yours, katherine judson. _for a gift to a child_ east th street, december , . my dear mr. basset, your wonderful christmas gift to barbara came this morning. she is wholly captivated with her beautiful doll and i am sure would thank you for it if she could talk. let me thank you for your kindness in remembering her. cordially yours, dorothy evans brewster. _for a gift to another_ maxwell avenue, bayview, long island, july , . my dear mr. haines, i appreciate very much the exquisite flowers which you so kindly sent to mrs. evans. she is rapidly improving and will soon be about again. we send our warmest thanks. very sincerely yours, john evans. _for favor shown to another_ park avenue, november , . my dear mrs. howard, you were very kind indeed in entertaining my cousin, mrs. douglas, during her stay in your city. i am exceedingly grateful and i hope to find some way of reciprocating. very sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. following are actual letters of thanks written by distinguished persons. here is one[ ] from george meredith to lady granby, acknowledging the receipt of a reproduction of a portrait by her of lady marjorie manners: box hill, dorking, dec. , . dear lady granby: it is a noble gift, and bears the charms to make it a constant pleasure with me. i could have wished for the full face of your daughter, giving eyes and the wild sweep of hair, as of a rivule issuing from under low eaves of the woods--so i remember her. you have doubtless other sketches of a maid predestined to be heroine. i could take her for one. all the women and children are heaven's own, and human still, and individual too. behold me, your most grateful george meredith. [ ] from "letters of george meredith." copyright, , by chas. scribner's sons. by permission of the publishers. from lord alfred tennyson to walt whitman:[ ] farringford, freshwater, isle of wight, jan'y th, . dear old man: i the elder old man have received your article in the _critic_, and send you in return my thanks and new year's greeting on the wings of this east-wind, which, i trust, is blowing softlier and warmlier on your good gray head than here, where it is rocking the elms and ilexes of my isle of wight garden. yours always, tennyson. [ ] this and the following four letters are from "with walt whitman in camden," by horace traubel. copyright, , , , , by doubleday, page & co. from ellen terry to walt whitman: grand pacific hotel, chicago, january th, ' . honored sir--and dear poet: i beg you to accept my appreciative thanks for your great kindness in sending me by mr. stoker the little _big_ book of poems--as a strong bird, etc., etc. since i am not personally known to you i conclude mr. stoker "asked" for me--it was good of him--i know he loves you very much. god bless you, dear sir--believe me to be with much respect yours affectionately, ellen terry. from moncure conway to walt whitman: hardwicke cottage, wimbledon common, london, s. w., sept. , ' . my dear friend: it gave me much pleasure to hear from you; now i am quite full of gratitude for the photograph--a grand one--the present of all others desirable to me. the copy suitable for an edition here should we be able to reach to that i have and shall keep carefully. when it is achieved it will probably be the result and fruit of more reviewing and discussion. i shall keep my eyes wide open; and the volume with o'c.'s introduction shall come out just as it is: i am not sure but that it will in the end have to be done at our own expense--which i believe would be repaid. it is the kind of book that if it can once get out here will sell. the english groan for something better than the perpetual réchauffé of their literature. i have not been in london for some little time and have not yet had time to consult others about the matter. i shall be able to write you more satisfactorily a little later. i hear that you have written something in _the galaxy_. pray tell o'connor i shall look to him to send me such things. i can't take all american magazines; but if you intend to write for _the galaxy_ regularly i shall take that. with much friendship for you and o'connor and his wife, i am yours, moncure conway. from john addington symonds to walt whitman: clifton hill house, bristol, july , . dear mr. whitman: i was away from england when your welcome volumes reached me, and since my return (during the last six weeks) i have been very ill with an attack of hemorrhage from the lung--brought on while i was riding a pulling horse at a time when i was weak from cold. this must account for my delay in writing to thank you for them and to express the great pleasure which your inscription in two of the volumes has given me. i intend to put into my envelope a letter to you with some verses from one of your great admirers in england. it is my nephew--the second son of my sister. i gave him a copy of _leaves of grass_ in , and he knows a great portion of it now by heart. though still so young, he has developed a considerable faculty for writing and is an enthusiastic student of literature as well as a frank vigorous lively young fellow. i thought you might like to see how some of the youth of england is being drawn towards you. believe me always sincerely and affectionately yours. j. a. symonds. from edward everett hale to dr. lyman abbott:[ ] jan. , , roxbury, monday morning. dear dr. abbott: i shall stay at home this morning--so i shall not see you. all the same i want to thank you again for the four sermons: and to say that i am sure they will work lasting good for the congregation. more than this. i think you ought to think that such an opportunity to go from church to church and city to city--gives you a certain opportunity and honour--which even in plymouth pulpit a man does not have--and to congregations such a turning over the new leaf means a great deal. did you ever deliver the lectures on preaching at new haven? with love always, always yours, e. e. hale. [ ] from "silhouettes of my contemporaries," by lyman abbott. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. from friedrich nietzsche to karl fuchs:[ ] sils-maria, oberengadine, switzerland, june , . my dear friend: how strange! how strange! as soon as i was able to transfer myself to a cooler clime (for in turin the thermometer stood at day after day) i intended to write you a nice letter of thanks. a pious intention, wasn't it? but who could have guessed that i was not only going back to a cooler clime, but into the _most ghastly_ weather, weather that threatened to shatter my health! winter and summer in senseless alternation; twenty-six avalanches in the thaw; and now we have just had eight days of rain with the sky almost always grey--this is enough to account for my profound nervous exhaustion, together with the return of my old ailments. i don't think i can ever remember having had worse weather, and this in my sils-maria, whither i always fly in order to escape bad weather. is it to be wondered at that even the parson here is acquiring the habit of swearing? from time to time in conversation his speech halts, and then he always swallows a curse. a few days ago, just as he was coming out of the snow-covered church, he thrashed his dog and exclaimed: "the confounded cur spoiled the whole of my sermon!"... yours in gratitude and devotion, nietzsche. [ ] from "selected letters of friedrich nietzsche," edited by oscar levy. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. in making a donation of £ , for branch libraries in the city of glasgow, this is the letter[ ] that andrew carnegie sent to the lord provost of the city council: my dear lord provost: it will give me pleasure to provide the needed £ , for branch libraries, which are sure to prove of great advantage to the masses of the people. it is just fifty years since my parents with their little boys sailed from broomielaw for new york in the barque _wiscassett_, tons, and it is delightful to be permitted to commemorate the event upon my visit to you. glasgow has done so much in municipal affairs to educate other cities, and to help herself, that it is a privilege to help her. let glasgow flourish! so say all of us scotsmen throughout the world. always yours, andrew carnegie. [ ] from "andrew carnegie, the man and his work," by bernard alderson. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. letters between friends dear grace, your 'phone call surely caught me napping; but after an hour or so of effort i did recall just how sato mixed the shrimps and carrots in the dish which you so much enjoyed. first, catch your shrimp! when they have been cleaned and prepared as for a salad, place on ice and _in_ ice, if possible. grate the carrots on the coarse side of the grater, placing immediately on the salad plates, which of course have already been garnished with lettuce leaves. then add just a fine sprinkling of chopped apples (i find this the best substitute for alligator pears) and then the shrimps. pour over this the mayonnaise and serve at once. i do not know what he called it and could not spell it if i did, but you are at liberty to call it anything you like. at all events, i am sure the crowd will agree it is a little different, and i am glad to have been able to give the idea. cordially yours, ruth wilson. july , my dear mrs. sampson, i am so glad to know that you have completely recovered from your recent illness. i trust you will soon be able to resume your wonted activities. we all have missed you--at bridge and tennis particularly. sincerely yours, mary e. wells. july , my dear mr. baines, i have just heard of your success in getting your book published. i have always had a great admiration for you and your work, and i am sending this little note to assure you of my regard, and to wish you still further successes. yours very sincerely, madeleine strickland. march , my dear miss gwynne, i am very sorry that i was out when you called. i hope you will come again soon for i do so much want to see you. sincerely yours, katherine g. evans. february , it may be of passing interest to read a letter or two from distinguished persons to their boyhood friends. here is one[ ] from the late john burroughs: esopus, n. y., june , . dear tom brown: i have been a-fishing or i should have answered your letter before. i always go a-fishing about this time of year, after speckled trout, and i always catch some, too. but dog-fighting i have nothing to do with, unless it be to help some little dog whip some saucy big cur. game birds are all right in their season, but i seldom hunt them. yet this is about the best way to study them. you want to know how i felt as a boy. very much as i do now, only more so. i loved fishing, and tramping, and swimming more than i do these late years. but i had not so tender a heart. i was not so merciful to the birds and animals as i am now. much of what i have put in my books was gathered while a boy on the farm. i am interested in what you tell me of your band of mercy, and should like much to see you all, and all the autographs in that pink covered book. well, youth is the time to cultivate habits of mercy, and all other good habits. the bees will soon be storing their clover honey, and i trust you boys and girls are laying away that which will by and by prove choicest possessions. sincerely your friend, john burroughs. [ ] from "john burroughs, boy and man," by dr. clara barrus. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. the following letter[ ] was written when j. j. hill--perhaps the greatest railroading genius america has ever produced--was twenty years of age. it is one of the few letters written by him at this time of his life that have been preserved: saint paul, february , . dear william: your epistle bearing date of seventeenth ult. came to hand on good time and your fertile imagination can scarcely conceive what an amount of pleasure i derived from it, as it was the first epistle of william to james at st. paul for a "long back." my surprise at receiving your letter was only surpassed by my surprise at not receiving one from you after you left st. paul, or sometime during the ensuing season. still, a good thing is never too late or "done too often." it gave me much pleasure to hear that you were all well and enjoying yourselves in the good and pious (as i learn) little town of rockwood. i did intend to go to canada this winter, but it is such a long winter trip i thought i should defer it until summer, when i hope to be able to get away, as i intend to go on the river this summer if all goes as well as i expect. capt. w. f. davidson wrote me from cincinnati about going with him as first clerk on the side-wheel packet _frank steele_, a new boat about the size of the _war eagle_. the captain is letter a, no. , and i think i shall go with him. if not, i have two or three good offers for coming season on the levee, besides my present berth, which is nevertheless very comfortable. i think it mighty strange that some (of my letters) have not reached home as i wrote several times to my brother alex. and i never was more surprised in my life than when old bass handed me a letter of inquiry as to my whereabouts. but after the boats stop running our mails are carried so irregularly that whole bags of mail matter are often mislaid at way stations for weeks and some finally lost or otherwise destroyed. on the tenth of november last i was returning from the winslow house with charley coffin, clerk of the _war eagle_, about eleven o'clock, and when we were coming down fourth street passing one of those rum holes, two irishmen, red mouths, came out and, following us, asked us if we would not go back and take a drink. charley said "no," and we were passing on when two more met us who, along with the other two, insisted that they meant no harm and that we should go in and drink. i told them that i did not drink and that, generally speaking, i knew what i was about. we attempted to go on, but they tried to have us go back, so i hauled off and planted one, two in paddie's grub grinder, and knocked him off the sidewalk about eight feet. the remainder pitched in and charley got his arm cut open and i got a button hole cut through my left side right below the ribs. the city police came to the noise and arrested three of them on the spot and the other next day and they turned out to be chicago star cleaners, a name given to midnight ruffians. i was not compelled to keep my bed, but it was some two months before i was quite recovered from the effects of the cut. one day on the levee i was going aboard one of the boats and slipped on the gang plank and sprained my knee, which laid me up for about two weeks. about a week ago my pugnacious friend who gave me his mark escaped from the penitentiary at stillwater, along with all the rest of the prisoners confined at the time. i am sincerely very grateful to you for your generous offer in your letter and fully appreciate your kindness. but notwithstanding my bad luck i have still "a shot in the locker," about $ , which will put me out of any trouble until spring. our winter here has been very mild and open. we have scarcely had any snow, but what was altogether unprecedented, rain storms lasting three or four days in succession. times have been mighty dull here this winter and money scarce. write to me as soon as you receive this and give me a bird's eye view of rockwood and its inhabitants. believe me yours sincerely, j. j. hill. send me some papers. [ ] from "the life of james j. hill," by joseph gilpin pyle. copyright, , , by doubleday, page & co. chapter vi personal business letters one does not have to be in business in order to write "business letters." a thousand personal affairs crop up which require letters of a commercial rather than a social nature. there is only one rule--say what you have to say clearly and quickly. although the letter should be written on the ordinary social stationery and follow the placing and spacing of the social letter, no time should be wasted in trying to make the letter appear friendly and chatty. the clerks in business houses who usually attend to the mail seem to be picked for their obtuseness, and do not often understand a letter which is phrased in other than commonplace terms. once i overheard a conversation between an italian shoemaker and a boston woman over the repairing of a pair of shoes. the woman wanted the soles fastened on with nails. the only word she knew for that operation was "tapped." the only word the shoemaker knew was "nailed." they were absolutely at a deadlock until the shoemaker, knowing that the woman did not want the soles sewed on, proceeded to demonstrate with hammer and nail just what he meant by "nailed." it is well to remember that motion pictures do not accompany letters and hence to take for granted that if a way exists for getting what you mean wrong that way will be found. it is unfortunately safe to take for granted that a personal business letter is going to be read by a moron. _ordering goods from a department store_ park avenue, april , . l. burton & company, fifth ave. & th st., new york gentlemen: please send me as soon as possible and charge to my account the following goods: doz. hemstitched huck towels, large size, from $ . to $ . a dozen pairs infants' laced shoes, sizes d and - / d. one pair to be returned as i am not certain of the correct size. pairs children's rompers, size years, band knee, all white, white with blue collar, white with pink collar. very truly yours, katherine g. evans (mrs. john evans) _to correct an error_ park avenue, april , . caldwell sons co., fifth avenue, new york, n. y. gentlemen: may i call your attention to my account rendered on april st? there would seem to be two errors, as follows: under date of march th i am charged with four pairs of silk stockings at $ . a pair, although i purchased only three pairs. on march nd i am credited with one pair of children's shoes at $ . . i had two pairs sent on approval, but returned both of them as neither pair fitted. i enclose my check in the sum of $ . which is the total less the overcharge. to assist in the adjustment i also enclose the original slip for the stockings and the driver's call receipt for the two pairs of shoes.[ ] very truly yours, katherine g. evans. (mrs. john evans) [ ] or instead of enclosing these slips it is often better to mention the numbers that appear on them and to retain the slips themselves. _letter to department store requesting charge account_ south elm street, chicago, ill., may , . marshall field & co., chicago, ill. gentlemen: i have recently come to live in chicago and i should like to open a charge account with you. my present accounts are all in new york and i can give you the following references: lord & taylor tiffany & co. abercrombie & fitch co. j. & j. slater lincoln trust co. very truly yours, alberta t. white. (mrs. james white) _asking for estimate for draperies and furnishings_ park avenue, may , . forsythe & white, fifth avenue, new york, n. y. gentlemen: will you send me an approximate estimate of the cost of materials and labor necessary for the doing of the following work: slip covers with valances of english hand-blocked linen for two large wing chairs and one chaise-longue. two reversible portières of the linen for doorways feet high and feet wide. three pairs curtains for casement windows feet high and feet wide, with pleated valance. these curtains to be of habutai silk. of course i shall understand that this is purely an approximate estimate. i should like to have this as soon as you can conveniently send it. very truly yours, katherine g. evans. (mrs. john evans) _declining to have work done as estimated_ park avenue, may , . forsythe & white, fifth avenue, new york, n. y. gentlemen: thank you for your letter of th may in answer to mine of the th, requesting an estimate for slip covers and curtains. your estimate calls for more outlay than i should care to make at the present time, so i shall have to postpone the matter until next year. very truly yours, katherine g. evans. (mrs. john evans) _recommendation for a servant_ june , . this is to certify that katrina hellman has been in my employ as assistant nurse for one year. during that period i have found her honest, capable, and reliable. i can give her an unqualified recommendation. k. g. evans. (mrs. john evans) _for information concerning a servant_ deming place chicago, ill., may , . mrs. john evans, park avenue, new york. dear madam: i hope you will pardon me, but i should be very much indebted to you for any facts concerning gaston duval, who has been in your employ as chauffeur. if you will give me this information i shall treat it as confidential. yours very truly, cecelia b. duke. (mrs. samuel duke) _answers to request for information concerning a servant_ park avenue, new york city, may , . mrs. samuel duke, deming place, chicago, ill. dear madam: i have your inquiry of may the ninth concerning my former chauffeur, gaston duval. i am very glad to recommend him. he is sober and honest, and i always found him thoroughly dependable during his fifteen months in my employ. he drives well and is an expert mechanician. yours very truly, k. g. evans, (mrs. john evans) park avenue, new york, n. y., may , . mrs. samuel duke, deming place, chicago, ill. dear madam: i have your inquiry of may the ninth concerning my former chauffeur, gaston duval. i hope that you will not think me discourteous but i should much prefer not to discuss him. yours very truly, k. g. evans. (mrs. john evans) (in letters which in effect decline to give a recommendation it is wiser not to set out facts or even actually to decline to give the recommendation. see chapter xi on the law of letters. the following letter to a servant, which is an indirect way of declining to recommend, is on the danger line.) _to a servant_ harbor view, long island, august , . my dear margaret, mrs. hubert forbes has written me concerning your qualifications as cook, and asks if i would recommend you in every way. also i have your request to me for a reference. with regard to your skill in cooking there can be no question. i can recommend you as having served me for two years and i can vouch for your honesty. but, as you know, you are not to be depended on--for instance, to return promptly after your days off or to do any work at all during your frequent disputes with the butler. this i have told mrs. forbes. i could not conscientiously do otherwise; but i have asked that she try you in the hope that you have decided to remedy these faults. very truly yours, f. b. scott. (mrs. harrison scott) harbor view, l. i., august , . mrs. hubert forbes, bayshore, l. i. my dear mrs. forbes: i have your letter of august twenty-fifth concerning my former cook, margaret dickson. she is an extremely good cook. she was with me for two years, and i can vouch for her honesty, but she is not to be depended on--for instance, to return promptly after her days off or to do any work during her frequent quarrels with the butler. but she seems anxious to improve, and if you would care to give her a trial, i think she might be satisfactory in new surroundings. i hope this reply will answer your questions. very truly yours, flora b. scott. _letter to a former servant_ dear delia, if you will not be too busy next week, will you come out and take care of the children for three or four days? mr. stone and i expect to be away. i am sure your husband can spare you. you will be surprised at the way jack is growing. he often speaks of you. let me know immediately. cordially yours, b. l. stone. (note the signature--the use of initials instead of writing the full name.) _inquiry concerning house for rental_ cottage road, somerville, mass., april , . schuyler realty company, fulton street, brooklyn, n. y. gentlemen: will you be good enough to send me the following information concerning the house at bedford park which you have advertised for rental: location of the house with regard to subway and l station, and the nearest public school. general character of the immediate neighborhood. distance to the nearest methodist episcopal church. condition and kind of plumbing in each of the three bathrooms. make of furnace and the amount of coal necessary to heat the house. is the house completely screened? are there awnings? the floors--of what wood and in what condition are they? is the cellar dry? where is the laundry? when can the house be ready for occupancy? i should like to have the facts as soon as you can furnish them. very truly yours, george m. hall. _inquiry concerning house for purchase_ amsterdam avenue, philadelphia, pa., may , . wheaton manor development co., dobbs ferry, new york. gentlemen: will you let me know without delay, if possible, if you have any property in your immediate neighborhood fulfilling the following requirements: house--twelve rooms, four bathrooms, and sun porch. a modern house of stucco and half-timber construction preferred. ground--about five acres, part woodland, part cleared; lawn, vegetable, and flower garden. distance from railroad station--not more than fifteen minutes' ride. i do not want to pay more than $ , . i shall be here until the twentieth of the month. after that a reply will reach me at the hotel pennsylvania, new york. very truly yours, jerome hutchinson. _inquiry concerning a child at school_: riverside drive, new york, n. y., february , . my dear professor ritchie, my son john's report for the term just closed is far from satisfactory. while i do not expect perfection from him, i think--in fact, i know--he is capable of better work than is shown by his present rating. i observe that he did not pass in mathematics, a subject in which he was always first in the elementary school. my first thought was that possibly he was not physically well, but his activity in athletics would seem to refute this. this leads me to another thought--perhaps he is giving too much time and interest to athletics. what is your opinion and what course would you recommend? would it be possible by coaching to have him make up the required averages? as i am leaving new york in two weeks for an extended trip, i would like to take some steps toward improving his scholarship status. will you let me hear from you as soon as possible? very truly yours, john crandall. _letter ordering easter gifts from a magazine shopping service_ quogue, long island, march , . standard shopping service, west th street, new york, n. y. gentlemen: i enclose my check for $ . for which please send by express the following articles to miss dorothea allen sunrise lodge highland, pa. two sterling silver candlesticks in colonial pattern at $ . each, on page , march issue. or if you cannot secure them, will you purchase as second choice two jars in kashan ware, with blue as the predominating color? very truly yours, laura waite. (mrs. herbert waite) chapter vii the business letter a reporter was sent out on a big story--one of the biggest that had broken in many a day. he came back into the office about eight o'clock all afire with his story. he was going to make a reputation on the writing of it. he wanted to start off with a smashing first paragraph--the kind of lead that could not help being read. he knew just what he was going to say; the first half-dozen lines fairly wrote themselves on the typewriter. then he read them over. they did not seem quite so clever and compelling as he had thought. he pulled the sheet out and started another. by half-past ten he was in the midst of a sea of copy paper--but he had not yet attained a first paragraph. the city editor--one of the famous old _sun_ school--grew anxious. the paper could not wait until inspiration had matured. he walked quietly over to the young man and touching him on the shoulder he said: "just one little word after another, son." and that is a good thought to carry into the composition of a business or any other kind of letter. the letter is written to convey some sort of idea. it will not perfectly convey the idea. words have their limitations. it will not invariably produce upon the reader the effect that the writer desires. you may have heard of "irresistible" letters--sales letters that would sell electric fans to esquimaux or ice skates to hawaiians, collection letters that make the thickest skinned debtor remit by return mail, and other kinds of resultful, masterful letters that pierce to the very soul. there may be such letters. i doubt it. and certainly it is not worth while trying to concoct them. they are the outpourings of genius. the average letter writer, trying to be a genius, deludes only himself--he just becomes queer, he takes to unusual words, constructions, and arrangements. he puts style before thought--he thinks that the way he writes is more important than what he writes. the writer of the business letter does well to avoid "cleverness"--to avoid it as a frightful and devastating disease. the purpose of a business letter is to convey a thought that will lead to some kind of action--immediately or remotely. therefore there are only two rules of importance in the composition of the business letter. the first is: know what you want to say. the second is: say it. and the saying is not a complicated affair--it is a matter of "one little word after another." business letters may be divided into two general classes: ( ) where it is assumed that the recipient will want to read the letter, ( ) where it is assumed that the recipient will not want to read the letter. the first class comprises the ordinary run of business correspondence. if i write to john smith asking him for the price of a certain kind of chair, smith can assume in his reply that i really want that information and hence he will give it to me courteously and concisely with whatever comment on the side may seem necessary, as, for instance, the fact that this particular type of chair is not one that smith would care to recommend and that style x, costing $ . , would be better. the ordinary business letter is either too wordy or too curt; it either loses the subject in a mass of words or loses the reader by offensive abruptness. some letters gush upon the most ordinary of subjects; they are interspersed with friendly ejaculations such as "now, my dear mr. jones," and give the impression that if one ever got face to face with the writer he would effervesce all over one's necktie. many a man takes a page to say what ought to be said in four lines. on the other hand, there are letter writers so uncouth in the handling of words that they seem rude when really they only want to be brief. the only cure for a writer of this sort is for him to spend some months with any good english composition book trying to learn the language. the second class of letters--those in which it is presumed that the recipient will not want to read--comprises all the circular letters. these are selling or announcement letters and it is hoped that they will play the part of a personal representative. the great bulk of these letters are sales letters. their characteristic is that the writer and the reader are unknown to each other. it is not quite accurate to say that the reader will never want to read the letters--no one knows how many of the millions of circular letters sent out are read. a farmer will read practically every letter that comes to him; many business men will throw every circular letter into the waste basket unread. it is well to assume in this kind of letter, however, that the recipient does not want to read it but that he will open and glance at it. it is up to you to make such a good letter that the first glance will cause him to read more. there is no way of catching the man who throws letters away unopened; any attempt to have the envelope tell what the letter should tell is apt to be unfortunate, because it will have no effect upon the inveterate tosser away and may deter even some of those who commonly do open circular mail. the best method is to make the letter look so much like a routine business letter that no one will dare to throw it away without investigation. the cost of a sales letter is not to be reckoned otherwise than by results. the merit of a sales letter is to be judged solely by the results. therefore it is not a question of what kind of letter one thinks ought to produce results. the single question is what kind of letter does produce results. there is only one way to ascertain results, and that is by test. no considerable expenditure in direct mail solicitation and no form letter should be extensively used without an elaborate series of tests. otherwise the money may be thrown away. the extent of the tests will depend upon the contemplated expenditure. every concern that sends out many sales letters keeps a careful record of results. these records show the letter itself, the kind of envelope, the typing, the signature, and the kind of list to which it has been sent. thus a considerable fund of information is obtained for future use. this information, however, has to be very carefully handled because it may easily become misinformation, for we cannot forget the appeal of the product itself. no one as yet has ever been able to gauge in advance the appeal of a product. some apparently very bad letters have sold very good products. some apparently very good letters have quite failed to sell what turned out to be bad products. therefore, the information that is obtained in the circularizing and sale of one product has to be taken warily when applied to another product. it should be taken only for what it is worth, and that is as a general guide. [illustration: specimens of business letterheads] several concerns with a mind for statistical information have in the past so carefully compiled the effectiveness of their letters, but without regard to the product, that they have discovered an inordinately large number of things that cannot be done and extremely few things that can be done. this is the danger of placing too much faith in previous experience. one of these companies entirely discarded its records of what could not be done and started afresh. they found that several of the methods which they had previously used and discarded happened to do well under changed conditions and with different products. if any large expenditure be contemplated then many tests should be made. the kind of envelope, the manner of addressing, the one cent as opposed to the two-cent stamp, the kind of letterhead, the comparative merits of printing, multigraphing, or electric typewriting, the length and composition of the letter, the effect of the return card, the effect of enclosing a stamped return card or a stamped return envelope, the method of signing, and so on, through each detail, must be tried out. no test is ever conclusive, but very little information of value is to be obtained by circularizing less than five hundred names. these names may be taken sectionally or at random. the sectional method is somewhat better, for then comparison of results in several sections may be made, and it may turn out that it would be well to phrase differently letters for different sections. the returns on the letters are not of themselves conclusive. if one section responds and another does not, it is well to look into business conditions in the sections. it may be that in one section the people are working and that in another there is considerable unemployment. the main point about all of these statistics is to be sure that what one terms results are results, bearing in mind that it is the test and not what one thinks about a letter that counts. it is distinctly harmful for any one to say that a letter should be long or short. it all depends on who is going to get the letter. the tendency in recent years has been toward the very long sales letter. this is because in a large number of cases the long letter has been singularly effective. however, the long letter can be overdone. it is the test that counts. the exact purpose for which a letter is written is to be stated clearly before entering upon the composition. very few letters will sell articles costing as much as fifty dollars unless perhaps the payments are on the installment plan. many men of experience put the limit as low as five dollars. others put it as high as one hundred dollars. it is safe to say that the effectiveness of a letter which is designed to achieve a sale decreases as the price of that which is offered for sale increases. therefore, most of the letters written concerning more expensive articles are not intended to effect sales. they are designed to bring responses that will furnish leads for salesmen. other letters are more in the nature of announcements, by which it is hoped prospects may be brought into a store. where the article offered for sale is quite high in price, the letters sometimes may be very expensively prepared. on one occasion the late john h. patterson, discovering that his salesmen could not get to the heads of several department stores, ordered some very fine leather portfolios. on each portfolio he had stamped the name of the man who was to receive it. they were gifts such as any one would welcome and which no one could possibly ignore. inside each portfolio were contained a letter and a number of photographs showing exactly what he desired to have the agents demonstrate. each gift cost about fifty dollars. he sent the portfolios with his compliments. the secretaries of the men that he wanted to interest could not possibly toss them away. they simply had to give them to their principals. my impression is that the entire expenditure ran to several thousand dollars, but as a result some two hundred thousand dollars in sales were effected, for in practically every case the photographs awakened an interest that led to an appointment with the salesman. the following letters are intended to be suggestive. they cannot honestly be put forward as being more than that. they are all letters that have gained results under certain circumstances. that they will gain results under new and different circumstances is a matter on which no one can speak with any assurance. every sales letter is a matter of cut and try. some of these letters may produce results exactly as they stand. others may better be used in combination. [illustration: arrangement of a business letter (block form)] [illustration: arrangement of a business letter (indented form)] whether the letter should have a return card or envelope depends upon circumstances, as also does the inclusion of an illustrated folder. the return card is more valuable with a letter that goes to a home than with a letter that goes to an office. very few men with stenographers will bother with return cards--their stenographers or secretaries will send a note. on the other hand, letter-writing facilities are not so easily available in the usual home and the card is likely to be used. the putting in of a folder sometimes takes away from the force of the letter. it is often better to reserve the folder for a second letter or for answering an inquiry. for once the prospect has written in for more information the whole purpose of the letter changes. the interest can be presumed, and the object of the letter is to give the greatest possible amount of clear information to the end of causing action. saying too much in the first letter may give the reader an opportunity to reach a conclusion, when the purpose of the first letter is primarily to get a name--a prospective purchaser. many a salesman kills a sale by talking too much; so does many a sales letter. sales and announcement letters to charge customers selling and announcement letters are sent out before the public advertising. (they can also be used as general announcements by eliminating the portions referring particularly to the charge accounts.) _announcing a sale_ brice & haskell south michigan avenue chicago july , . dear madam: as one of our regular patrons, we are telling you in advance of a coming big sale--the august furniture sale, which will begin monday, august th. we should like our charge customers to have first choice of the interesting values before they are announced to the public. therefore we shall have three courtesy days, thursday, friday, and saturday of this week, when you may come in and make your selections at the sale prices. our guide in choosing furniture is our clientèle, so we feel sure you will find the type of furniture here that pleases you--and in greater variety than usual because we complete our collection for this event. prices this year are very attractive. they have been reduced far lower than you will anticipate. we should like you to have the advantage in these values soon, and hope you will come in one of the three courtesy days. very truly yours, brice & haskell. following are letters of slightly different type: s. black company washington street boston, mass. april , . mrs. arthur moore, hillside avenue, boston, mass. dear madam: our spring sale of misses' suits, coats, dresses, and hats will begin monday, april th, continuing throughout the week. this sale presents an unusual opportunity to secure seasonable apparel at decided price concessions. misses' suits: smartly tailored suits of english navy serge, navy gabardine, tan covert cloth, imported mixtures, homespuns, and light-weight knit cloths--adapted for town or country usage. a splendid selection of all sizes from to years. misses' coats: coats for motor, country club, or town wear, in soft velours, burella cloth, and imported coatings. misses' dresses: dresses of imported serges and gabardines, for street wear, and a number of exclusive knit cloth models in attractive colorings for sports wear--sizes to years. misses' hats: the balance of our stock of trimmed hats at one half their former prices. on account of the greatly reduced prices, none of these goods will be sent on approval, nor can they be returned for credit. very truly yours, s. black company. note: to our charge customers is extended the privilege of making their selections on friday and saturday, april th and th. swanson sons & company superior avenue cleveland, ohio january , . dear madam: we enclose advance announcements of our private sales of boys' heatherweave clothes and ironhide shoes, and we believe you will find the economies presented a great relief after your large christmas outlays. of course, such reductions mean that the assortments will quickly be depleted, and we urge you to act promptly in order to secure the full benefit of the available selections. to enable you to do this we are telling you before the public announcement of these sales. yours very truly, swanson sons & company. this letter encloses a proof of a newspaper advertisement. callender & crump euclid avenue cleveland, o. september , . dear madam: in appreciation of your patronage we wish to extend to you a personal invitation to attend a private sale of women's tailor-made fall suits (sizes to ) in some especially well-chosen models. these suits will be priced at the very low figure of $ . our regular patrons may have first selection before the sale is open to the public, and may thus avoid the discomforts of a public sale. we have arranged to show these suits privately on friday, october , in the fitting department on the sixth floor. if you care to avail yourself of this special opportunity, please bring this letter with you and present it at the fitting department. very truly yours, callender & crump. (note:--an excellent idea when a special offering of foreign goods is made is to have the letters mailed from paris or london. the foreign stamp will usually attract attention.) callender & crump euclid avenue cleveland, o. paris, france, september , . dear madam: we wish to let you know in advance that our annual sale of real french kid gloves, at cents a pair, takes place on tuesday, october , . to insure a choice selection we suggest that you make your purchases early on that day. very truly yours, callender & crump. this is an excellent, matter-of-fact letter that sets out values: le fevre brothers washington blvd detroit, mich. may , . mrs. john williams, concourse ave., detroit, mich. madam: on monday and tuesday, may th and th, we shall hold our annual spring clearance sale of seasonable apparel for boys, girls, and young ladies, offering exceptional values, and an unusual opportunity to secure regular le fevre productions at lower prices than we have been able to offer for several years. this sale will include other items which are not enumerated in this announcement. boys' wool norfolk suits: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . , $ . , and $ . boys' overcoats: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . girls' coats and capes: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . girls' wool dresses: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . young ladies' suits: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . young ladies' dresses: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . young ladies' coats and capes: sizes to years. formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . girls' and young ladies' trimmed and tailored hats: formerly up to $ . _sale price_ $ . and $ . sale goods will not be sent on approval, exchanged, nor can they be returned for credit. yours very truly, le fevre brothers. our charge customers will have the privilege of making their purchases from this sale on friday and saturday, may th and th. _on opening a store_ this form for the opening of a new store in a town may be used with variations for a reopening after improvements. james bonner & co. wichita, kan. april , . mrs. henry jerome, water st., wichita, kan. dear madam: this is a sale to win friends for a new store. we want you to see our values. our store is but six weeks old. our stock is just the same age. everything that we have is fresh and new. we want you to compare our qualities and prices. we are out to prove to the women of wichita that we can give style and service at prices they will like. will you give us the chance to get acquainted? yours very truly, james bonner & co., (handwritten) _l. jones_, manager. _selling home-made articles_ waverly place, bridgetown, n. j., april , . dear madam: have you ever counted the cost of making your pickles, jams, and jellies at home? if you have, and are satisfied that yours is the cheapest way, considering time, labor, and the use of the best materials, then my product will not appeal to you. but before you decide, may i ask you to make a comparison? i make at home in large quantities and according to the best recipes gathered over years of experience, all kinds of pickles and relishes--sweet, sour, dill, chow-chow, piccalilli. my special jams are raspberry, strawberry, plum, peach, and quince. crabapple is my best liked jelly, and red currant a close second. a very special conserve is a grape and walnut, for which i have a large call, for teas. the peaches i put up in pint and quart jars. i use only the very best vinegar and spices. my products are made only to order and at the lowest possible cost. to do this i must get my orders some time in advance so that i may take advantage of attractive prices on fruits and other ingredients. i append a list of prices which i charged last year. this year they will be no higher and in all probability less. may i get a small trial order from you? very truly yours, martha walker. (mrs. william walker) _a letter to recently married people in moderate circumstances_ j. l. bascom company main street richmond, va. may , . dear madam: this store is for sensible, saving people who want to make every dollar buy its utmost. but sometimes being sensible and saving seems to mean just being commonplace and dowdy. ours is not that sort of a store. we believe that useful articles ought also to be good looking, and our buying has been so skillful that we believe we are safe in saying that our goods are not only absolutely dependable but also will compare in appearance with any goods anywhere, regardless of price. we think that this statement will mean something to you, for in furnishing a home, although appearance may not be everything, it is certainly a good deal. between two articles of the same durability the better-looking one is the better. it is our aim not merely to make home furnishing easy but to make a beautiful home at the price of an ugly one. our experience has been that it does not pay to put into a household any article which in a few years you will get so tired of looking at that you will want to smash it with a hatchet. we have the values and also we have terms that are as good as the values. we enclose a little booklet that will give you a hint of what you can find here. we cannot give you more than a hint. the best way is to come to the store. tell us your problems, and let us aid you with our experience. very truly yours, j. l. bascom company. _introducing the mail order department:_ l. girard & co. st. louis, mo. april , . mrs. benjamin brown, shadyside vine avenue, st. louis, mo. dear madam: this spring brings to us many new ideas in merchandise that our buyers have picked up in their travels. in many ways we have now the most interesting stock we have ever been able to show. it is indeed so large and varied that we shall hardly be able to give you more than a suggestion of it in our public advertising. we feel sure that we have something which you have been looking for among the splendid values in both personal and household necessities. you will find that through our individual shopping service purchasing by mail is made most convenient and entirely personal. may we look forward to having again the pleasure of serving you? very truly yours, l. girard & co. _announcement of overcoats_ the barbour clothing co. wabash avenue chicago october , . mr. charles reid, winnetka, ill. my dear sir: in a couple of weeks you are going to think a good deal about your overcoat. why not start thinking now? we are offering this year the most complete line of overcoats that we have ever been able to buy. we have found that we could buy absolutely first-class coats at absolutely fair prices. we are selling them on the basis on which we bought them, and we bought a lot because we think the values will sell them. the prices are surprisingly low. they range from $ to $ . at the lowest price we are selling a coat which, if you saw it on the back of a friend, you would think cost at least $ . the highest priced coat is as good as money can buy. if you expected to spend $ for a coat, you may find that you can get what you want for $ or $ , or you may find that you will want an even better coat than you had expected to buy. we think that it would be worth your while to look at this stock. very truly yours, the barbour clothing co. _selling a farm product (can be used for vegetables, eggs, hams, and bacon or any farm product)_ corn center new jersey june , . dear madam: do you like perfectly fresh vegetables--right off the farm? what kind of vegetables are you getting? do you know how long ago they were picked? perhaps you think that you cannot have absolutely fresh vegetables for your table or that it really makes no difference? did you ever taste golden bantam corn the same day or the day after it was picked? do you know golden bantam or is corn just corn? do you think that string beans are just string beans? and do you know about stringless string beans? i grow only the thoroughbred varieties. i pick them when they are tender--just right for the palate. and i send them to you the same day that they are picked. i arrange hampers according to the size of the family. the prices, quantities, and selections are on the enclosed card. i will deliver at your door (or send by parcel post) every day, every second day, or as often as you like. you can have the best that is grown in its best season and as fresh as though you were living on a farm. try a hamper and know what vegetables are! very truly yours, henry raynor. _storage service_ howard moth proof bag co. winsted, conn. may , . dear madam: have you ever taken your best coat to an "invisible mender" and paid him ten dollars to have him mend two moth holes? have you ever gone to your trunk to take out your furs and found that the moths had got into them? sometimes they are so badly eaten that they are utterly hopeless and must be thrown away. all this trouble, disappointment, and expense can be avoided if you will only take the precaution this spring to put away your clothing and furs in the howard moth proof garment bags. strongly constructed of a heavy and durable cedar paper, and made absolutely moth-proof by our patented closing device, the howard bag provides absolute protection against moths. as the howard bag comes in several sizes, from the suit size, ranging through the overcoat, ulster, and automobile sizes, and as each bag has room for several garments, you can surely have protection for all your clothing at small cost. the hook by which the bag is hung up is securely stapled in place by brass rivets. this bag is so strong and so well designed for service that it will with care last for several years. very truly yours, the howard moth-proof bag co. _a type of christmas sales letter_ the pink shop main street grand rapids, mich. november , . dear madam: this is your opportunity to get a lot of fine christmas stockings at very low cost--if you order at once. the "camille" is made of beautiful thread silk richly hand embroidered. it comes in black or white, all silk. the "diana" is a silk stocking with lisle top and soles. it is a fine wearing stocking and comes in all street shades. the "juliet" is especially attractive as a gift for a girl friend. these stockings are clocked and have all silk feet and lisle tops. the colors are black, beige, and taupe. they are especially good looking worn with saddle pumps. the "evening mist" is a fascinating stocking for evening wear. it is sheer, almost cobwebby, and will enhance any evening gown. the colors are gold, silver, light blue, corn, pale green, black, and white. it is splendid for a gift stocking. the "priscilla" is an excellent stocking for everyday hard wear. it is of heavy lisle, full fashioned and fast color--black or tan. send your order off now. you will have the advantage of an early selection. attractive prices are quoted in the circular enclosed. the big holiday rush will soon be on. make up your order for stockings for christmas giving, attach remittance for amount and mail to-day. your order will be filled promptly and if everything does not fully satisfy you, you may return it and get your money back. yours very truly, the pink shop. _an automobile announcement_ memphis auto supply co. maple avenue memphis, tenn. march , . dear sir: just a few weeks and spring will be here. that means pleasure motoring. when you are getting ready for this new season, you may find that you will need certain things for your car--perhaps a new tire, or a pair of pliers, or an inner tube. but whatever it is, remember that our new stock of accessories is here and we believe that we can supply you with anything you will need. in inviting you to give us part of your trade, we give you this assurance: if any article you buy from us is not entirely right, we will return your money. we hope to see you soon. yours very truly, memphis auto supply co. _changing from a credit to a cash plan (should be in the nature of a personal letter)_ pelletier & co. casco street portland, me. february , . mrs. john troy, ocean ave., portland, me. dear madam: when this store was opened ten years ago, we believed that our service would be the most effective if we operated on a credit basis. therefore we solicited charge accounts, of course taking extreme care that only people of known integrity and substance should be on our books. we have had the privilege of serving you through such an account. there are two fundamental methods of conducting a retail business. the one is on the cash and the other is on the credit plan. in the cash plan all goods are either paid for at the time of purchase or at the time of delivery. in the credit plan, those who have not credit or do not care to use credit pay cash; those who have credit rating charge their purchases and bills are rendered monthly. credit was not extended by the store as a favor; it formed part of a way of doing business. the favor is on the part of the customer. the charge system has many advantages, principally in the way of permitting the store to know its customers better than it could otherwise. the disadvantage of the credit basis is the expense of bookkeeping which, of course, has to be added into the price of the goods sold. our losses through unpaid bills have been negligible. our customers are honest. but it has seemed unfair that the customer who pays cash should have to bear the cost of the credit accounts. as our business has worked out more than fifty per cent. of our whole trade is on the cash basis. after careful consideration we have finally decided to go entirely upon a cash footing in order that we may further reduce our costs of doing business and hence our prices to you. we think that in such fashion we can better serve you. therefore, on july st, which marks the end of our fiscal year, we shall go upon an exclusively cash basis and no longer maintain charge accounts. we think that you will agree when you see the savings reflected in lower prices for the highest grade of goods that the change in policy is a wise one and that you will continue to favor us with your patronage. very truly yours, pelletier & co., (handwritten) _c. brown_, credit manager. keeping the customer _thanking a new customer_ larue brothers saint louis, mo. october , . mrs. lee white, main street, st. louis, mo. dear madam: the purchase which you made yesterday is the first that we have had the pleasure of recording for your account and we want to take this opportunity to thank you for the confidence that you repose in us and to hope that it will be the beginning of a long and happy relation. we shall, from time to time, send you bulletins of our special offerings and we believe that you will be interested in them. very truly yours, (handwritten) _j. m. briggs_, credit manager, larue brothers. _where a charge account has been inactive_ s. black company washington street boston, mass. february , . mr. tudor sweet, commonwealth ave., boston, mass. dear sir: we have just been looking over our books and are sorry to learn that you have not given us your patronage for some time past. we feel that something may have gone wrong to have caused you to discontinue trading at our store. if you are not fully satisfied with anything you bought from us, remember that we are always eager and ready to adjust the matter to your satisfaction. we shall certainly appreciate it if you will write to us and tell us frankly just what the trouble has been. will you use the inclosed envelope to let us know? yours truly, s. black company, (handwritten) _george sims_, credit manager. a. b. sweetser & co. main street columbus, o. june , . mrs. arthur thomas, spruce avenue, columbus, o. dear madam: does our store please you? sometime ago it probably did and you had an account with us, but we find with regret that you have not used it lately. if we disappointed you, or if something went wrong and possibly your complaint was not properly attended to, we are extremely anxious to know about it. perhaps there was some lack of courtesy, some annoying error in your bill which we were exasperatingly obtuse in rectifying? were we stupid in filling some order or did we delay in delivery? perhaps we did not have just what you were looking for, or our prices seemed higher than elsewhere. whatever the difficulty, we do want you to know that we try to stand for good service--to supply promptly what you want at the price you want to pay, and always to conduct our business with an unfailing courtesy which will make your shopping a pleasure. being a woman i may understand your point of view a little better. will you be quite frank and tell me why you do not buy from sweetser's now? either write or call me on the telephone; or, better still, if you are in our neighborhood, can you come in to see me? the information booth is at the door and i can be found in a minute. it might help to talk things over. sincerely yours, (handwritten) _mrs. margaret b. williams_, courtesy manager, a. b. sweetser & co. meyer, haskell & co. elm street bloomfield, ill. march , . mrs. bruce wells, dwight ave., bloomfield, ill. dear madam: we very much regret that you do not use more often your charge account at our store, and we hope it is not due to any lack on our part of prompt and intelligent service. we know that with our large and well-assorted stocks of merchandise and competent organization we ought to be able to supply your needs to your complete satisfaction. one of five stores, we have great opportunities for advantageous buying and we can continually undersell others. in this connection permit us to call your attention to our newly installed telephone order department. this department is in charge of competent house shoppers, whose duty it is to satisfy your every want, thus enabling our charge patrons to shop by telephone with perfect certainty. we feel that these advantages may appeal to you and result in our receiving your orders more often. very truly yours, (handwritten) _t. hunter_, credit manager, meyer, haskell & co. selling real estate there are two phases in the writing of letters concerning the sale of real estate. the first phase has to do with the presentation of the proposal in order to arouse sufficient interest in the mind of the prospect to cause him to inspect the property. comparatively little real estate is sold without personal inspection. the exceptions are offerings of low-priced building sites in distant sections of the country. these are sold sight unseen--else, as a rule, they would never be sold at all. but such real estate selling is more apt to be in the class with fake mining stock than with legitimate buying and selling, and therefore has no place here. the second phase of letters on real estate comprehends the closing of the sale. for instance, let us say that john hope has gone so far as to look at a property. he apparently wants to buy the property or is at least interested, but the price and conditions of sale do not exactly suit him. he is so situated that he does not want to talk personally with an agent, or perhaps lives too far away. at any rate, the sale has to be closed by mail. the fact which most concerns the buyer of real estate, provided he is otherwise satisfied with a property, is the title. the title is the legal term by which is denoted the exact character of the ownership. quite frequently an owner may believe that he has a clear title when, as a matter of fact, his title is derived through some testamentary instrument which gives him a holding only for life, or perhaps trusts have been set up in the will which are a charge upon the property, although all of the beneficiaries of the trust have been long since dead. there are many hundreds of possible legal complications affecting the validity of the title and it is usual to-day to have titles insured and, in agreeing to buy, to specify that the "title must be marketable and insurable by a reputable title insurance company." the word "marketable" as here used means a title which is unquestionable. the prospective buyer must also be careful to specify that the title shall be "free and clear" and that all taxes shall be apportioned to the day of settlement. otherwise the buyer would have to take title subject to a lien of any judgments or other liens of record and also subject to unpaid taxes. a real estate transaction may be very complicated indeed, and it is wise for a buyer to take precautions to the end of seeing that he purchases a piece of real property rather than a right to a lawsuit. most letters offering real estate for sale are written in response to inquiries generated by an advertisement. the letter offering the property is designed to bring forth a visit from the inquirer. therefore only the information which seems best adapted to bring about that visit should go into the letter. the temptation is to tell too much, and the danger of telling too much is that one may inadvertently force a negative conclusion. it is better to keep down to the bare, although complete, description rather than to attempt any word painting. the description is best supplemented by one or several photographs. the important points to be summarized are the situation of the house, the architectural style, the material of which it is constructed, the number of rooms, and the size of the lot, with of course a description of any stable, garage, or other substantial out-buildings. these are the elementary points of the description. one may then summarize the number and size of the rooms, including the bathrooms, laundry, and kitchen, the closet spaces, fireplaces, the lighting, the roofing, the floors, the porches, and the decorating. the most effective letter is always the one that catalogues the features rather than describes them. _an agent asking for a list of property_ jones realty co. harrisburg, pa. april , . mr. james renwick, pelham road, westville, pa. my dear sir: i am constantly having inquiries from people who want to buy property in your immediate vicinity, and i am writing to learn whether you would give me the opportunity to dispose of your property for you, if i can obtain an entirely satisfactory price. if you will name the price and the terms at which you would sell, i should be glad to put the property on my list and i believe that i can make a sale. it would be helpful if i had a good description of the property and also one or two good photographs. of course if you list the property with me that will not bar you from listing it with any other broker unless you might care to put it exclusively in my hands for disposal. my commission is - / %, the same as charged by other brokers in this vicinity, and i know from experience that i can give you satisfactory service. very truly yours, henry jones. _from an owner instructing an agent to list property_ pelham road, westville, pa., may , . mr. henry jones, jones realty co., harrisburg, pa. my dear sir: i have your letter of may rd and i am entirely willing that you should list my property for sale, although i do not want a "for sale" sign displayed nor do i want the property inspected while i am in it unless by a previously arranged appointment. i enclose a description and a photograph. i will take $ , for the place, of which $ , has to be paid in cash. i am willing to hold a second mortgage of $ , and there is $ , already ready against the place, which can remain. very truly yours, james renwick. _selling a property by mail_ lawrence street, greenville, n. y., april , . mr. george a. allen, fourth avenue, hillside, n. y. my dear sir: i have your letter of april th asking for further particulars on the property which i advertised for sale in last sunday's _republic_. i think that by inspecting this property you can gain a much clearer idea of its desirability than i can possibly convey to you in a letter. if you will telephone to me, i will arrange any appointment that suits your convenience. the house is ten years old--that is, it was built when materials and workmanship were first-class. it has been kept up by the owner, has never been rented, and is to-day a more valuable house than when it was originally constructed. it is three stories in height, contains fifteen rooms, four bathrooms, breakfast porch, sun porch, children's breakfast porch, a laundry, butler's pantry, a storage pantry, and a refrigerator pantry. it stands on a plot of ground x feet, which has been laid out in lawn and gardens, and in fact there are several thousand dollars' worth of well-chosen and well-placed plants, including many evergreens and rhododendrons. the trim of the house, including the floors, is hard wood throughout, and the decorations are such that nothing whatsoever would have to be done before occupancy. i enclose two photographs. the owner's price is $ , , and i know that he would be willing to arrange terms. very truly yours, r. a. smith. (note--essentially the same letter could be written offering the house for rental, furnished or unfurnished, as the case might be.) main street, albany, n. y., october , . mr. henry grimes, catskill, n. y. dear sir: the business property that i offered for sale in yesterday's _republic_ and concerning which i have a letter from you this morning is particularly well suited for a specialty shop or any kind of a store that would be benefited by the passing of large numbers of people before its show windows. it is located at the corner of third and main streets with a frontage of thirty feet on main street and runs back seventy feet on third street. there is one large show window on main street and two on third street. it is a three-story brick structure, solidly built, and the upper floors, if they could not be used for your own purposes, will as they stand bring a rental of $ a month each, and with a few changes could probably be leased at a higher amount. they are at present leased at the above figures, but the leases will expire on january st. both tenants are willing to renew. by actual count this property is on the third busiest corner in town. if you are interested, i should like to discuss the price and terms with you. very truly yours, henry eltinge. _offering a farm for sale_ goschen, ohio, r. f. d. , may , . mr. harry more, bridgeton, ohio. dear sir: i am glad to get your letter inquiring about my farm. i am acting as my own agent because i think it is a farm that will sell itself on inspection and i would rather split the commission with the buyer than with a middle-man. the farmhouse, barns, and dairy are good, substantial frame buildings, and they have been well painted every second season. there is nothing to be done to them. the house has six rooms and a large, dry cellar. the water is soft and there is plenty of it. the barn is by ; the poultry house is a big one that i built myself. the sheds are all in first-class condition. this farm contains acres, two miles from goschen, ohio, and there is a state road leading into town and to the railroad. we have rural delivery and telephone. the land is high and in first-class cultivation. the orchard has been kept up and there are well-established strawberry and asparagus beds. you will not find a better farm of its kind than this one. i have made a living off it for twelve years and anybody else can, but the only way for you really to find out what the place amounts to is to come down yourself and look it over. if you will let me know when you expect to come i will meet you at the station in my automobile. the price is ten thousand dollars. there is a mortgage of $ , that can remain, and, other things being satisfactory, we can arrange the down payment and the terms for the balance. very truly yours, john hope. _accepting an offer_ chestnut street, philadelphia, pa., dec. , . mr. joseph barlow, haines crossing, delaware. dear sir: i have your letter of december th offering to sell to me the property that we have been discussing for $ , of which $ , is to be in cash, $ , to remain on three-year mortgage at six per cent., and the remaining $ , to be cared for by the present mortgage in that amount and which i understand has four years yet to run. i accept your offer as stated by you, with the provision of course that i shall receive a clear and marketable title, insurable by a real estate title company, and that all taxes shall be adjusted as of the day of settlement, which settlement is to take place three months from to-day. if you will have a contract of sale drawn, i shall execute it and at the same time hand you my check for five hundred dollars as the consideration for the contract of purchase. this letter is written in the assumption that the dimensions of the property are such as have been represented to me. i am very truly yours, martin fields. (note--the above letter replying to an offer to sell would of itself close the contract and the formal contract of sale is unnecessary. a contract is, however, advisable because it includes all the terms within a single sheet of paper and therefore makes for security.) _letter inquiring as to what may be had_ gramercy park, february , . home development co., hastings, n. y. dear sir: i am writing to learn what property you have listed in your vicinity that would seem to meet my particular requirements. i want a house of not less than ten rooms, with some ground around it and not more than fifteen minutes from the railroad station. the house must contain at least two bathrooms, have a good heating plant, and either be in first-class condition or offered at a price that would permit me to put it in first-class condition without running into a great deal of money. i am willing to pay between ten and fifteen thousand dollars. will you send me a list of properties that you can suggest as possibly being suitable? very truly yours, julian henderson. _renting apartments_ young & reynolds green street brooklyn, n. y. may , . mr. robert pardee, prentiss place, brooklyn, n. y. dear sir: your name has been handed to me as one who might be interested in leasing one of the extremely attractive apartments in the iroquois at number east third street, which will be ready for occupancy on september th. i enclose a descriptive folder which will give you an idea of the grounds that we have for basing our claim that this is the most convenient apartment house that has ever been erected. the apartments vary in size, as you will see on the plan, and for long leases we can arrange any combination of rooms that may be desired. these features are common to all of the apartments. every bedroom has a private bathroom. every living and dining room contains an open fireplace, and every apartment, no matter what its size, is connected with a central kitchen so that service may be had equivalent to that of any hotel and at any hour from seven in the morning until midnight. there is a complete hotel service, all of which is entirely optional with the tenant. we invite your inspection. a number of the apartments have already been leased, but many desirable ones still remain and an early selection will permit of decoration according to your own wishes in ample time for the opening of the building. the renting office is on the premises. very truly yours, young & reynolds. bank letters the qualities which make a bank popular in a community are, first, safety; second, intelligence; and third, courtesy. one bank has potentially nothing more to offer than has another bank, excepting that of course a very large bank has a greater capacity for making loans than has a small bank. the amount which by law a bank may lend is definitely fixed by the resources of the bank. however, this is not a question of particular concern here, for very large and important accounts are never gained through letter writing. the field that can be reached through letters comprises the substantial householder, the moderate-sized man in business, and the savings depositor. a bank has no bargains to offer. what a man or a woman principally asks about a bank is: "will my money be safe? will my affairs be well looked after? shall i be treated courteously when i go into the bank?" the answers to these questions should be found in the conduct of the bank itself. a bank is not a frivolous institution. therefore its stationery and the manner of its correspondence should be eminently dignified. it must not draw comparisons between the service it offers and the service any other bank offers. it must not make flamboyant statements. neither may it use slang, for slang connotes in the minds of many a certain carelessness that does not make for confidence. above all, a bank cannot afford to be entertaining or funny in its soliciting letters. the best bank letter is usually a short one, and it has been found effective to enclose a well-designed, well-printed card or folder setting out some of the services of the bank, its resources, and its officers. bank solicitation is very different from any other kind of solicitation. _soliciting savings accounts_ guardian trust co. bayville, n. j. january , . mr. george dwight, bayville, n. j. dear sir: some time ago we delivered to you a little home safe for savings, and we are writing to learn how you are making out with it. have you saved as much as you had expected? are you waiting to get a certain sum before bringing it in to be credited in your passbook? we are often asked if it is necessary to fill a home safe before bringing it in to have the contents deposited, and we always recommend that the bank be brought in at regular intervals, regardless of the amount saved, for you know the money begins to earn interest only when it is deposited with us. we give to small deposits the same careful attention we give to large deposits, so we suggest that you bring in and deposit whatever you have saved. that will make a start, and once started it is truly surprising how quickly a bank account rolls up. i hope that we may have the benefit of your patronage. very truly yours, the guardian trust company, (handwritten) _j. d. wallace_, secretary. _where a savings account is inactive_ guardian trust co. bayville, n. j. august , . mr. george dwight, bayville, n. j. dear sir: a little home bank may be made a power for good. it can accomplish nothing by itself, standing unused in an out-of-the-way place. it can only be an assistant to the saver. it can assist your boy and girl to great things. it can assist you in daily economies upon which big results are often built. it cannot furnish the initiative, but it can be a constant reminder and an ever-ready recipient. why not _use_ the little bank we delivered to you when you opened your savings account with us to teach the children to save, or to collect together small amounts for yourself. why not? very truly yours, (handwritten) _j. d. wallace_, secretary. _checking accounts_ _a letter soliciting a home account:_ guardian trust co. poughkeepsie, n. y. october , . mrs. hester wickes, market street, poughkeepsie, n. y. dear madam: do you ever have arguments over bills that you have paid in cash? do you always remember to get a receipt? do you find it a nuisance to carry cash? do you know that it is dangerous to keep much cash in the house? there can be no dispute about an account if you pay it with a bank check. your cancelled check is a perfect receipt. more than that, your bank book shows you when, how much, and to whom you have paid money. it is not only the easy way of paying bills but the safe way. you escape all the danger of carrying or having in the house more than mere pocket money. you will find by opening a checking account with us not only the advantages of paying by check but you will also discover many conveniences and services which we are able to offer to you without any charge whatsoever. i hope that you will call and let us explain our services. i enclose a folder telling you more about the bank than i have been able to tell in this letter. very truly yours, (handwritten) _j. d. wallace_, secretary. p.s. we have some very attractive styles in pocket check books that might interest you. _soliciting a commercial account_ the logansburg national bank logansburg, wis. april , . mr. fred haynes, nassau street, logansburg, wis. dear sir: every man in business is entitled to an amount of credit accommodation in accordance with his resources. it is one of the functions of this bank to help the business of the community by extending credit to those who make the business for the community. we are here to be of service and we should like to serve you. i enclose a folder giving the latest statement of the resources of the bank and something about the organization. will you not drop in some time and at least permit us to become acquainted? very truly yours, (handwritten) _r. t. newell_, president. _general services_ trust companies and national banks are very generally extending their services to cover the administration of decedents' estates, to advise upon investments, to care for property, and to offer expert tax services. in most cases, these services are set out in booklets and the letter either encloses the booklet or is phrased to have the recipient ask for the booklet. _letter proffering general services:_ griggs national bank fifth ave. new york november , . mr. henry larkin, cathedral parkway, new york. dear sir: we are writing to call your attention to several services which this bank has at your command and which we should be happy to have you avail yourself of: ( ) the bond department can give you expert and disinterested advice on investments and can in addition offer you a selection of well-chosen season bonds of whatever character a discussion of your affairs may disclose as being best suited to your needs. ( ) our safe deposit vaults will care for your securities and valuable papers at an annual cost which is almost nominal. ( ) we have arrangements by which we can issue letters of credit that will be honored anywhere in the world, foreign drafts, and travellers' checks. ( ) if you expect to be away through any considerable period or do not care to manage your own investments, our trust department will manage them for you and render periodical accounts at a very small cost. this service is especially valuable because so frequently a busy man fails to keep track of conversion privileges and rights to new issues and other matters incident to the owning of securities. ( ) we will advise you, if you like, on the disposition of your property by will, and we have experienced and expert facilities for the administration of trusts and estates. i hope that we may have the opportunity of demonstrating the value of some or all of these services to you; it would be a privilege to have you call and become acquainted with the officers in charge of these various departments. i am very truly yours, (handwritten) _lucius clark_, president. _a letter offering to act as executor_ griggs national bank fifth avenue new york june , . mr. lawrence loring, river avenue, yonkers, n. y. dear sir: may i call to your attention the question which every man of property must at some time gravely consider, and that is the disposition of his estate after death? i presume that as a prudent man you have duly executed a last will and testament, and i presume that it has been drawn with competent legal advice. but the execution of the will is only the beginning. after your death will come the administration of the estate, and it is being more and more recognized that it is not the part of wisdom to leave the administration of an estate in the hands of an individual. it used to be thought that an executor could be qualified by friendship or relationship, but unfortunately it has been proved through the sad experience of many estates that good intentions and integrity do not alone make a good executor. skill and experience also are needed. this company maintains a trust department, under the supervision of mr. thomas g. shelling, our trust officer, who has had many years of experience in the administration of estates. associated with him is a force of specialists who can care for any situation, usual or unusual, that may arise. the services of these men can be placed at your disposal. i can offer to you not only their expert services but also the continuity of a great institution. individuals die. institutions do not die. if you will turn over in your mind what may be the situation thirty years hence of any individual whom you might presently think of as an executor, i believe you will be impressed with the necessity for the continuity of service that can be offered only by a corporation. in many cases there are personal matters in the estate which a testator may believe can best be handled only by some of his friends. in such a case it is usual to join the individual executors with a corporate executor. it would be a privilege to be able to discuss these matters with you. very truly yours, (handwritten) _lucius clark_, president. p.s. wills are quite frequently lost or mislaid and sometimes months elapse before they are discovered. it is needless to point out the expense and inconvenience which may be entailed. we are happy to keep wills free of charge. _a letter offering tax services_ intervale national bank intervale, n. y. june , . mr. michael graham, intervale, n. y. dear sir: this bank is prepared to advise you in the preparation of your income and other tax returns. it is a service that is yours for the asking, and we hope that you will avail yourself of it. the department is open during banking hours, but if these hours are not convenient to you, special appointments can be made. very truly yours, (handwritten) _samuel drake_, president. _a letter giving the record of the bank_ intervale national bank intervale, n. y. july , . mr. donald west, intervale, n. y. dear sir: as a depositor you will be interested in the enclosed booklet which records what the officers and directors think is a notable showing for the bank during the past year. i hope that you will also find it inspiring and will pass it on to a friend who is not a depositor with us. may i thank you for your patronage during the past year, and believe me very truly yours, (handwritten) _samuel drake_, president. letters of order and acknowledgment _order where the price of articles is known_ north conway, n. h., august , . messrs. l. t. banning, broadway, new york, n. y. gentlemen: please send me, at your earliest convenience, by united states express, the following: doz. linen handkerchiefs, tape edge, regular size $ . pr. triumph garters, silk, black . white oxford tennis shirts, size - / @ $ . . pr. white lisle socks, size @ $. . _________ total $ . i am enclosing a money order for $ . . yours very truly, oscar trent. enclosure (money order) _order where the price is not known_ flint, michigan, july , . the rotunda, state street, chicago, ill. gentlemen: please send as soon as possible the following: prs. camel's hair sport stockings, wide-ribbed, size blue flannel middy blouse, red decoration, size "dix make" housedress, white piqué, size copy of "main street" i enclose a money order for thirty dollars ($ . ) and will ask you to refund any balance in my favor after deducting for invoice and express charges. very truly yours, florence kepp. encl. m. o. williamsport, pa., march , . carroll bros., chestnut st., philadelphia, pa. gentlemen: please send me the following articles by parcels post as soon as possible: doz. paper napkins, apple blossom or nasturtium design "century" cook book pair "luxury" blue felt bedroom slippers, leather sole and heel large bar imported castile soap pair elbow length white silk gloves, size - / enclosed is a money order for $ . . please refund any balance due me. yours truly, janet m. bent (mrs. elmer bent) _formal acknowledgments_ it is still a formal custom to acknowledge some kinds of orders by a printed or an engraved form. some of the older new york business houses use the engraved forms which arose in the days before typewriters and they are very effective. _general acknowledgment forms_ the general stores co. chicago, ill. april , . mr. walter crump, adams street, maple centre, ill. dear sir: we acknowledge with thanks your order no. ______ which will be entered for immediate shipment and handled under our no. ______ to which you will please refer if you have occasion to write about it. if we are unable to ship promptly we will write you fully under separate cover. very truly yours, the general stores co. _s._ the general stores co., chicago, ill. june , . mr. joseph ward, wadsworth hill, ill. dear sir: we have received your order __________ requesting attention to __________ no. __________. unless special attention is demanded, the routine schedule is on a ten-day basis, and we therefore expect to ______ your instrument on or about __________. in corresponding on this subject please refer to order no. ______. very truly yours, the general stores co. _s._ _in answer to a letter without sufficient data_ the general stores co. chicago, ill. september , . mrs. benjamin brown, carr city, ill. dear madam: we thank you for your order recently received for one shirt waist and two pairs of stockings. we were unable to proceed with the order, as the size of the waist was not given. if you would be kind enough to state what size you wish, we shall gladly make immediate shipment. very truly yours, the general stores co. _s._ _where the goods are not in hand_ l. &. l. young fifth avenue new york, n. y. november , . mrs. john evans, park avenue, new york, n. y. dear madam: we are out of size b at present in the white kid shoes you desire, but we should be pleased to order a pair for you, if you wish, which would take two weeks. if this is not satisfactory to you, perhaps you will call and select another pair. kindly let us know what you wish done in this matter. very truly yours, l. & l. young. letters of complaint and adjustment the letter of complaint is purely a matter of stating exactly what the trouble is. the letter replying to the complaint is purely an affair of settling the trouble on a mutually satisfactory basis. the marshall field attitude that "the customer is always right" is the one that it pays to assume. the customer is by no means always right, but in the long run the goodwill engendered by this course is worth far more than the inevitable losses through unfair customers. the big chicago mail order houses have been built up on the principle of returning money without question. legalistic quibbles have no place in the answer to a complaint. the customer is rightly or wrongly dissatisfied; business is built only on satisfied customers. therefore the question is not to prove who is right but to satisfy the customer. this doctrine has its limitations, but it is safer to err in the way of doing too much than in doing too little. _claims for damaged goods_ this letter is complete in that it states what the damage is. commonwealth avenue, boston, mass., february , . messrs. wells & sons, summer street, boston, mass. gentlemen: the furniture that i bought on february rd came to-day in good condition with the exception of one piece, the green enamel tea-wagon. that has a crack in the glass tray and the lower shelf is scratched. will you kindly call for it and, if you have one like it in stock, send it to me to replace the damaged one? very truly yours, edna joyce link. (mrs. george link) main street, saltview, n. y., may , . acme dishwasher co., syracuse, n. y. gentlemen: i regret to inform you that the acme dishwasher which i purchased from your local dealer, i. jacobs, on december , , has failed to live up to your one-year guarantee. in fact, the dishwasher is now in such bad condition that i have not used it for three weeks. i must therefore request that in accordance with the terms of your guarantee you refund the purchase price of ninety dollars ($ ). very truly yours, eleanor scott. (mrs. lawrence scott) _complaint of poor service_ webster corners, mo., april , . messrs. peter swann co., kansas city, mo. gentlemen: attention mr. albert brann. on tuesday last i bought at your store two boys' wash suits. this is monday and the goods have not yet been delivered. the delay has caused me great inconvenience. if this were the first time that you had been careless in sending out orders i should feel less impatient, but three times within the last four weeks i have been similarly annoyed. on march rd i sent back my bill for correction, goods returned not having been credited to my account. on march th the bill was again sent in its original form with a "please remit." i again wrote, making explanation, but to date have received no reply. if i must be constantly annoyed in this manner, i shall have to close my account. very truly yours, helena young tremp. (mrs. kenneth tremp) _replies to letters of complaint_ wells & sons summer street boston, mass. august , . mrs. samuel sloane, chelsea, mass. dear madam: we have your letter of august th in regard to the damaged perambulator. we are very sorry indeed that it was damaged, evidently through improper crating, so that there does not seem to be any redress against the railway. we shall be glad to make a reasonable allowance to cover the cost of repairs, or if you do not think the perambulator can be repaired, you may return it to us at our expense and we will give your account credit for it. we will send you a new one in exchange if you desire. very truly yours, wells & sons. wells & sons summer street boston, mass. may , . mrs. julia furniss, oak street, somerville, mass. dear madam: we have received your note of may th in regard to the bathroom scales on your bill of may st. we do not send these scales already assembled as there is considerable danger of breakage, but we shall send a man out to you on wednesday the twelfth to set them up for you. the missing height bar will be sent to you. very truly yours, wells & sons. the sterling silver co. fifth ave. new york december , . mrs. daniel everett, washington square, new york. dear madam: we regret that it will be impossible to have your tea spoons marked as we promised. marking orders were placed in such quantities before yours was received that the work cannot be executed before december th. we are, therefore, holding the set for your further instructions and hope that this will not cause any disappointment. very truly yours, the sterling silver co. rex typewriter co. so. michigan ave. chicago, ill. november , . mr. john harris, wayside, ill. dear sir: we are in receipt of the damaged no. typewriter which you returned, and have forwarded a new typewriter which was charged to your account. please mail us a freight bill properly noted, showing that the typewriter which you returned was received in a damaged condition, so that the cost of repairs can be collected from the transportation company and the proper credit placed to your account. very truly yours, rex typewriter co. wells & sons summer street boston, mass. september , . mr. louis wright, quincy, mass. dear sir: our warehouse headquarters have just informed us in reply to our telegram, that your order no. of september th was shipped on september th by express direct. we regret the delay, and hope the goods have already reached you. very truly yours, wells & sons. wells & sons summer street boston, mass. june , . mrs. ralph curtis, commonwealth ave., boston, mass. dear madam: we are sorry to learn from your letter of june th that you found two buttons missing from your suit. we have no more buttons like the one you enclosed and cannot get any, as the suit is an import. but if you will let us know the number of buttons in the entire set, we will send you a complete set of buttons as nearly like the sample as possible. i hope this will be a satisfactory solution. very truly yours, wells & sons. _a routine letter of adjustment_ hall brothers fourth street dayton, o. january , . mr. philip drew, milk street, boston, mass. dear sir: we have received your letter of ______ and regret to learn that ______. we will carefully investigate the matter at once and within a day or two will write you fully. very truly yours, hall brothers. wells & sons summer street boston, mass january , . mr. george larabee, sunnyside, vt. dear sir: in compliance with your request of december th we shall mail our check to-morrow for $ . for the humidor which you returned. we regret very much the delay in this matter. our only excuse for it is the holiday rush in our delivery department which prevented the delivery of the humidor in time for christmas. we hope you will overlook the delay and give as another opportunity to serve you. very truly yours, wells & sons. credit and collection letters business is done largely on credit, but comparatively few men in business seem to understand that in the letters concerning accounts lies a large opportunity for business building. the old-style credit man thinks that it is all important to avoid credit losses; he opens an account suspiciously and he chases delinquent accounts in the fashion that a dog goes after a cat. business is not an affair of simply not losing money: it is an affair of making money. many a credit grantor with a perfect record with respect to losses may be a business killer; he may think that his sole function is to prevent losses. his real function is to promote business. the best credit men in the country are rarely those with the smallest percentage of losses, although it does happen that the man who regards every customer as an asset to be conserved in the end has very few losses. therefore, in credit granting, in credit refusing, and in collection, the form letter is not to be used without considerable discrimination. it is inadvisable to strike a personal note, and many firms have found it advantageous to get quite away from the letter in the first reminders of overdue accounts. they use printed cards so that the recipient will know that the request is formal and routine. another point to avoid is disingenuousness, such as "accounts are opened for the convenience of customers." that is an untrue statement. they are opened as a part of a method of doing business and that fact ought clearly to be recognized. it does not help for good feeling to take the "favoring" attitude. every customer is an asset; every prospective customer is a potential asset. they form part of the good-will of the concern. tactless credit handling is the most effective way known to dissipate good-will. _to open a charge account_ fourth avenue, new york, may , . hoyt & jennings, east forty eighth street, new york. gentlemen: i desire to open a credit account with your company. will you let me know what information you desire? very truly yours, harold grant. or, according to the circumstances any of the following may be used: i desire to open a line of credit _________________________ i desire to open an account _______________________________ i desire to maintain an open account ______________________ i desire to maintain a charge account _____________________ _replies to application for credit_ hoyt & jennings east th st. new york may , . mr. harold grant, dey street, new york. dear sir: may we thank you for your letter of may rd in which you expressed a desire to have an account with us? we enclose a copy of our usual form and trust that we shall have the privilege of serving you. yours very truly, (handwritten) _f. burdick_, credit manager, hoyt & jennings. hoyt & jennings east th street new york may , . mr. harold grant, dey street, new york. dear sir: we are glad to notify you that, in accordance with your request, a charge account has been opened in your name. at the beginning of our new business relations, we wish to assure you that we shall try to give satisfaction, both with our goods and with our service. whenever you purchase an article, it is simply necessary that you inform the sales person waiting on you that you have a charge account--and then give your name and address. as is customary in our business, a statement of purchases made during the preceding month will be rendered and will be due on the first of each month. we are awaiting with pleasant anticipation the pleasure of serving you. very truly yours, (handwritten) _f. burdick_, credit manager, hoyt & jennings. _refusing credit_ (this is one of the most difficult of all letters to write and one in which extreme care should be used for it may happen that the references have not replied accurately or that there may be somewhere an error. many people entitled to credit have never asked for it and therefore have trouble in giving references. a brusque refusal will certainly destroy a potential customer and is always to be avoided. the best plan is to leave the matter open. then, if the applicant for credit has really a standing, he will eventually prove it.) hoyt & jennings east th street new york mr. harold grant, dey street, new york. dear sir: may we thank you for your letter of may th and for the names of those whom you were kind enough to give as references? the information that we have received from them is unfortunately not quite complete enough for the purposes of our formal records. would you care to furnish us with further references in order that the account may be properly opened? or perhaps you would rather call in person. very truly yours, (handwritten) _f. burdick_, credit manager, hoyt & jennings. _where an order has been sent in by one who has not opened an account_ gregory supply co. main street baltimore, md. july , . j. k. cramer & brothers, new sussex, md. gentlemen: we write to thank you for your order of july th, amounting to $ and we are anxious to make shipment quickly. our records do not show that we have previously been receiving your orders and hence unfortunately we have not the formal information desired by our credit department so that we can open the account that we should like to have in your name. for we trust that this will be only the first of many purchases. will you favor us by filling out the form enclosed and mailing it back as soon as convenient? the information, of course, will be held strictly confidential. we are preparing the order for shipment and it will be ready to go out. yours truly, (handwritten) _b. allen_, credit manager gregory supply co. letters to references given by the applicant _to a bank_ (a bank will not give specific information) gregory supply co. main street baltimore, md. july , . haines national bank, baltimore, md. gentlemen: we have received a request from mr. cramer of new sussex, md., who informs us that he maintains an account with you for the extension of credit. he has given you as a reference. will you kindly advise us, in confidence and with whatever particularity you find convenient, what you consider his credit rating? any other information that you may desire to give will be appreciated. we trust that we may have the opportunity to reciprocate your courtesy. very truly yours, (handwritten) _b. allen_, credit manager, gregory supply co. _to a commercial house_ gregory supply co. main street baltimore, md. july , . bunce & co., vine ave., baltimore, md. gentlemen: we shall be much obliged to you if you will kindly inform us concerning your credit experience with mr. j. k. cramer of new sussex, md., who desires to open an account with us and who has referred us to you. we shall be happy at any time to reciprocate the courtesy. yours truly, (handwritten) _b. allen_, credit manager gregory supply co. _another letter of the same description in a printed form_ (name and address to be typewritten in) gregory supply co. main street baltimore, md. (date to be typewritten in) gentlemen: j. k. cramer, of new sussex, md., desires to open an account with our store and has given your name as a reference. your courtesy in answering the questions given below will be appreciated. we shall be glad to reciprocate it at any time. yours truly, gregory supply co. (please fill out and return as soon as convenient.) . has he an account with you now? ________________________ . how long has he had the account? _______________________ . how does he pay? prompt ______ medium ______ slow ______ . have you ever had difficulty in collecting? ____________ . what limit have you placed on the account? _____________ . special information. ___________________________________ _in reply to the above_ (a) bunce & company state st. baltimore, md. july , . gregory supply co., baltimore, md. gentlemen: in reply to your letter of october th in which you inquire concerning the responsibility of j. k. cramer of new sussex, md., we are glad to help you with the following information. mr. cramer has had a charge account with our store during the last five years. our records show that he has always met our bills in a satisfactory manner. his account is noted for a monthly limit of $ , but he has never reached it. our own experience is that mr. cramer is a desirable customer. yours very truly, bunce & company. (b) walsh machine co. elm street baltimore, md. july , . gregory supply co., baltimore, md. gentlemen: concerning mr. j. k. c., about whom you inquired in your letter of october th, our records show that our experience with this account has not been satisfactory. we find that during the last five years in which he has had an account with us he has caused us considerable trouble with regard to his payments. at the present moment he owes us $ for purchases made approximately six months ago, to recover which amount we have instructed our attorneys to institute legal proceedings. we hope that this information will be of assistance to you. yours very truly, walsh machine co. plum brothers broad street philadelphia, pa. july , . gregory supply co., main street, baltimore, md. gentlemen: we are glad to give you the information you wish concerning our experiences with the a. b. c. company, about whom you inquire in your letter of april th. the company first came to us on november , . on that date they purchased from us lawn mowers at a total cost of $ . they took advantage of the discount by paying the bill on november th. in january, , they gave us an order for at a total cost of $ . this bill they paid in february. their latest purchase from us was in july, . at this time their order amounted to lawn mowers. they paid the bill in october after we had sent them several requests for remittance. we trust this information will be of some value to you in determining just what amount of credit you may feel justified in extending to them. very truly yours, (handwritten) _h. plum_, plum brothers. _offering credit_ dwight & davis park street albany, n. y. october , . mrs. herbert reid, fourth avenue, albany, n. y. dear madam: whenever you wish to come in and purchase without cash, it will be a great pleasure to us to open a charge account with you. we have made a record here in the store so that whenever you call it will have been arranged for you to purchase whatever you want. we think you will approve of the character of service and the quality of merchandise. we wish to win not only your patronage, but your friendship for our store. every up-to-date woman realizes the many benefits, the conveniences, and even prestige she enjoys through having a charge account at a dependable store. a store, in turn, is judged by its charge accounts--it is rated by the women who have accounts there. and so, because of your standing in the community, if you avail yourself of our invitation to do your buying here, you are reflecting credit both on yourself and on us. we hope you will decide to let us serve you--all our facilities are completely at your service. we should like you to feel that our store is especially adapted to your needs. yours very truly, (handwritten) _c. dale_, credit manager, dwight & davis. summit box company kansas city, mo. november , . george harrow & co., fifth street, kansas city, mo. gentlemen: we want to thank you for your order of november th, with your check enclosed in full payment. we appreciate the business you have been giving us. the thought has frequently occurred to us that you may desire the advantages of an open account with us. we believe that such an arrangement will make transactions more convenient. we therefore have the pleasure of notifying you that we have noted your account for our regular credit terms of % net , up to a limit of $ . we hope that both your business and our acquaintance with you will develop to such an extent that it will be a pleasure to extend to you from time to time larger credit accommodations to take care of your increasing needs. the business relations between us have been so agreeable that we feel they will continue so. please remember that if we can ever be of assistance to you in helping you in your business we only ask that you call upon us. very truly yours, (handwritten) _g. harris_ credit manager summit box company. collection letters may very easily be overdone. the old idea was that any expense or any threat was justified if it got the money, but among the more advanced collection departments common sense has crept in, and it has been ascertained by cost-finding methods that it is not worth while to pursue a small account beyond a certain point and that when that point is reached it is economy to drop the matter. how far it is wise to go in attempting to collect an account is an affair of costs, unless one has a penchant for throwing good money after bad. the point to bear in mind in writing a collection letter is that it is a collection letter--that it is an effort to get money which is owed. it would not seem necessary to emphasize so entirely self-evident a point were it not unfortunately sometimes overlooked and the collection letter made an academic exercise. there is no excuse for a long series of collection letters--say eight or ten of them. after a man has received three or four letters you can take it for granted that he is beyond being moved by words. you must then have recourse to some other mode of reaching him. drawing on a debtor is also of small use; the kind of a man who will honor a collection draft would pay his bill anyhow. if a debtor has assets and there is no dispute concerning the account, he will usually pay. he may pay because you threaten him, but most people with the ability to owe money are quite impervious to threats, and although a threatening letter may seem to bring results, it can never be the best letter because on the other side of the ledger must be recorded the loss of the customer. the average writer of a collection letter usually gets to threatening something or other and quite often exposes himself to the danger of counter legal action. (see chapter xi on the law of letters.) the most successful collection men do not threaten. the best of them actually promote good-will through their handling of the accounts. the bully-ragging, long-winded collection letter has no place in self-respecting business. the so-called statements of collection by which papers drawn up to resemble writs are sent through the mails, or served, not only have no place in business but many of them are actually illegal. the letters which are appended have been chosen both for their effectiveness and their courtesy. they represent the best practice. it is, by the way, not often wise for the creditor to set out his own need for money as a reason why the debtor should pay the account. it is true that the sympathy of the debtor may be aroused, but the tale of misery may lead him to extend comfort rather than aid. however, several such letters have been included, not because they are good but because sometimes they may be used. _collection letters_ most firms have adopted a series of collection letters beginning with the routine card reminder of an overdue account and following with gradually increasingly personal second, third, fourth, and so on, letters. _first letter--printed card_ the enclosed statement of account is sent to you as we believe you have overlooked its payment. stone brothers _second letter_ stone brothers new york march , . miss grace duncan, prospect park west, brooklyn, n. y. dear madam: there appears an amount of $ . open in your name for the months of october to january which, according to our terms of sale, is now overdue, and if no adjustment is necessary, we trust you will kindly favor us with a check in settlement. very truly yours, stone brothers, new york, (handwritten) _james miller_, collection manager. [illustration: specimens of business letterheads used by english firms] _third letter_ stone brothers new york april , . miss grace duncan, prospect park west, brooklyn, n. y. dear madam: our letters of february th and march th have brought no reply from you. since they have not been returned by the post office we must presume that you received them. you naturally wish to keep your credit clear. we wish to have it clear. it is really a mutual affair. will you not send a check and keep the account on a pleasant basis? very truly yours, stone brothers, (handwritten) _james miller_, collection manager. the amount is $ . . _fourth letter_ stone brothers new york april , . miss grace duncan, prospect park west, brooklyn, new york. dear madam: we have no desire to resort to the law to collect the $ . due us, but unless your remittance is in our hands by may st, we shall take definite steps for the legal collection of your account. may we hear from you at once? very truly yours, stone brothers, (handwritten) _james miller_, collection manager. the following are collection letters of varying degrees of personal tone. in these seven letters are given the body of the letter, with the salutation and the complimentary close. headings and signatures have been omitted. dear sir: a statement is enclosed of your account, which is now past due. a remittance will be appreciated. yours truly, dear madam: we desire to call your attention again to your past-due account for the month of january for $ . , a statement of which was mailed to you several weeks ago. we shall appreciate receiving your check in payment of this account by return mail. very truly yours, gentlemen: two weeks ago we mailed you a statement of account due at that time, and as we have heard nothing from you we thought it possible that our letter may have miscarried. we are sending you a duplicate of the former statement, which we hope may reach you safely and have your attention. very truly yours, _to follow the preceding letter_ gentlemen: we call your attention to the enclosed statement of account which is now past due. we have sent you two statements previous to this, to which you seem to have given no attention. it may be possible that you have overlooked the matter, but we hope this will be a sufficient reminder and that you will oblige us with a remittance without further delay. very truly yours, dear sir: we are enclosing a statement of your account and we request as a special favor that you send us a remittance previous to the th of this month if possible. the amount is small, but not the less important. we have unusually heavy obligations maturing on the first of next month and you will understand that for the proper conduct of business the flow of credit should not be dammed up. in looking over your account for the last few months, it occurs to us that we are not getting a great deal of your business. if this is due to any failure or negligence on our part, perhaps you will undertake to show us where we are lacking because we surely want all of your business that we can get. very truly yours, _follow-up letters_ dear sir: we wrote you on th february and enclosed a statement of your account. we hoped at the time that you would send us a check by return mail. if our account does not agree with your books, kindly let us know at once so that we may promptly adjust the differences. we hope that you can accommodate us as requested in our previous letter and that we will hear from you by the th of march. we again assure you that a remittance at this particular time will be greatly appreciated. also please remember that we want your orders, too. prices on copper wire are likely to make a sharp advance within a few days. very truly yours, january , . dear sir: we are enclosing a statement showing the condition of your account at this writing, and we must ask you to be kind enough to do your utmost to forward us your check by return mail. our fiscal year closes january st and it is naturally our pride and endeavor to have as many accounts closed and in good standing as is possible for the coming year, and this can materialize only with your kind coöperation. very truly yours, letters of application _application for position as stenographer_ west th street, new york, n. y., april , . mr. b. c. kellerman, broad street, new york, n. y. dear sir: this may interest you: i can take dictation at an average rate of words a minute and i can read my notes. they are always accurate. if you will try me, you will find you do not have to repeat any dictation. i never misspell words. i am nineteen, a high school graduate, quick and accurate at figures. i have a good position now, uptown, but i should prefer to be with some large corporation downtown. i am interested in a position with room at the top. i am willing to work for $ a week until i have demonstrated my ability and then i know you will think me worth more. a letter or a telephone message will bring me in any morning you say to take your morning's dictation, write your letters, and leave the verdict to you. will you let me try? very truly yours, edith hoyt. telephone riverside _application for position as secretary_ east th street, chicago, ill., december , . mr. ralph hodge, boone & co., so. michigan ave., chicago, ill. dear sir: this is in answer to your advertisement for a secretary. i have had the experience and training which would, i think enable me satisfactorily to fill such a position. i recognize, of course, that whatever my experience and training have been they would be worse than useless unless they could be modified to suit your exact requirements. (here set out the experience.) the lowest salary i have ever received was twelve dollars a week, when i began work. the highest salary i have received was thirty dollars a week, but i think that it would be better to leave the salary matter open until it might be discovered whether i am worth anything or nothing. very truly yours, (miss) mary rogers. _answer to an advertisement from an applicant who has had no experience_ east rd street, chicago, ill. mr. ralph hodge, boone & co., so. michigan ave., chicago, ill. dear sir: this is in answer to your advertisement for a secretary, in which you ask that the experience of the applicant be set forth. i have had no experience whatsoever as a secretary. therefore, although i might have a great deal to learn, i should have nothing to unlearn. i understand what is expected of a secretary, and i hope that i have at least the initial qualifications. i have had a fair education, having graduated from central high school and the crawford business academy, and i have done a great deal of reading. i am told that i can write a good letter. i know that i can take any kind of dictation and that i can transcribe it accurately, and i have no difficulty in writing letters from skeleton suggestions. your advertisement does not give the particular sort of business that you are engaged in, but in the course of my reading i have gathered a working knowledge of economics, finance, business practice, and geography, some of which might be useful. i am writing this letter in spite of the fact that you specified that experience was necessary, because one of my friends, who is secretary to a very well-known corporation president, told me that she began in her present place quite without experience and found herself helped rather than handicapped by the lack of it. i am twenty-two years old and i can give you any personal or social references that you might care for. i have no ideas whatsoever on salary. in fact, it would be premature even to think of anything of the kind. what i am most anxious about is to have a talk with you. very truly yours, (miss) margaret booth. _applications for position as sales manager_ huntington ave., boston, mass. mr. henry jessup, white manufacturing co., milk street, columbus, o. dear sir: mr. a. c. brown of the bronson company tells me you are in immediate need of a sales manager for the western illinois territory. western illinois offers a promising opportunity for the sale of farm implements and devices. during my experience with the johnson & jones company, i got to know the people of this section very well, and i know how to approach them. the farmers are well-to-do and ready for improvements that will better their homes, lands, and stock. there could not be a better place to start. as mr. brown will tell you, i have been with the bronson company for five years. i started as clerk in the credit office, gradually working out into the field--first as investigator, then salesman, and for the last two years as sales manager of the western virginia territory. the returns from this field have increased per cent. since i began. with the hearty coöperation of the men on the road, i have built up a system about which i should like to tell you. it would work out splendidly selling defiance harrows in western illinois. my home is in joliet and i want to make my headquarters there. i have no other reason for quitting the bronson company, who are very fair as far as salary and advancement are considered. my telephone number is cherry . a wire or letter will bring me to columbus to talk with you. very truly yours, gerald barbour. blain ave., boston, mass., may , . mr. john force, beacon street, boston, mass. dear sir: this letter may be of some concern to you. i am not a man out of a job, but have what most men would consider one that is first-class. but i want to change, and if you can give me a little of your time, i will tell you why and how that fact may interest you. in a word, i have outgrown my present position. i want to get in touch with a business that is wide-awake and progressive; one that will permit me to work out, unhampered, my ideas on office organization and management--ideas that are well-founded, conservative, and efficient. my present position does not give play to initiative. if you at this time happen to be looking for a man really to manage your office, audit accounts, or take charge of credits, my qualifications and business record will show you that i am able to act in any or all of these capacities. i have written with confidence because i am sure of myself, and if i undertake to direct your work, you may be assured that it has a big chance of being successful. if you so desire, i shall be glad to submit references in a personal interview. very truly yours, clive drew. telephone winthrop -w _answers to letters of application_ harrison national bank trenton, n. j. february , . mr. james russell, state street, trenton, n. j. dear sir: i wish to acknowledge your letter of application of december th. at present we have no vacancies of the type you desire. i am, however, placing your application on file. very truly yours, samuel caldwell. harrison national bank trenton, n. j. february , . mr. james russell, state street, trenton, n. j. dear sir: i wish to acknowledge your letter of application of december th. at present we have no vacancies of the type that you desire. however, i should be very glad to have a talk with you on december th at my office at four o'clock. very truly yours, samuel caldwell. letters of reference _letter asking for reference_ walnut street, philadelphia, pa., may , . mr. william moyer, triumph hosiery co., broad street, philadelphia, pa. my dear mr. moyer: i am looking for a position as cashier with the bright weaving company. my duties there would be similar in every way to my work in your office, and a recommendation from you would help greatly. mr. sawyer, the first vice-president of the bright weaving company, knows you personally, hence an opinion from you would have particular effect. your kindness would be deeply appreciated, as have been all your kindnesses in the past. yours very sincerely, philip rockwell. a useful practice adopted by some firms is the requirement of a photograph from every applicant for a position. haddon iron works philadelphia, pa. _paste photograph of applicant here_ april , . b. f. harlow & co., paterson, n. j. dear sirs: philip smith (photo attached) has applied to us for a position as steamfitter. his application states that he has been in your employ for three years and that he is leaving to take a position in this city. as all applicants are required by us to furnish references as to character and ability, we shall appreciate your giving us the following information. very truly yours, (handwritten) _samuel sloane_, employment manager. is his statement correct? are his character and habits good? had he the confidence of his employers? can he fill the position for which he has applied? remarks: signed dated _some general letters of recommendation_ march , . to whom it may concern: i have known the bearer, john hope, for four years. he is of fine family and has been one of our most highly regarded young men. i would heartily recommend him. richard brown. april , . gentlemen: the bearer, george frothingham, is a young man of my acquaintance whom i know and whose family i have known for some time. they are splendid people. this boy is ambitious and thoroughly reliable. i hope you can find a place for him. very truly yours, gerald law. june , . to whom it may concern: this is to certify that the bearer, ernest hill, is an acquaintance of mine, a man whom i know to be thoroughly trustworthy. harold smith. july , . dear sir: this is to certify that joseph rance has been in my employ for eighteen months. he is a most willing and able worker, honest, steady, and faithful. i regret that i was obliged to let him go from my employ. i feel very safe in highly recommending him to you. very truly yours, george bunce. _recommendation for a special position_ harcourt manufacturing co. boylston street boston, mass. october , . mr. gordon edwards, tremont street, boston, mass. dear mr. edwards: at luncheon last wednesday you mentioned that you were in need of another advertising writer. if the position is still open, i should like to recommend mr. bruce walker. when i first met mr. walker he was with bellamy, sears & co., boston, and was doing most of their newspaper advertising. his work was so good that i offered him a position as advertising writer with us. he accepted, with the approval of bellamy sears & co., and has been with me for the last three years. he has written for us some of the best drawing copy that we ever used, and his work has been satisfactory in every way. he is original and modern in his advertising ideas, and knows how to express them forcefully but without exaggeration. his english is perfect. i shall greatly regret losing mr. walker, but i cannot advance him above his present position, and i agree with him that he is equal to a bigger position than he has here. i hope you can give him the opportunity that he seeks. if you will see him personally, you will oblige both him and me. very sincerely yours, b. a. yeomans. _thanks for recommendation_ kelley ave., cleveland, o., october , . mr. john saunders, jones publishing co., cleveland, o. my dear mr. saunders: your influence and kindly interest have secured for me the position with tully & clark. i want to thank you for the excellent recommendation which you gave me and to assure you that i shall give my best attention to my new work. very truly yours, john dillon. letters of introduction the method of delivering letters of introduction is fully described under social letters of introduction. _answer to a request for a letter of introduction_ grand ave., detroit, mich., august , . mr. albert hall, main street, detroit, mich. my dear mr. hall: accompanying this note you find letters of introduction which i hope will be what you want. i am glad to give you these letters and should you need any further assistance of this kind, please consider me at your disposal. yours truly, clement wilks. _general letters of introduction_ grand ave., detroit, mich., august , . this will introduce the bearer, mr. albert hall, whom i personally know as being a gentleman in conduct and reputation. any courtesy shown to mr. hall i shall consider a favor to myself, and i ask for him all possible attention and service. clement wilks. june , . to whom it may concern: the bearer, david clark, has been an acquaintance of mine for five years. he is a young man of good habits. i would recommend him for any position within his ability. ellery saunders. _special introduction_ (the inside address, heading, and signature are to be supplied) dear sir: mr. walter green, whom this will introduce to you, is a member of our credit department. he is visiting new york on a personal matter, but he has offered to make a personal investigation of the crump case and i have advised him to see you, as the man who knows most about that affair. if you can find the time to give him a brief interview, you will do him a favor, and i also shall appreciate it. yours very truly, __________________ vice-president. _introducing a stenographer in order to secure a position for her_ wall street, new york, n. y., february , . mr. william everett, madison avenue, new york, n. y. my dear mr. everett: the bearer of this letter, miss mildred bryan, my stenographer, is available for a position, owing to the fact that i am moving my office to cincinnati. she is an unusually competent young woman--quick, accurate, intelligent, and familiar with the routine of a law office. if you need a stenographer, you cannot do better than engage miss bryan, and i am taking the liberty of giving her this letter for you. very truly yours, howard s. briggs. letters of inquiry _requests for information_ bradford mills, pa., august , . dr. louis elliott, walnut street, philadelphia, pa. my dear dr. elliott: i am writing a paper on vitamines to be read before the mothers' club, an organization of bradford mills mothers. i have drawn most of my material from your article in the _medical magazine_, acknowledging, of course, the source of my information. there are several points, however, on which i am not clear. as it is of great importance that this subject be presented to the mothers correctly, i am addressing you personally to get the facts. . am i to understand that no other foods than those you mention contain these vitamines? . are all the classes of vitamines necessary to life and will a child fed on foods containing all the known vitamines be better conditioned than one fed on only one kind? i shall greatly appreciate your answering my questions. the members of the club have shown surprising interest in this matter of food. yours sincerely, mabel manners. east forty-sixth street, new york, n. y., june , . the prentiss candy co., long island city, n. y. gentlemen: the _better food magazine_, to which i am a contributor, has asked me to make an investigation of the manufacture of the most widely advertised foods, with a view to writing an article on foods for the magazine. i should like if possible to talk with someone and to make a short visit to the factory. if you can arrange an appointment for me during the next week, will you let me know? i shall greatly appreciate it. very truly yours, (miss) vera henderson. _answers to letters of inquiry_ the prentiss candy co. long island city, n. y. june , . miss vera henderson, east forty-sixth street, new york, n. y. dear madam: we have your letter of th june and we shall be glad to give you any assistance in our power. if you will call at the factory office next week on tuesday the nd or wednesday the rd and present the enclosed card to mr. jones, you will get all the information you desire. very truly yours, (handwritten) _b. j. clark_, the prentiss candy co. pine grove lodge, stanton, n. y. absolutely fireproof open all the year the finest resort hotel in the country may , . mr. charles keith, madison ave., new york, n. y. dear sir: we have your letter of may th and in answer we are enclosing some of our descriptive literature. we can offer you absolute comfort together with an almost matchless environment in the points of beauty and of suitability for all sports. our rates are on the american plan. we have the finest american plan kitchen and table anywhere. we enclose a menu. our single rooms with private bath are $ , $ , and $ per week up for one person. rooms without bath, but with hot and cold running water and adjacent to bath are $ per week. double rooms with private bath and furnished with two single beds are $ , $ , and $ per week up for two persons. rooms for two without bath are $ per week. these rates hold until september st. the difference in rates is caused by the size and location of rooms, but every room is furnished with taste and care. the decorations have been carefully thought out. there are no undesirable rooms at the lodge and every room is an outside room. those on the east overlook the -acre golf course with a magnificent view of the mountains, and those on the west front the wooded slopes of sunset mountain. stanton affords the greatest combination of scenery, health-giving climate, and facilities for enjoyment. add to this the comforts and luxuries of a modern hotel such as pine grove lodge and the result is perfect. we feel quite sure you will find a visit here restful or lively--as you will. one of the attractions of the place is its facilities for occupying oneself in one's own way. we shall be glad to make reservation for you at any time or to answer any further inquiries. yours very truly, pine grove lodge. if you should receive an inquiry for advice, opinion, or information, which you do not care, for some reason, to give, you should at least reply stating that you cannot comply with the request, in as courteous a manner as possible. chapter viii the use of form paragraphs a considerable part of the day's run of correspondence in a business office has to do with not more than half-a-dozen subjects. quotations will be asked for. tenders will be made. complaints will be made and received. adjustments of various kinds will be done, and so on, through a list that varies with the particular business of the office. it is advisable to keep the tone of correspondence on a fairly uniform level. therefore if each letter has to be individually dictated, only a man mentally equipped to write letters can do the dictating. the time of such a man is expensive and often might better be devoted to other matters. hence the invention of what is known as a form paragraph, which is a standardized paragraph that can be used with slight variations as a section of a great many letters. the result is that most routine mail does not have to be dictated. a letter is merely read, the essential facts dictated or noted on the letter itself, and certain symbols added which tell the stenographer the form paragraphs that are to be used. the letter is then almost mechanically produced. some companies have gone so extensively into the writing of form paragraphs that they have sections covering practically every subject that can arise. this possibly carrying the idea too far. convenience may become inconvenience, and there is of course always the danger of getting in a slightly unsuitable paragraph which will reveal to the reader that the letter has not been personally dictated. however, a certain number of form paragraphs considerably reduces the cost of letter writing and also conduces to the raising of the standards, for the mere reading of well-phrased form letters will often induce in an otherwise poor correspondent a certain regard for clear expression. the proper form paragraphs that any concern may profitably use are a matter of specific investigation. the way to get at the list of useful forms is to take all of the letters received and all of the letters written during, say, one or two months and then classify them. a number of letters will have to do with purely individual cases. these letters should be discarded. they are letters which would have to be personally dictated in any event and there is no use wasting time composing forms for them. the remaining letters will fall into divisions, and through these divisions it will become apparent what points in the correspondence arise so frequently and in so nearly the same form as to be capable of being expressed in form paragraphs. there will probably be a number of subjects which can be covered fully by two or three form letters, but a nicer adjustment will usually be had by thinking of form paragraphs rather than of form letters, for skillfully drawn and skillfully used form paragraphs will so closely simulate the personal letter as to leave no doubt in the mind of the reader that considerable trouble has been taken to put the matter before him courteously and exactly. chapter ix children's letters children's letters may be written on ordinary stationery, but it adds a good deal of interest to their letter writing if they may use some of the several pretty, special styles to be had at any good stationer's. the following examples of children's letters include: letter of invitation from a child to a child. letter of invitation from a parent to a child. letter from a parent to a parent inviting a child. letter of thanks to an aunt for a gift. letter to a sick playmate. letter to a teacher. letter to a grandmother on her birthday. _invitation to a birthday party_ april , . dear frank: i am going to have a birthday party next friday afternoon, from three-thirty until six o'clock. i hope you will come and help us to have a good time. sincerely yours, harriet evans. park avenue _accepting_ manhattan avenue, april , . dear harriet: it is so kind of you to ask me to your birthday party next friday afternoon. i shall be very glad to come. sincerely yours, frank dawson. _regretting_ manhattan avenue, april , . dear harriet: i am very sorry that i cannot go to your birthday party on next friday. my mother is taking me to visit my cousin, so i shall be away. thank you for asking me. i hope you will all have a great deal of fun. sincerely yours, frank dawson. _invitation from a parent to a child_ dear ethel: the twins are going to have a little party on friday afternoon and they would like you to come. can you come at three-thirty? tell your mother we will arrange that you get home at six. cordially yours, katherine g. evans. _from a parent to another parent_ dear mrs. heywood: dorothy will have a birthday on tuesday, the thirteenth of june. we are planning, if the weather is fine, to have a lawn party. otherwise we shall have it in the house. she hopes that you will let madeline come and i am sure they will all have a good time. if you send madeline at four i will see that she returns home at six. cordially yours, bernice lawson grant. _to a friend_ bellville, lancaster county, pa., june , . dear bob: will you visit us on the farm during your summer vacation? father has bought me a boat and we can go fishing and swimming. mabel has a pony and i know she will let us ride him. please let me know if you may come and if you may stay two weeks. sincerely yours, roger palmer. _thanks for a gift:_ west tenth street. december , . dear aunt louise: you were wonderful to think of sending me those fine skates for my birthday. they are just the kind i wanted and i wish to thank you. i shall take good care of them. your affectionate nephew, john orr. _to a sick playmate_ elmwood avenue, june , . dear dorothy: i am so sorry you are ill, but your mother says you are getting better. if you like, i shall let you have my book with the poem called "the land of counterpane." it is about a sick little boy who is playing with his toy soldiers and people and villages. in the picture they seem to be making him forget he is sick. all the boys and girls hope you will soon be out to play again. sincerely yours, betty foster. _to a teacher_ park avenue, new york, n. y., february , . dear miss sewell: i want to thank you for your kindness in helping me with my studies, especially arithmetic. without your help i should not have been able to pass my examinations. mother asks that you will come some day next week to take tea with us. sincerely yours, susan evans. _to a grandparent_ dear grandmother: i wish you a very happy birthday and i hope you will like the present i sent you. mother helped me to make it. i send you my best love. your loving grandchild, evelyn. here is a charming letter[ ] that helen keller when she was ten years of age wrote to john greenleaf whittier on the occasion of his birthday: south boston, dec. , . dear kind poet, this is your birthday; that was the first thought which came into my mind when i awoke this morning; and it made me glad to think i could write you a letter and tell you how much your little friends love their sweet poet and his birthday. this evening they are going to entertain their friends with readings from your poems and music. i hope the swift winged messengers of love will be here to carry some of the sweet melody to you, in your little study by the merrimac. at first i was very sorry when i found that the sun had hidden his shining face behind dull clouds, but afterwards i thought why he did it, and then i was happy. the sun knows that you like to see the world covered with beautiful white snow and so he kept back all his brightness, and let the little crystals form in the sky. when they are ready, they will softly fall and tenderly cover every object. then the sun will appear in all his radiance and fill the world with light. if i were with you to-day i would give you eighty-three kisses, one for each year you have lived. eighty-three years seems very long to me. does it seem long to you? i wonder how many years there will be in eternity. i am afraid i cannot think about so much time. i received the letter which you wrote to me last summer, and i thank you for it. i am staying in boston now at the institution for the blind, but i have not commenced my studies yet, because my dearest friend, mr. anagnos, wants me to rest and play a great deal. teacher is well and sends her kind remembrance to you. the happy christmas time is almost here! i can hardly wait for the fun to begin! i hope your christmas day will be a very happy one and that the new year will be full of brightness and joy for you and every one. from your little friend helen a. keller. [ ] this and the letter following are from "the story of my life," by helen keller. copyright, , , by helen keller. published in book form by doubleday, page & co. and the distinguished poet's reply: my dear young friend: i was very glad to have such a pleasant letter on my birthday. i had two or three hundred others and thine was one of the most welcome of all. i must tell thee about how the day passed at oak knoll. of course the sun did not shine, but we had great open wood fires in the rooms, which were all very sweet with roses and other flowers, which were sent to me from distant friends; and fruits of all kinds from california and other places. some relatives and dear old friends were with me through the day. i do not wonder thee thinks eighty-three years a long time, but to me it seems but a very little while since i was a boy no older than thee, playing on the old farm at haverhill. i thank thee for all thy good wishes, and wish thee as many. i am glad thee is at the institution; it is an excellent place. give my best regards to miss sullivan, and with a great deal of love i am thy old friend, john g. whittier. chapter x telegrams perhaps the most important thing to guard against in the writing of telegrams is a choice of words which, when run together, may be read two ways. as there should be no punctuation (and telegraph companies do not hold themselves responsible for punctuation) the sentences must be perfectly clear. there are instances where the use of punctuation has caused trouble. in cases where punctuation is absolutely necessary, as for instance when more than one subject must be covered in the same message, the word "stop" is employed to divide the sentences, as: will arrive eight-thirty wednesday stop telephone gaines am coming stop will be at hotel pennsylvania therefore write sentences so that when they are run together there is only one interpretation. use no salutation or complimentary closing. leave out all words that are not necessary to the meaning. omit first-person pronouns where they are sure to be understood. do not divide words in a telegram. compound words are accepted as one word. numbers should be spelled out, principally because it is more likely to insure correct transmission, and secondly because it costs less. for example, in the ordinal th the suffix _th_ is counted as another word. the minimum charge for telegrams is the cost of ten words, not counting the name, address, and signature. nothing is saved by cutting the message to less than ten words. there is a certain fixed rate of charge for every word over ten. in counting the words, count as one word the following: i--every word in the name of an individual or a concern as: clive and meyer co. (four words) deforest and washburn co. (four words also, as deforest is counted as one word). ii--every dictionary word. in the case of cablegrams, words of over fifteen letters are counted as two words. iii--every separate letter as the "m" in "george m. sykes" (three words). iv--every figure in a number as (three words). v--names of states, territories, counties, cities, and villages. vi--weights and measures, decimal points, punctuation marks within the sentence. to save expense in long messages codes can be used in which one word stands for several words. the western union has an established code--or private codes can be arranged. five letters are allowed as one code word. a word of six or seven letters will thus count as two words. in cablegrams the use of codes is common on account of the higher rate for cablegrams. since the name, address, date, and signature are all counted, code words are frequently used for the name and address. code language is allowed only in the first class of cable messages. occasional telegrams a graceful, concise, pertinent, and well-worded "occasional" telegram is frequently not easy to write. the following forms are suggested for the composition of some of these telegrams. the longer forms can be sent most cheaply as night letters or day letters. a night letter of fifty words can be sent for the cost of a ten-word full-rate telegram, i.e., from cents to $ . , depending on the distance. a day letter of fifty words can be sent for one and one half the cost of a ten-word full-rate message, i.e., from cents to $ . , depending on the distance. _new year greetings_ best wishes for the new year. may it bring to you and your family health, happiness, peace, and prosperity. may it see your hopes fulfilled and may it be rich in the successful accomplishment of your highest aims. best wishes for a happy new year. may peace and happiness be yours in the new year. may fortune smile upon you and favor you with many blessings. i (we) wish you a happy new year, a year big with success and achievement, a year rich with the affection of those who are dear to you, a year mellow with happiness and contentment. what the coming year may hold we can none of us foresee. it is my (our) earnest wish that for you it may bring forth a generous harvest of happiness and good fortune. may the coming year and all that succeed it deal lightly and kindly with you. may the coming year bring you happiness in fullest measure. we think of you with the affection born of our long friendship which the recurring year only strengthens. may the new year bring you health, happiness, and all other good things. health, happiness, and contentment, may these be yours in the new year. may health, happiness, and prosperity be yours in bountiful measure in the year to come. may the new year be a good year to you and yours--full of health and happiness. may each of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the new year be a happy one for you. the happiest of new years to you and yours. may the new year find you in the enjoyment of health and happiness. _easter greetings_ our thoughts turn to you with affection and best wishes at this easter season with the hope that peace, prosperity, and plenty may attend your life to-day and through all your days to come. easter greeting from a friend who thinks of you with constant affection. this easter greeting carries to you the affection of an old friend. may this easter day find you in the enjoyment of health and happiness. best wishes for a happy easter. best wishes for a happy easter day. may your future ever be as bright as the springtime. just a message to a friend, to convey to you my wish that this easter may bring you happiness and good fortune. may easter gladness fill your heart to-day and may all good attend you. i (we) wish you joy and happiness at this eastertide. may happiness and health be yours on this easter day and in the days to come. we all join in best wishes for a happy easter day to you and your family. easter greetings to you and yours. may your easter be a bright and happy one. we all wish you and yours a happy easter. love and best wishes for a happy easter. my (our) easter greetings go to you. may the day be a joyful one for you. _thanksgiving day greetings_ best wishes for a happy thanksgiving day. good cheer and plenty, the love of your dear ones, the affection of your friends, may all these contribute to a happy thanksgiving day. may your thanksgiving day be a day of happiness and contentment. may your thanksgiving day be full of happiness and all good cheer. that i am (we are) not at home to-day to join in the festivities is a great sorrow to me (us). love to all the dear family. i never forget the joy of this day at home. love from one far away. although i (we) cannot be with you to-day i (we) have the memory of past thanksgiving days at home. god bless you all. think of me (us) as being with you in spirit. my (our) love to you all. let us never fail to be thankful that the years only increase the strength of our long friendship. it is with great thanksgiving that i (we) think of my (our) dear ones at home. my (our) one wish this thanksgiving day is that i (we) might be with you. affectionate wishes for your happiness. though i (we) cannot be with you at the thanksgiving day board, my (our) thoughts are with you to-day. around the family table think of me (us) as i (we) absent, shall think of you. my (our) love to all. i (we) can picture you all at home. how i (we) long to be with you. my (our) love to all the family. _christmas greetings_ every good wish for a merry christmas and a happy and prosperous new year. i need not tell you with what affection we are thinking of you and yours at this christmas season. god bless you all. every good wish for a merry christmas and a happy and prosperous new year. my (our) very best wishes for a merry christmas. merry christmas to you and yours. may your christmas be a very happy one. merry christmas to you and all the family. we all join in wishing you a merry christmas. all affection and good wishes for a merry christmas to you and yours. that your christmas be a very happy one is the wish of your sincere friend. may christmas bring you joy and happiness. you are constantly in my (our) thoughts which carry to you to-day all affectionate wishes for a happy christmas. a merry christmas and a happy new year. best wishes for a merry christmas and happy new year. love and a merry christmas to you all. may your christmas be a merry one and the new year full of happiness. affectionate greetings for a merry christmas and a happy new year. may this christmas find you well and happy. love and best wishes to you and yours. may christmas bring you naught but joy and banish all care and sorrow. ---- joins me in very best wishes for a merry christmas. a merry christmas to all the dear ones at home. it is my (our) dearest wish that i (we) might be with you at this season of happiness and good-will--merry christmas and happy new year. _birthday greetings_ many happy returns of the day. my (our) affectionate thoughts and every good wish go to you on this your birthday. may each succeeding year bring to you the best satisfaction which life holds. many happy returns of the day. best wishes for a happy birthday. best wishes for your birthday. may all your ways be pleasant ways and all your days be happy days. birthday greetings. i (we) wish you a long life and everything that makes a long life worth living. best wishes for your birthday. may you live long and prosper. my (our) thoughts are with you on your birthday. may all your days be happy days. i (we) wish you many happy years blessed with health, success, and friendship and filled with all the best that life can hold. we all join in best wishes for a very happy birthday and many years of health and prosperity. we all join in best wishes for a very happy birthday. may your birthday mark the dawn of a year of health, happiness, and good fortune. _wedding messages_ sincerest congratulations to the bride and groom from an old friend who wishes you both years of health, happiness, and prosperity. may the future hold only the best for you that this world can give. heartiest congratulations. i (we) wish you many years of happiness. mrs. ---- and i join in heartiest congratulations. hearty congratulations. may your years be many and happy ones. my (our) sincerest and best wishes for your happiness. we all join in hearty congratulations and best wishes. may happiness, health, and prosperity be with you through the years to come. may all good fortune attend you, may your sky ever be bright, may no clouds of sorrow or trouble shadow it, and may your path be long and filled with joy. every happiness be yours dear ---- on this your wedding day. let an old family friend send his (her) love and congratulations to the bride and groom. may all good fairies watch over you. may they keep far from you all care and sorrow and brighten your path with sunshine and happiness. to the bride and groom, love and congratulations from an old friend. may this day be the beginning of a long, happy, and prosperous life for you both. _on the birth of a child_ love to the dear mother and her little son (daughter). heartiest congratulations and love to mother and son (daughter). we rejoice with you in the happiness that has come into your lives. love to mother and son (daughter). my best wishes to the newly arrived son (daughter) and to his (her) mother. we are all (i am) delighted to hear the news. hearty congratulations. a warm welcome to the new arrival and best wishes for his (her) health and happiness. to the dear mother and her little son (daughter) love and every good wish. hearty congratulations on the arrival of the new son (daughter). _messages of condolence_ you have my heartfelt sympathy in this hour of your bereavement. i wish i might find words in which to express my sorrow at your loss which is also mine. may you have the strength to bear this great affliction. you have my (our) heartfelt sympathy. my (our) heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow. i (we) want you to know with what tender sympathy i am (we are) thinking of you in these days of your bereavement. my (our) sincere and heartfelt sympathy. i (we) have just heard of your great affliction. let me (us) send to you my (our) heartfelt sympathy. my (our) sincere sympathy. in the death of your dear father (mother--wife--sister--brother) i (we) have lost one whom it was my (our) privilege to call my (our) friend. my (our) heartfelt sympathy goes out to you in your sorrow. ---- joins me in the expression of our deepest sympathy. my (our) love and sympathy go out to you in your great sorrow. i (we) share your sorrow for i (we) have lost a dear friend. all love and sympathy to you and yours. i (we) send you my (our) heartfelt sympathy. to have enjoyed the friendship of your father (husband--brother) i (we) hold one of the greatest privileges of my life (our lives). my (our) sincere sympathy goes out to you in your heavy affliction. my (our) love and sympathy in your sudden affliction. i am (we are) greatly shocked at the sad news. you have my (our) deepest sympathy. my (our) deepest sympathy in your great loss. if there is anything i (we) can do, do not hesitate to let me (us) know. _congratulation to a school or college graduate_ may your future be as successful as have been your school (college) days. heartiest congratulations upon your graduation. i am (we are) proud of your success. may the future grant you opportunity and the fulfillment of your hopes. i (we) hear that you have taken class honors. sincerest congratulations and best wishes. may your class day be favored with sunny skies and your life be full of happiness and success. sincerest congratulations upon your graduation. congratulations upon your school (college) success, so happily terminated to-day. i (we) regret that i (we) cannot be with you to-day to see you take your new honors. sincerest congratulations. _congratulation to a public man_ heartiest congratulations on your splendid success. we have just heard of your success. sincere congratulations and best wishes for the future. heartiest congratulations on your nomination (election). your nomination (election) testifies to the esteem in which you are held by your fellow citizens. heartiest congratulations. congratulations on your victory, a hard fight, well won by the best man. your splendid majority must be a great satisfaction to you. sincerest congratulations on your election. congratulations upon your nomination. you will have the support of the best element in the community and your election should be a foregone conclusion. i wish you every success. you fought a good fight in a good cause. heartiest congratulations on your splendid success. nothing in your career should fill you with greater satisfaction than your successful election. i congratulate you with all my heart. no man deserves success more than you. you have worked hard for your constituents and they appreciate it. heartiest congratulations. your nomination (election) is received with the greatest enthusiasm by your friends here and by none more than myself. heartiest congratulations. i congratulate you upon your new honors won by distinguished services to your fellow citizens. your campaign was vigorous and fine. your victory testifies to the people's confidence in you and your cause. warmest congratulations. congratulations upon your well-won victory and best wishes for your future success. you deserve your splendid success. sincerest congratulations. i cannot refrain from expressing my personal appreciation of your eloquent address. warmest congratulations. your address last night was splendid. what a gift you have. sincerest congratulations. heartiest congratulations on your splendid speech of last night. everybody is praising it. chapter xi the law of letters--contract letters there are forty-eight states in this union, and each of them has its own laws and courts. in addition we have the federal government with its own laws and courts. in one class of cases, the federal courts follow the state laws which govern the particular occasion; in another class of cases, notably in those involving the interpretation or application of the united states statutes, the federal courts follow federal law. there is not even a degree of uniformity governing the state laws, and especially is this true in criminal actions, for crimes are purely statutory creations. therefore it is extremely misleading to give any but the vaguest and most elementary suggestions on the law which governs letters. to be clear and specific means inevitably to be misleading. i was talking with a lawyer friend not long since about general text-books on law which might be useful to the layman. he was rather a commercially minded person and he spoke fervently: "if i wanted to build up a practice and i did not care how i did it, i should select one hundred well-to-do people and see that each of them got a copy of a compendium of business law. then i should sit back and wait for them to come in--and come in they would, for every mother's son of them would decide that he had a knowledge of the law and cheerfully go ahead getting himself into trouble." sharpen up a man's knowledge of the law and he is sure to cut himself. for the law is rarely absolute. most questions are of mixed fact and law. were it otherwise, there would be no occasion for juries, for, roughly, juries decide facts. the court decides the application of the law. the layman tends to think that laws are rules, when more often they are only guides. the cheapest and best way to decide points of law is to refer them to counsel for decision. unless a layman will take the time and the trouble most exhaustively to read works of law and gain something in the nature of a working legal knowledge, he had best take for granted that he knows nothing whatsoever of law and refer all legal matters to counsel. there are, however, a few principles of general application that may serve, not in the stead of legal knowledge, but to acquaint one with the fact that a legal question may be involved, for legal questions by no means always formally present themselves in barristers' gowns. they spring up casually and unexpectedly. take the whole question of contract. a contract is not of necessity a formal instrument. a contract is a meeting of minds. if i say to a man: "will you cut my lawn for ten dollars?" and he answers, "yes," as valid a contract is established as though we had gone to a scrivener and had covered a folio of parchment with "whereases" and "know all men by these presents" and "be it therefore" and had wound up with red seals and ribbons. but of course many legal questions could spring out of this oral agreement. we might dispute as to what was meant by cutting the lawn. and then, again, the time element would enter. was the agreement that the lawn should be cut the next day, or the next month, or the next year? contracts do not have to be in writing. all that the writing does is to make the proof of the exact contract easier. if we have the entirety of a contract within the four corners of a sheet of paper, then we need no further evidence as to the existence of the contract, although we may be in just as hopeless a mess trying to define what the words of the contract mean. if we have not a written contract, we have the bother of introducing oral evidence to show that there was a contract. most contracts nowadays are formed by the interchange of letters, and the general point to remember is that the acceptance must be in terms of the offer. if x writes saying: "i will sell you twenty tons of coal at fifteen dollars a ton," and y replies: "i will take thirty tons of coal at thirteen dollars a ton," there is no contract, but merely a series of offers. if, however, x ships the thirty tons of coal, he can hold y only at thirteen dollars a ton for he has abandoned his original offer and accepted y's offer. it can be taken as a general principle that if an offer be not accepted in its terms and a new condition be introduced, then the acceptance really becomes an offer, and if the one who made the original offer goes ahead, it can be assumed that he has agreed to the modifications of the unresponsive acceptance. if x writes to y making an offer, one of the conditions of which is that it must be accepted within ten days, and y accepts in fifteen days, then x can, if he likes, disregard the acceptance, but he can waive his ten-day time limit and take y's acceptance as a really binding agreement. another point, sometimes of considerable importance, concerns the time when a letter takes effect, and this is governed by the question of fact as to whom the post office department is acting for. if, in making an offer, i ask for a reply by mail or simply for a reply, i constitute the mail as my agent, and the acceptor of that offer will be presumed to have communicated with me at the moment when he consigns his letter to the mails. he must give the letter into proper custody--that is, it must go into the regular and authorized channels for the reception of mail. that done, it makes no difference whether or not the letter ever reaches the offerer. it has been delivered to his agent, and delivery to an agent is delivery to the principal. therefore, it is wise to specify in an offer that the acceptance has to be actually received. the law with respect to the agency of the mails varies and turns principally upon questions of fact. letters may, of course, be libelous. the law of libel varies widely among the several states, and there are also federal laws as well as postal regulations covering matters which are akin to libel. the answer to libel is truth, but not always, for sometimes the truth may be spread with so malicious an intent as to support an action. it is not well to put into a letter any derogatory or subversive statement that cannot be fully proved. this becomes of particular importance in answering inquiries concerning character or credit, but in practically every case libel is a question of fact. another point that arises concerns the property in a letter. does he who receives a letter acquire full property in it? may he publish it without permission? in general he does not acquire full property. mr. justice story, in a leading case, says: "the author of any letter or letters, and his representatives, whether they are literary letters or letters of business, possess the sole and exclusive copyright therein; and no person, neither those to whom they are addressed, nor other persons, have any right or authority to publish the same upon their own account or for their benefit." but then, again, there are exceptions. chapter xii the cost of a letter discovering the exact cost of a letter is by no means an easy affair. however, approximate figures may always be had and they are extremely useful. the cost of writing an ordinary letter is quite surprising. very few letters can be dictated, transcribed, and mailed at a cost of much less than twelve cents each. the factors which govern costs are variable and it is to be borne in mind that the methods for ascertaining costs as here given represent the least cost and not the real cost--they simply tell you "your letter costs at least this sum." they do not say "your letter costs exactly this sum." the cost of a form letter, mailed in quantities, can be gotten at with considerable accuracy. the cost of letters dictated by correspondents or by credit departments or other routine departments is also capable of approximation with fair accuracy, but the cost of a letter written by an executive can really hardly be more than guessed at. but in any case a "not-less-than" cost can be had. in recent years industrial engineers have done a great deal of work in ascertaining office costs and have devised many useful plans for lowering them. these plans mostly go to the saving of stenographers' time through suitable equipment, better arrangement of supplies, and specialization of duties. for instance, light, the kind or height of chair or desk, the tension of the typewriter, the location of the paper and carbon paper, all tend to make or break the efficiency of the typist and are cost factors. in offices where a great deal of routine mail is handled, the writing of the envelopes and the mailing is in the hands of a separate department of specialists with sealing and stamp affixing machines. the proper planning of a correspondence department is a science in itself, and several good books exist on the subject. but all of this has to do with the routine letter. when an executive drawing a high salary must write a letter, it is his time and not the time of the stenographer that counts. he cannot be kept waiting for a stenographer, and hence it is economy for him to have a personal secretary even if he does not write enough letters to keep a single machine busy through more than a fraction of a day. many busy men do not dictate letters at all; they have secretaries skilled in letter writing. in fact, a man whose salary exceeds thirty thousand dollars a year cannot afford to write a letter excepting on a very important subject. he will commonly have a secretary who can write the letter after only a word or two indicating the subject matter. part of the qualification of a good secretary is an ability to compose letters which are characteristic of the principal. take first the cost of a circular letter--one that is sent out in quantities without any effort to secure a personal effect. the items of cost are: ( ) the postage. ( ) the paper and printing. ( ) the cost of addressing, sealing, stamping, and mailing. the third item is the only one that offers any difficulty. included in it are first the direct labor--the wages of the human beings employed; and, second, the overhead expense. the second item includes the value of the space occupied by the letter force, the depreciation on the equipment, and finally the supervision and the executive expense properly chargeable to the department. unless an accurate cost system is in force the third item cannot be accurately calculated. the best that can be done is to take the salaries of the people actually employed on the work and guess at the proper charge for the space. the sum of the three items divided by the number of letters is the cost per letter. it is not an accurate cost. it will be low rather than high, for probably the full share of overhead expense will not be charged. it will be obvious, however, that the place to send out circular letters is not a room in a high-priced office building, unless the sending is an occasional rather than a steady practice. costs in this work are cut by better planning of the work and facilities, setting work standards, paying a bonus in excess of the standards, and by the introduction of automatic machinery. the post office now permits, under certain conditions, the use of a machine which prints a stamp that is really a frank. this is now being used very generally by concerns which have a heavy outgoing mail. then there are sealing machines, work conveyors, and numerous other mechanical and physical arrangements which operate to reduce the costs. they are useful, however, only if the output be very large indeed. the personally dictated letter has these costs: ( ) the postage. ( ) the stationery. ( ) the dictator's time--both in dictating and signing. ( ) the stenographer's time. ( ) the direct overhead expense, which includes the space occupied, the supervision, the executive overhead, and like items. the troublesome items here are numbers three and five. if the dictator is a correspondent then the calculation of how much it costs him to dictate a letter is his salary plus the overhead on the space that he occupies, divided by the number of letters that he writes in an average month. it takes him longer to write a long than a short letter, but routine letters will average fairly over a period of a month. but an executive who writes only letters that cannot be written by correspondents or lower salaried men commonly does so many other things in the course of a day that although his average time of dictation per letter may be ascertained and a cost gotten at, the figure will not be a true cost, for the dictation of an important letter comes only after a consideration of the subject matter which commonly takes much longer than the actual dictation. and then, again, the higher executive is usually an erratic letter writer--he may take two minutes or twenty minutes over an ordinary ten-line letter. some men read their letters very carefully after transcription. the cost of this must also be reckoned in. the cost of any letter is therefore a matter of the particular office. it will vary from six or seven cents for a letter made up of form paragraphs to three or four dollars for a letter written by a high-salaried president of a large corporation. a fair average cost for a personally dictated letter written on good paper is computed by one of the leading paper manufacturers, after a considerable survey to be: postage . printing letterheads and envelopes . stenographic wages ( letters per day, $ . per week) . office overhead . paper and envelopes . ------ $. the above does not include the expense of dictation. it will pay any man who writes a considerable number of letters to discover what his costs are--and then make his letters so effective that there will be fewer of them. chapter xiii stationery, crests and monograms social correspondence for all social correspondence use plain sheets of paper, without lines, of white or cream, or perhaps light gray or a very dull blue. but white or cream is the safest. select a good quality. either a smooth vellum finish or a rough linen finish is correct. for long letters there is the large sheet, about five by six and one half inches, or it may be even larger. there is a somewhat smaller size, about four and one half by five and one half or six inches for formal notes, and a still smaller size for a few words of congratulation or condolence. the social note must be arranged so as to be contained on the first page only. a man should not, for his social correspondence, use office or hotel stationery. his social stationery should be of a large size. envelopes may be either square or oblong. in the matter of perfumed stationery, if perfume is used at all, it must be very delicate. strong perfumes or perfumes of a pronounced type have a distinctly unpleasant effect on many people. it is better form to use none. [illustration: specimens of addressed social stationery] [illustration: specimens of addressed social stationery. (the first specimen is business stationery in social form)] an inviolable rule is to use black ink. the most approved forms of letter and notepaper (although the use of addressed paper is not at all obligatory and it is perfectly proper to use plain paper) have the address stamped in roman or gothic lettering at the top of the sheet in the centre or at the right-hand side about three quarters of an inch from the top. the color used may be black, white, dark blue, dark green, silver, or gold. country houses, where there are frequent visitors, have adopted the custom of placing the address at the upper right and the telephone, railroad station, and post office at the left. the address may also appear on the reverse flap of the envelope. crests and monograms are not used when the address is engraved at the top of a letter sheet. obviously the crowding of address and crest or monogram would not be conducive to good appearance in the letter. a monogram, originally a cipher consisting of a single letter, is a design of two or more letters intertwined. it is defined as a character of several letters in one, or made to appear as one. the letters may be all the letters of a name, or the initial letters of the christian and surnames. [illustration: the monograms in the best taste are the small round ones, but many pleasing designs may be had in the diamond, square, and oblong shape] [illustration: specimens of crested letter and notepaper] many of the early greek and roman coins bear the monograms of rulers or of the town in which they were struck. the middle ages saw the invention of all sorts of ciphers or monograms, artistic, commercial, and ecclesiastical. every great personage had his monogram. the merchants used them, the "merchant's mark" being the merchant's initials mingled with a private device and almost invariably a cross, as a protection against disaster or to distinguish their wares from those of mohammedan eastern traders. early printers used monograms, and they serve to identify early printed books. a famous monogram is the interlaced "h.d." of henry ii and diane de poitiers. it appeared lavishly upon every building which henry ii erected. it was also stamped on the bindings in the royal library, with the bow, the quiver, and the crescent of diana. monograms and crests on stationery, after a period of disuse, seem to be coming into favor again. the monograms in the best taste are the small round ones, though very pleasing designs may be had in the diamond, square, and oblong shapes. they should not be elaborate, and no brilliant colors should be used. the stamping is best done in black, white, dark green, dark blue, gold, or silver. the crest or monogram may be placed in the centre of the sheet or on the left-hand side about three quarters of an inch from the top. the address may be in the centre or at the right-hand side. but, as noted above, to use both addressed and monogrammed or crested paper is not good taste. the best stationery seems to run simply to addressed paper. crests and monograms should not be used on the envelope. in the matter of crests and heraldic emblems on stationery and announcements, many families with authentic crests discontinued their use during the war in an effort to reduce everything to the last word in simplicity. however, there are many who still use them. the best engravers will not design crests for families without the right to use them. but the extreme in "crests" is the crest which does not mean family at all, but is a device supposed to give an idea of the art or taste of the individual. for example, a quill or a scroll may be the basis for such a "crest." really no good reason exists why, in default of a family with a crest, one should not decide to be a crest founder. the only point is that the crest should not pretend to be something it is not--a hereditary affair. [illustration: specimens of monogrammed stationery] [illustration: specimens of business letterheads] on the use of crests in stationery one authority says: as to the important question of crests and heraldic emblems in our present-day stationery, these are being widely used, but no crests are made to order where the family itself has none. only such crests as definitely belong to the family are ever engraved on notepaper, cards, or any new style of place cards. several stationers maintain special departments where crests are looked up and authenticated and such families as are found in fairbairn's crests, burke's peerage, almanche de gotha, the armoire général, are utilized to help in the establishment of the armorial bearing of american families. of course, the college of heraldry is always available where the american family can trace its ancestors to great britain. many individuals use the coat-of-arms of their mothers, but according to heraldry they really have no right to do so. the woman to-day could use her father's and husband's crests together if the crests are properly in pale, that is, if a horizontal line be drawn to cut the shield in two--the husband's on the left, the father's on the right. if the son wants to use the father's and mother's crest, this must be quartered to conform to rule, the arms of the father to be in the first and fourth quarter; that of the mother in the second and third quarter. the daughter is not supposed to use a coat-of-arms except in lozenge form. the dinner card that reflects the most refined and modern type of usage is a card of visiting card size, with a coat-of-arms in gold and gilt border, on real parchment. these cards are hand-lettered and used as place cards for dinner parties. the use of sealing wax is optional, though a good rule to follow is not to use it unless it is necessary. the wax may be any dark color on white, cream, or light gray paper. black wax is used with mourning stationery. the best place to stamp a seal is the centre of the flap. it should not be done at all if it cannot be accomplished neatly. the crest or monogram should be quickly and firmly impressed into the hot wax. in selecting stationery it is a good plan to adhere to a single style, provided of course that a good choice of paper and stamping has been made. the style will become as characteristic of you as your handwriting. distinction can be had in quiet refinement of line and color. the use of the typewriter for social correspondence has some authority--though most of us will want to keep to the old custom of pen and ink. in case this should be employed for some good reason, the letter must be placed in the centre of the page with all four margins left wide. of course the signature to any typewritten letter must be in ink. business stationery for the usual type of business letter, a single large sheet of white paper, unruled, of the standard business size, - / x inches, is generally used. the standard envelopes are - / x - / inches and x - / , the former requiring three folds of the letter (one across and two lengthwise) and the latter requiring two folds (across). the former size, - / x - / , is much preferred. the latter is useful in the case of bulky enclosures. bond of a good quality is probably the best choice. colored papers, while attracting attention in a pile of miscellaneous correspondence, are not in the best taste. rather have the letter striking for its excellent typing and arrangement. department stores and firms that write a great many letters to women often employ a notepaper size sheet for these letters. on this much smaller sheet the elite type makes a better appearance with letters of this kind. [illustration: department stores and firms that write many letters to women often employ a notepaper size] [illustration: specimens of stationery used by men for personal business letters] the letterhead may be printed, engraved, or lithographed, and it is safest done in black. it should cover considerably less than a quarter of the page. it contains the name of the firm, the address, and the business. the addresses of branch houses, telephone numbers, cable addresses, names of officials, and other data may be included. but all flamboyant, colored advertisements, trade slogans, or advertising matter extending down the sides of the letter detract from the actual content of the letter, which it is presumed is the essential part of the letter. for personal business letters, that is, for letters not social but concerning personal affairs not directly connected with his business, a man often uses a letter sheet partaking more of the nature of social stationery than of business. this sheet is usually rather smaller than the standard business size and of heavier quality. the size and shape of these letter sheets are matters of personal preference-- x inches or x inches--sometimes even as large as the standard - / x or as small as - / x - / or x . the smaller size, however, requires the double sheet, and the engraving may be done on the fourth page instead of the first. the inside address in these letters is generally placed at the end of the letters instead of above the salutation. instead of a business letterhead the sheet may have an engraved name and home or business address without any further business connotations, or it may be simply an address line. the end the blissylvania post-office. by marion ames taggart. [illustration] new york, cincinnati, chicago: benziger brothers, publishers of benziger's magazine copyright, , by benziger brothers. contents. chapter page i. how it began, ii. the honorary member, iii. a narrow escape, iv. the mysterious tenant, v. the invasion of the amazons, vi. further acquaintance, vii. a new member, viii. margery's plan, ix. one honorary member to the other honorary member, x. a picnic, xi. a wedding, xii. the end of the year and of the post-office, the blissylvania post-office. chapter i. how it began. it was wonderful that any one could have a bright idea on such a dark day. it had rained in torrents all of the night before and throughout the forenoon, and now that the rain had ceased, the sodden earth sent up clouds of steaming dampness to mingle with the thick fog descending, and they blended together like two gray ghosts of pleasant weather. the lilacs drooped in discouragement, and a draggle-tailed robin sat with hanging wings on the fence, uttering an occasional chirp of protest in such vehement disgust that every time he made the remark it tilted him forward, and agitated him to the tip of his tail. a slender boy lay on the hearth-rug in the light of the fire kindled to dry the dampness, the warmth of which was grateful, although it was almost june. he was recklessly pulling a stitch that was broken in the knee of his stocking all the way down to the ankle, and the gloomy expression of his face indicated a melancholy pleasure in the knowledge that he had no business to do this. tommy traddles, the striped cat, sat before a plump little girl on the floor, whose sunny face no amount of bad weather could cloud, watching the hearth-brush in her hand, which she occasionally whisked to and fro for his amusement, and making uncatlike cooings in his throat if she forgot him for too long. jack hildreth, the boy on the rug, said he was a cat with a canary-bird attachment. on the edge of a chair opposite the cheery little girl on the floor sat a long-limbed, dark-eyed girl, holding her gypsy face in her hands, her elbows on her knees, listlessly watching amy tracy and the cat. they were spending the afternoon with margaret gresham, jack's cousin, who was kept in the house by a cold, and whose tiny figure was curled up in a big leather chair near the fire, and her pale face and big, eager gray eyes looked out from its brown depths in sharp contrast. "i'm going to ask st. anthony to find the sun," announced the gypsy-like girl suddenly. she spoke through her closed teeth, not taking the trouble to remove her hands from her face. "not a bad idea, trix," said jack, laughing. but their hostess looked shocked. "why, beatrice lane, you shouldn't say that, it isn't right," she protested. "well, i'm sure it seems lost enough," retorted trix. "nothing's lost when you know where it is," said jack. "i don't know where the sun is, except that it's somewhere in the sky," said trix. "it's just about there," said jack, sitting up to point out of the window, and becoming more cheerful in the chance to show off to the girls. "it's sliding right down to the zenith." "horizon, jack," interrupted margery, laughing. "well, horizon, then; it doesn't matter," jack said, annoyed. "it's getting ready to slip down to china, and it's more than ninety-five millions of miles away." "good boy!" said trix mockingly. "how much he knows! i don't care about the sun anyway, it's too late for it to shine to-day; but if i don't find something to do i'll eat that cat up, amy." amy cried out in pretended fear, and gathered tommy traddles to her heart, but he remonstrated vigorously, and struggling free sat down in precisely the same spot, wrapping his tail around him, and looking as if he had never been disturbed. "i was thinking," began margery slowly, "of something nice." "charlotte russe?" asked jack, knowing margery's weakness. "cats?" suggested amy, alluding to another. "sister aloysia?" inquired beatrice, for margery was devoted to her teacher, and, in school phrase, "had a favorite nun." "it's something nice for us to do," replied margery, with much dignity, "and it would not be for a day, but for always, and if you make fun of me i'll not tell you." "all right, margery, we won't, and do tell quick," said trix. "i wasn't really making fun of you, and i'm dying to hear," said amy. "tell ahead, margery; hurry up," added jack. thus urged, margery sat up, putting down her feet, upon which she had been sitting, and smoothing her skirt to do honor to what she had to reveal. "i was thinking," she began, "that we might form a club, we four." "like the a. g. l.?" asked amy. they had banded themselves into an anti-gum league, and wore its badge, designed and made by jack, which consisted of a piece of gum stuck on a bent pin on the centre of a wooden disk, and preceded by the word "no," in large red letters, which of course made the badge read: "no gum." the only trouble was that the gum frequently fell off, and had to be renewed, and it required chewing in order to mould it soft enough for the pin to enter. the duty of preparing the gum for the badges was unanimously appointed to jack, and honor forbade his chewing longer than the flavor lasted, which was an agreeable circumstance, and one that made him entertain secret doubts as to his being a worthy member of the league. "no, not like the a. g. l.," said margery, replying to amy's question. "the a. g. l. has a noble end, for chewing gum is a bad habit; but this would be more of a club, and only be for fun, though i think it would improve us." "oh, what is it anyway?" cried trix impatiently. "there's a big tree down in the orchard," said margery, "and it's hollow. i thought we might each take a character, and use that name for our letters, and jack could fix up a box with partitions in it, and we could put it in the hollow tree, and we'd have----" "a post-office!" cried trix, jumping up in great excitement, her dark eyes snapping. "margery, it's a great idea." "hurrah for margery!" cried jack. "it's splendid. oh, margery, you are so clever!" cried amy, scrambling up rapidly, to tommy traddles' great disgust. "when you do think, margery, you think," said trix, pulling margery out of her chair. "come on," and holding margery's slender little hands in her strong brown ones, she pranced around the room in a triumphal dance, followed by both the others, while tommy traddles retreated under the sofa, whence he peered out at the performance with dilated eyes. he withdrew his head quickly as the four children fell breathless and laughing on the sofa to discuss and mature margery's brilliant plan. "what did you mean about names?" asked jack. "you may write poetry, margery, but you sometimes get mixed in talking prose." "i mean this," began margery. "let's each take some character or name, and let's write to each other by these names instead of our own; it would be more fun. i'd like to be mary queen of scots." "oh, i'll be sir brian de bois guilbert!" cried jack, who in his twelfth year was beginning to taste the joy sir walter has to give an imaginative child, and revelled in constantly repeated reading of "ivanhoe." "i'll be anthony wayne, because i'd love to ride down the steps," said trix enthusiastically; "or lafayette, or light horse harry, or napoleon." "o trix, you can't be a man," expostulated margery. "yes, i can. i'd like to know why you can't make believe the whole thing just as well as part of it. i'm as much like a man as you're like mary queen of scots, or jack is like sir whatever-his-name." "oh, but----" began margery, with the anxious line appearing between her eyes that always came there when she was worried. "now i think that it would be a bother to take any of these characters," said amy, the peacemaker. "you know, all the letters would have to fit the parts, or they'd be silly, and i never could keep up writing _thee_ and _thou_, and _wot ye_, instead of do you know, and all that kind of words. you'd have to write the way shakespeare did, and i can't." "can't you? that's queer," remarked margery, and the rest shouted. "no, i can't," amy continued, quite unconscious of a joke. "i'd like to be the good lady godiva myself, who saved her people from starving, but i couldn't keep it up." "couldn't you?" asked the others, and laughed again. "no, i couldn't," reiterated amy, who was the practical little woman of the party. "i say we just take names, and not characters." "well," assented margery reluctantly, "i'll be the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake." "my goodness, margery; no wonder you write poetry!" exclaimed beatrice. "i'll be----" but she got no farther. "now, trix, please, _please_ don't be a boy," cried margery. "well, i think it's mean; i've wanted to be a boy all my life, and you won't even let me play one," grumbled trix. "but i'll be a daring, splendid girl, then. couldn't we take a name out of a book?" "yes; don't you think so, amy?" "i don't see why not," said amy. "then i'll be catharine seyton, who barred the door with her arm when the mean lady of lochleven tried to break through into the queen's chamber. i heard my brothers reading about it," cried trix. "it's in 'the abbot,' by scott," said jack, glad to show his acquaintance with literature, which trix evidently considered grown up. "i'll take sir harry hotspur," he added. "isn't that history?" asked margery doubtfully. "no, not exactly," replied jack. "it's shakespeare, too; i'll take only his part." which, though not very clear, was satisfactory. "i'm going to be mrs. peace plenty, a philanthropist," announced amy, convulsing the rest. "p. p. p.," gasped margery, emerging from a sofa pillow with her usually pale face crimson. "o amy, you _are_ so funny, and you never just seem to mean to be." "well, it's not so funny as that," said amy, laughing good-naturedly. "what is a philanthropist, jack?" asked trix. "how did you know, amy?" "it's a charitable person," said jack. "it's a person who loves human beings," said amy at the same time. "i know, because papa said if i didn't mind my p's and q's i'd grow up to be one, and get on committees; so i asked him what it was, and when he told me i didn't think it would be so bad to be one." "well, now we have settled the names. do you think you could make the box, jack?" asked margery. "of course i can," said jack, looking with loving condescension at the anxiously puckered brow of his little cousin, who, though a year younger than he, was cleverer, yet made such mistakes as this question implied; probably because she was only a girl. "i'll make four divisions in it, and maybe i'll paint it." "and make a drop-box, and nail it outside the tree for us to drop letters in with a slit in the top," said trix. "just as you like, trix," remarked jack solemnly. "i for one don't mean to write letters with slits in the top. i'll make a slit in the top of the box, though, if you like." "don't be a goose, jack," replied trix, with dignity. "you know i meant that." "we ought to have a name for our club," said amy. "yes; i've been thinking of that underneath all the time we were talking," said margery. jack stooped down and peeped under the sofa. "i don't see how you could have thought _underneath_, margery," he said; "i see only tommy traddles there." "now, jack, don't be funny," said margery, "and look out for smartness. you know aunty says you are troubled with smartness sometimes. i meant that underneath all we were saying i kept thinking of our name." "would post-office club do?" asked amy. "i know; call it the happy thought club," cried trix, "because it was a lovely thing for margery to think of, and when we were half dead for something to do, too. and we can have it a secret from all the other girls and boys, and if we had the letters p. o. on our badge they'd know right off what they stood for. we'll have a badge, won't we?" she added. "let's vote on the name," said margery. "all in favor of calling it the happy thought club please signify it by saying aye." four voices instantly chorused "aye." "contrary, no," said margery, and paused. deep silence reigned, and the clock on the mantelpiece struck once. "i propose we have for a badge a blue ribbon, and get mamma to paint an envelope on it, with the initials of the club over it. would that be nice?" asked margery. "lovely; and now i must go, because that was half-past five that struck," said trix, jumping up. "so must i," echoed amy. they hastily bundled themselves into their waterproofs, and amy was stamping her foot into her right rubber, when she paused with the other rubber suspended in the air, on the way to her left foot. "why, there's miss isabel; we never thought of her!" she cried. "sure enough." "that's so." "oh, our dear miss isabel," cried trix and jack and margery together. "you'll have to make five divisions in the box, jack," said margery decidedly, "for she's got to be an honorary member." chapter ii. the honorary member. the miss isabel for whom a fifth box in the post-office would be necessary lived in a charming old house, which had been built when washington was a little boy. it had a large, old-time garden, deliciously fragrant of box, syringas, and spicy border pinks, which the children thought the utmost perfection of all that a garden should be, and wherein it was their delight to wander. miss isabel was the youngest and only surviving member of a merry band of brothers and sisters, and she seemed too small to live alone in the great house, with its big, empty rooms filled with the saddest and only real ghosts--the memory of those who had occupied them, the echo of feet which had ceased to walk the earth, and voices silenced by the green grass pressing on the lips that death had sealed; and had she been other than miss isabel she would have been melancholy; but being miss isabel she was as sunny as the day was long. her gentle life was too full of care for others' sorrows to find time to think of her own, and she was too loving a little soul to ever lack love. the children worshipped her; she was their playmate, counsellor, and ideal. they had the vaguest ideas as to her age, supposing that she must be pretty old, in spite of the fact of her playing with them almost like one of themselves, for they could not remember her other than she was then; but one does not have to live long in order to be always grown up in the memory of little persons of eleven years and less, and in truth miss isabel was still young. the children understood that at some time in her life miss isabel had not expected to live alone in the big homestead, but had looked forward to a newer home of her own, and that at the last moment something had happened to prevent her marriage. their elders said miss isabel had had "a disappointment," and the children, especially margery, looked at her with pitying wonder, speculating on how it felt to have such a disappointment that it was spoken of as if written with a big d, and feeling, judging from their own sensations when something failed to which they were looking forward, that it must be very dreadful. it cleared off warm and beautiful after the rain, and in the afternoon the flowers and grass looked a week farther advanced than before the storm, and the discouraged robin darted at the worms in the soft earth with jubilant chirps, and retired to the elm to sing and swing in ecstasy. as soon as school was over the children started for miss isabel's. she met them on the broad door-stone, looking, in her soft pink muslin, like an apple-blossom that had drifted there. "oh, how pretty you are!" cried trix, giving her an enthusiastic and damaging hug, to margery's mute amazement. it was a perpetual wonder to her how the others could fondle miss isabel so recklessly. if margery threw her arms around her or kissed her, it was when she had her all to herself, and though she laid deep schemes to walk near her, and sit where she could see her, and often stroked her gown softly on the sly, she never flew to her as trix and amy did. she was sometimes afraid that miss isabel would think that the others loved her more than she, but she need not have feared; miss isabel understood margery. "we've come to tell you the nicest thing." "we've made you an honorary member." "margery's thought of something fine." "we're going to have a club," began all four at once. "dear me!" cried miss isabel, laughing; "i shall never be able to listen to four at one time. even a quadruped couldn't do that, you know, because he has four legs, but not four ears." "jack, you tell," said trix generously, feeling it proper to resign the glory to the man of the party. "well, you know, miss isabel," jack said willingly, "it's margery's scheme, and we thought it so good we're going to call it the happy thought club. we're going to have a post-office in uncle gresham's orchard." "with five boxes, one for you," put in amy, who had been hopping about wildly, first on one foot and then on the other, longing to speak. "yes, and we're each going to take a name and write letters to one another, and have a badge, and--and--oh, everything," concluded jack, waving his hands, as if to include the universe. "and you're to be in it, you're to be in it!" cried trix and amy, hugging miss isabel at the same time. "of course she's in it; it wouldn't be much if she weren't," said jack. "what do you think of it; you haven't said a word?" asked margery anxiously. "but that was owing to circumstances over which i have no control," laughed miss isabel. "here are you chattering like four of the blackbirds baked in the pie, with the other twenty flown away, and how could i say anything? i think it is a splendumphant plan, and that is a portmanteau word, such as humpty dumpty taught alice in looking-glass land, and it means splendid and triumphant. i am deeply sensible of the honor you do me, ladies and gentleman, in inviting me to join the club, and i accept with joy and gratitude." and miss isabel took her pink skirts in each hand, and dropped them a real dancing-school courtesy. "might one ask what names you have chosen?" she said. "we were going to be people in history," said margery. "i was going to be mary queen of scots, and trix wanted to be anthony wayne, or lafayette, or napoleon, or something else." "light horse harry," said trix. "yes; but amy thought it would be a bother to keep up historical ways of talking--i mean old-fashioned ways--so we decided to take a name, and not a character; so now jack is sir harry hotspur, and trix is catharine seyton, and i am the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake, and amy is mrs. peace plenty, a philanthropist." "well done, amy!" cried miss isabel, laughing heartily. "all but yours are just the names that i might have guessed they would have taken, and yet yours is, perhaps, the most suitable of all." "what will you take, miss isabel?" asked jack. "why, i can't answer such an important question without thought," said miss isabel. "can you suggest a name?" "i never could think of a name nice enough for you," said amy lovingly. "i think it ought to be something like good fairy," said trix, "only that sounds silly." the color had been mounting to margery's dark hair, and jack said: "margery's thought of something. let's have it, peggy." "i was thinking of miss isabel's name after i went to bed last night," the little girl said slowly. "i knew what it ought to mean, but you couldn't make it sound like a name in english, so i asked papa this morning if you could have any words for it in any other language that would sound like a name, and he told me some. and i think," she said, very low, "if miss isabel will, it would be nice for her to be lady alma cara." miss isabel gave margery such a look that her eyes filled with happy tears. "i would never have dared take such a lovely name," miss isabel said, "but if my dear little margery will give me it, i shall be proud to have it." "what does it mean?" asked trix. "i think dearest darling is about what it would be in english," said miss isabel. "that's you." "that's just the name." "indeed, you are our dearest darling," said jack and trix and amy. but margery said nothing, feeling all warm and cosey inside, for she had named miss isabel, and her loving look had thanked her better than words. "now, how about a postmark?" asked miss isabel. "we never thought of that," said the children. "well, it seems to me that since we have all taken names, it would be nice to play that our post-office was in some town with a pretty title, and not postmark our letters with the real name of the town like ordinary letters," said miss isabel. "but how can we postmark at all?" asked jack. "if you don't mind, i will have a stamp made," said miss isabel, "and the postmaster or postmistress can have an ink pad, and stamp each envelope, like the real office." "oh, isn't that fine," "oh, you blessed, little miss isabel!" "didn't i say she ought to be called the good fairy?" "you always think of _such_ things," chorused her visitors. "then that's settled," continued miss isabel. "now, what shall we call our town? if this is the happy thought club, wouldn't it be a good idea to call the place also something that meant happiness?" "joyberg," remarked margery thoughtfully. "that wouldn't do; sounds like june bug," said jack decidedly. "happiness centre," suggested amy. "that is good, but a trifle long, amy," said miss isabel. "how would bliss-sylvania do?" asked jack. "it's like pennsylvania, you know, and would mean _bliss_ and _woods_, and that would be saying that we had fun in the tree in the orchard." "i don't know," began miss isabel doubtfully, but was overwhelmed by a chorus of applause from the three little girls, whom the name struck favorably. "but how could we get on with so many s's in the middle?" asked amy; "there are three right together." "we could easily drop one, if that is the only drawback," said miss isabel, "and write it b-l-i-s-s-y-l-v-a-n-i-a. that is often done in spelling, and is called elision of a letter." "it is lovely," cried all the little girls. "jack, how did you come to think of it?" jack tried to look modest. "oh, i don't know," he said. "it just popped into my head." "like all great thoughts," added miss isabel. "we will make you mayor of blissylvania, jack. how about postage-stamps, girls and boy?" "oh, must we have stamps?" they asked. "why, certainly not, if you would rather not; but i thought it would be more fun," said miss isabel. "i could paint some--say, a dozen for each of us, and then they need not be cancelled, except with a pencil-mark that would easily rub off, so they would last a long time." "it would be much nicer, but you ought not to bother, miss isabel," said amy. "it is no trouble; i'll do them in the evening, and if jack makes the box, and you all do lots of things, i ought to do something. an honorary member must be an honorable member," said miss isabel, smiling. "may i ask you to go into the arbor in the garden while i ask mary to make some lemonade and bring it to us with cake, that we may eat and drink to the health of the happy thought club of blissylvania?" the children passed through the great hall, and out the door opposite the front one, which admitted them to the beloved garden. on the way they decided for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, at least, that their miss isabel was the _dearest thing_, and that there was no one on earth quite like her. this decision had hardly been arrived at when she rejoined them. "when shall we begin?" she asked, bending her head under the wistaria vine drooping above the entrance to the arbor. "i'm going to make the box to-night, and we thought we'd get the thing up and everything ready to-morrow," answered jack. "yes, and begin monday," added margery. "you see this is friday, and we shall have all day saturday to get ready, and sunday is a nice day to write letters, for we all go to children's mass at nine, you know, and can write all day." "stopping to eat, i hope," laughed miss isabel. "we are going to give you box number one, because--oh, because you are _you_, and an honorary member," said jack. "and margery's to have two, because she thought of the plan----" "and you'll have to have three, because you named the town, jack," interrupted margery. "and trix and amy will have four and five," resumed jack. but miss isabel, foreseeing possible danger, interposed. "i wouldn't have any rewards of that kind," she said. "i'd have blissylvania a real republic, with every one equal, and draw lots for numbers." "so would i," echoed margery heartily. "i don't want to be first because i thought of the plan." "i'd like to do something to celebrate the club," cried trix, balancing on one foot on the seat of the arbor. "i'd like to do something queer." as she spoke the board, which was loose at one end, flew up and sent trix flying first upward, and then into a collapsed heap under the seat. "you've done it!" shouted jack, in ecstasy--"you've done the queer thing!" "o trix, are you hurt?" cried the other two girls anxiously. trix's eyes were on a level with her knees, for she had fallen through, doubled up like a jack-knife. "i fell down," she remarked, vainly trying to extricate herself. "i thought i heard something drop!" cried jack, rolling over in spasms of laughter, while miss isabel, laughing, too, at beatrice's funny appearance and remark, helped get her up. "i think we'd better go home," said amy. "when trix gets crazy there's no telling what will happen." "it has happened," remarked jack, looking down whence trix had emerged. "o jolly me!"--jack's favorite and appropriate exclamation--"o jolly me, trix, you killed a mud worm. i knew you didn't like them, but you needn't have sat on him so hard." "o jack, i didn't! o jack, where?" cried trix, running to look. "oh, yes, i did! oh, please look and see if there's any of him on me!" she cried, spinning round and round wildly, in a vain effort to see the back of her own dress. "oh, the dreadful thing!" "see here, trix," said jack, "i thought you wanted to be a boy. no boy would make a row about such a little thing as sitting on a mud worm." trix disdained to answer. "we ought to go, it's getting late," she said instead. "good-night, miss isabel." "good-night, dears; good-night all of you," said miss isabel, kissing each happy face twice over, except jack's, who stood for the dignity of his sex, and was not kissed, even by miss isabel--that is, unless no one were looking. "you shall have the post-mark and ink-pad to-morrow afternoon, and i am very grateful to you for letting me join you." "grateful! pooh!" cried jack, voicing the sentiments of them all. "we couldn't get on without you." chapter iii. a narrow escape. saturday morning jack appeared whistling energetically as he triumphantly balanced a box on his left hand, and swung another in his right. he was early, but the three girls were earlier, and had swept the dead leaves from under the apple-tree destined for the office, and had cleared out the hollow which was to hold the box, to the noisy indignation of a woodpecker and his dame who had chosen the tree for a summer residence. jack was hailed with a cry of rapture. "here's the office!" he shouted, breaking into a run as he saw the little girls; "and this is the drop-box." so saying he stubbed his toe on one of the many rough places in the orchard, and boy and boxes went headlong in three directions. "i see it is a drop-box," remarked trix dryly, getting square on the account of the previous night. "o jack, have you broken them?" cried amy, while margery stood still in mute anguish. "guess not; no, they're all right," replied jack, gathering up his burdens. "aren't they just james dandies?" the girls, who had renounced slang with gum, pronounced them "lovely" and "beautiful." one was a starch-box, divided through the middle into an upper and lower section, the upper partitioned into three pigeon-holes, each numbered, and the lower half made into two divisions, likewise numbered. the box was painted a wood brown, with the words "post-office" in white over the top, and the numbers were also white. jack had wanted to paint the box red, but amy had convinced him that it would be in greater danger of discovery in such a bright color, and he had yielded to prudence. the second box was red, however, for jack had literally stood to his colors in this case, maintaining that all uncle sam's drop-boxes were red, and blissylvania's must be no exception to the rule. this had a slit cut in the top large enough for letters to pass through, and was not less admired than the post-office. "but how shall we get parcels in?" asked margery, and jack explained that for this it was only necessary to lift the lid, which would not be fastened. every one found this arrangement perfectly satisfactory, and the office was nailed into the tree by jack at the cost of only one bruised finger, while the girls executed a sort of war-dance around him in irrepressible satisfaction. the drop-box was fastened on a stump ten or twelve feet from the office, which made it still more like a real post-office, for, as margery explained, the postmistress could play she was a postman collecting and bringing in the mail when she took the things out of the drop-box, and needn't pretend she was postmaster till she began sorting them at the apple-tree. nothing could have been more encouraging than the morning operations, but in the afternoon the h. t. c. and the town of blissylvania narrowly escaped a catastrophe that would have been like an earthquake, sweeping the fair city from the earth. it all came from the honorary member's generosity. true to her promise, miss isabel hastened down to town in the morning early, and ordered the stamp made for the postmark. it was to be of leaden type, that allowed the changing of date each day, and as the type was already in stock the shopkeeper promised to deliver it that afternoon. margery's mamma had painted the badges according to the design selected at the first meeting, only substituting a white carrier-pigeon as the device instead of an envelope, because, as margery explained to the others, "it was more poetical than an envelope and prettier." the badge was of beautiful blue ribbon, the pigeon painted in white, surmounted by the initials of the club--h. t. c. and it may be stated here that unsatisfied curiosity as to the secret moved the other school-children to derision, and jack, margaret, beatrice, and amy were called the "highty tighty cooing pigeons," shortened for convenience to "the doves." the four were wrapped in admiration over their beautiful badges, when the postmark arrived. each one tried it in turn, and at every impression the magic circle enclosing the words, "blissylvania, june th, "--for the date was set ready for the first use on monday--seemed more entrancing. they all repaired to the orchard to see if it worked equally well on the big stone which they had selected for its table, and here the little cloud appeared that rolled up into a storm. it was such unutterable bliss to press the stamp on the ink-pad, and then make the impression on the white paper, that the office of postmaster suddenly seemed to each one the honor most to be coveted in all the world. "i wonder how we shall decide who is to be postmaster," remarked trix casually, as she reluctantly gave amy the stamp to try. each face reddened slightly; evidently they had all been thinking of the same thing. "i don't see how a girl can be postmaster," said jack. "pshaw! we can be postmistress, and it's all the same," said amy, speaking sharply for her. "i should think it was more a man's place," continued jack. "it's a place for a girl that is strong and quick, and like a boy," said trix hastily. "i live right here, where i could look after it," said margery, bringing the discussion from abstract views on suitability to the personal application they were all secretly making. "that's the very reason why you shouldn't be postmistress!" cried peace-loving amy, ruffling her feathers. "you shouldn't have everything." "oh, you're no good for it, peggy!" said jack, with easy scorn. "it needs a boy, and i'm the only boy; so of course i've got to be postmaster." "well, i like that," cried trix, with eyes flashing like a whole woman's-rights convention in one small body. "every one knows girls are heaps quicker and smarter than boys. i'd be a better postmaster than any of you, if i do say so." "you! you're too harum-scarum; you'd lose half the mail!" cried amy. "i'd be a much better one, and you know it." "well, i'd not lose the mail!" said trix, trembling and stammering in indignation. "you think i'm harum-scarum because you're such a poke." "well, there's no good you girls fighting about it, because i'm the boy, and i'm going to be postmaster!" remarked jack, with such maddening certainty that the girls turned on him in a body. "you'll be nothing of the sort!" screamed trix, stamping her foot. "you won't touch my letters!" cried amy. "if you were a gentleman you'd not want to take a lady's place!" said margery, with withering scorn. "no gentleman ever sits down when a lady hasn't a seat." "i'd like to know who wants to sit down?" demanded jack. "if you felt as you ought, you'd want your cousin to be postmaster," said margery. "well, i don't; so there!" said jack. "who does?" asked trix, deserting her ally and turning on margery. "you've got the office in your orchard, and that's enough." "if i'd known that you'd all have been so selfish i'd never have said have a post-office," said margery, turning away to hide the tears which always would come when she was angry, spoiling the effect of her most telling remarks. "you're selfish yourself, because you want it as much as we do, and that is why you think we're selfish," said amy, with so much truth that margery could not retort. "you're the meanest three in the world!" cried trix. "that counts me out, for you girls are the three, and trix is the worst!" shouted jack. "if i was half as mean as the rest of you i'd go to some old-clothes man, and try to sell myself," said amy, the mild. "you wouldn't get much," said trix, not realizing her retort was rather against herself. "i think i don't care about a post-office," remarked margery, with quivering lips. "i think i'll not be in it, and if you want one you can have it some other place than my orchard." "i don't want one," said trix. "it's a stupid thing anyhow," said amy. "no one with any sense would ever have proposed it," said jack. "then we'll give it all up," said margery, in a low voice. a quarrel was not a little thing to her, as it was to the others, but an awful tragedy. and at this terrible moment miss isabel came down the orchard, looking as fresh and calm as if there were no such thing as anger in all the world. it did not require her keen eyes to see the flushed faces and trembling lips, and feel the electricity in the air, but she discreetly pretended to observe nothing. "good-morrow, brave sir hotspur, noble lady catharine seyton, kind mrs. plenty, fair lady griselda," she said. "good-afternoon, miss isabel," responded four melancholy voices, from which joy seemed forever fled. "i see the postmark came. i was uneasy lest it fail to arrive, and came over to ask about it," continued miss isabel cheerfully. "is it good? oh, yes; those are very clear impressions you made. do you know, i like the name blissylvania much better than i thought i should?" no answer; the children were beginning to feel dreadfully ashamed, for though they were perfectly at ease with miss isabel, they cared too much for her good opinion to be anything but their best before her. "i brought the stamps," continued miss isabel, with persistent, cheerful blindness. "here they are." jack had been digging a hole with his heel ever since miss isabel had arrived, and it required his entire attention. giving an extra deep backward thrust, he said without looking up: "it's a pity you took that trouble, miss isabel, for we're not going to have a post-office after all." a sob from margery followed this remark. "why, what is the matter?" asked miss isabel, looking from one gloomy face to another, and drawing margery's, which was hidden from her, on her knee. "well," said trix desperately, "we're all mad. we got into a fuss about who would be postmaster, and we decided to give the thing up." "what do you mean; you couldn't decide who should be postmaster first?" asked miss isabel. "of course you intend to take turns in office?" jack, trix, and amy glanced at each other, and margery stopped sobbing to listen. simple as this solution of the difficulty was, no one had thought of it. "we didn't mean that; we thought some one would be postmaster all the time," said jack. "oh, dear me, i should think you would get into a fuss if you tried to decide who was to have the fun all alone," laughed miss isabel. "and so you were going to give up the whole thing, and cheat me of all the pleasure you promised me because you did not hit on such a simple plan! and last night we decided that blissylvania was to be a real republic, with every one equal! look up, little marguerite; you are a daisy too wet with rain just now. don't make mountains of molehills, children; it is much wiser to make molehills of the mountains we have to climb in life. now, i think each would better be postmaster a week at a time, and draw lots for the order of serving. or, perhaps, it would be better still to have the term of office last but three days, for then the terms will come around quicker." she did not add that this would give each a second chance to serve in case they tired quickly of the new play, but she thought it. "shall we draw lots for turns now?" she asked, reaching for the white paper on which they had been making impressions before the storm broke. "yes, miss isabel," said jack and amy and trix meekly, while margery sat up pale and trembling, and began to dry her eyes. the others glanced at her wonderingly; they never could understand why margery seemed half sick if she had been angry or had cried. miss isabel wrote the numbers, and they drew, amy number one, trix two, margery three, and jack four. "now please show me the boxes. why, they are very nicely made, jack; did you do it alone?" "yes, miss isabel," said jack, beaming, all trace of anger melted in the sunshine of her presence. "and look, miss isabel, here's the drop-box," cried amy. "you put letters through the slit in the top, and when you have a parcel you lift the cover and put it inside." miss isabel laughed. "that is a wee bit like the story of the man who made a large hole for his cat to go in and out, and a small one alongside for the kitten. but it is certainly the nicest kind of a post-office, and i think, perhaps, that i shall get more pleasure out of it than any of you." which was a much truer prophecy than miss isabel herself dreamed. "we are to write letters to-morrow, and begin monday, are we not?" "yes; oh, what fun!" cried trix, catching amy around the waist, and waltzing her about the old apple-tree and back again. no one but margery seemed to remember "the late unpleasantness;" she stood a little apart, very pale, but trying to smile. "do you know, i think it is unusually warm for the sixth of june?" remarked miss isabel. "i wonder if i could get any one to walk down to bent's to eat ice-cream with me?" jack turned a somersault at once. "don't try if you don't want to succeed, miss isabel," he said. "come, then, every one of you," she cried merrily, "for i do want to succeed. and i propose that we wear our beautiful new badges, for we are to go in a body as a club." "let me pin them on, please," said margery. she had been longing for a chance to beg pardon, and saw it here. "i'm dreadfully sorry i was so cross, jack," she whispered, pinning the badge, and at the same time rubbing her cheek on his gray jacket. "oh, that's all right, megsy. you're never much cross," he whispered back, and would have liked to have kissed her little white face, for he dearly loved his cousin. "please forgive me, trix, for being so mean," she whispered, as she reached her, and trix stared at her for a moment in amazement. "why, i forgot all about it," she said. "i was meaner than you anyhow." and she kissed her. amy put her arms around margery before she could speak. "it's all right, margery; forgive me, too," she whispered. and so, at peace with all the world and each other, the happy thought club, that had so narrowly escaped destruction, sallied forth to eat ice-cream. chapter iv. the mysterious tenant. the opening of the post-office was a great success. amy, who was the first to go into office as postmistress, had a busy time for the three days of her term. every member of the h. t. c. wrote the other four one letter a day with praiseworthy regularity, so there were twenty letters daily for the postmistress of blissylvania to handle, not to mention packages and papers, and the invisible city of blissylvania did more mail business than many of uncle sam's offices in far-off country places. there was a slight falling off in mail on the second day of trix's term, which followed amy's, for jack found so much and such regular correspondence exhausting to mind and body, and was first to complain that he had nothing to say. it was even found, when the ladies compared notes on the fifth day after the office opened, that he had basely written one letter, and copied it three times--miss isabel requiring a different style of composition--but they had agreed to feign ignorance of this action, charitably excusing it on the ground of boys' well-known deficiencies. there was difficulty about margery's address. she insisted that the whole title and address must be used, but jack declared it was expecting too much of any one to write on the small space of the back of their letters, which for economy's sake were so folded as to serve instead of envelopes: "lady griselda, at the castle of the lonely lake, blissylvania, new york," which was what margery desired. they compromised, following miss isabel's suggestion, on "lady griselda of the castle, blissylvania, new york," because, as miss isabel pointed out, there could be no mistake, there being but one lady griselda and one castle. taken altogether, the post-office could hardly have succeeded better, and if there were any danger of its losing charm, it was saved by a new interest arising, which gave a novel topic for conversation and supplied jack with the needed subject for correspondence. it was a little after eight o'clock on the sixth morning after the post-office opened, and margery was practising. she was as faithful in this as in everything else, and to the inexpressible wonder of her playmates no strategy or coaxing could get her to leave the piano before her time was up. this seemed to trix, who seized any excuse to shorten the hated task, little short of insanity, and a new proof of the queerness that they all recognized in dreamy, sensitive margery. they did not understand that margery was an unconscious philosopher, and since the thought of an unfulfilled duty would spoil her pleasure, preferred to secure a thorough good time by clearing away any possible hindrances to one. trix came into the room, and finding margery at the piano, sighed. "i suppose there's no use talking to you until you're done," she said, throwing herself in a big chair. "and i've the most interesting thing to tell you." margery shook her head. "how long must you practise; till half after?" margery nodded, the nod coming in well on an accented note. up and down went the nimble fingers, playing an exercise, with the metronome ticking on the piano. trix fidgeted and wriggled down in the chair, and pulled herself up, watching the clock the while. "margery, it's _such_ an interesting thing," she said plaintively at last. "in ten minutes," sang margery to the accompaniment of the scale. "play with tommy traddles while you wait." "oh, margery, _won't_ you stop?" cried trix, after three minutes had passed. no answer but _arpeggios_. "margaret gresham, you're chewing gum," cried trix, resorting to strategy. "i am not," said margery, coming down in flat contradiction and a false chord at one and the same time. "i'm chewing the side of my tongue." "why don't you have a cud?" asked trix, delighted at having trapped margery into speech. but she was not to be caught again. shaking her head she began playing her new piece, which, true to her principles, she had left till the last. finally the tiresome clock struck once. trix sprang up. "you shall not finish that page," she cried, catching margery around the waist and pulling her off the stool. "you said half-past, and it is half-past; so stop." "but i _must_ finish that page, trix," she protested. "unfinished tunes i can't stand." "well, you'll have to," declared trix. "listen to me. the dismals is rented!" "the dismals" was the children's name for a very large, untenanted place called the evergreens. "why, the dismals is never rented!" cried margery. "it hasn't had any one in it since we were born." "yes; but it has now," replied trix. "there is a man there, and he lives all alone. our waitress, katie, told me about it last night. i thought i'd never go to sleep for thinking about him. katie knows a girl that saw him go through the hedge and disappear under the dismals' pine-trees. there is something queer about him; katie says so. they don't know whether he's crazy or whether he's wicked, or perhaps he's both. katie says we may all be murdered in our beds. she says she thinks he's a robber who has come from somewhere, and is to make the dismals his den. but katie says some think he's a murderer hiding there, and again some think he's got the evil eye." "what's that?" asked margery, shuddering; "another eye, or what?" "no, you goose," cried trix; "it's an eye that looks just like others, only it's kind of set and stony, and when people look at it they're never lucky any more." but this had not the effect trix anticipated. "i don't believe that," said margery; "that sounds like a ghost story, or something of that kind. besides, if there were an evil eye it couldn't hurt us, for we wear our medals, and if we met him we'd just hold on to them and say hail marys till he went by." trix was staggered. "katie didn't say so, and katie's a catholic," she remarked. "yes; but katie doesn't understand," said margery. "you ought to teach her not to be superstitious, trix." this was taking the conversation into the realms of morals, and trix wished it to be only thrilling. "well, what if he's crazy or wicked?" she demanded. "that's different," replied margery promptly. "we'll be late for school; wait till i get my hat and catechism, and we'll talk about it going along." she came back in a moment, and the two little girls went out into the june sunshine on their way to the convent, where they were to have a catechism instruction, though it was saturday. "i think myself it's much more likely he's crazy, or a robber, or something awful," trix resumed. "you see, no one who was all right could live alone in such a dreadful place as the dismals." "you don't suppose he's some exiled prince come over from europe and hiding there?" suggested margery. "they don't have exiled princes now," declared trix. "oh, yes they do; the last of the rightful princes of france died not very long ago; papa said so." "well, if he's dead he can't be at the dismals," said trix. "i tell you, margery, this man is some dangerous character, and i shall be afraid of my life to go to bed." "i'm not afraid now talking about it, because i think maybe he's unfortunate, and not wicked, but when night comes i shall be afraid to go to bed, too," margery agreed. the evergreens, or "the dismals," lay out of their way to school, but attracted to it by their very fear, the children turned aside in order to pass it, and then raced by it as fast as their feet could carry them, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as they ran. that afternoon among the mail in the blissylvania post-office was the following circular, in duplicate copies, addressed to lady alma cara, and mrs. peace plenty, and sir harry hotspur. it ran: "dear madam (or sir): having heard that a dangerous or mysterious character has come to live alone in the evergreens, which we call the dismals, we feel it our duty to warn you that you may fear to be robbed or murdered by this strange person, and that you should be on your guard. yours respectfully (signed), lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake. lady catharine seyton, postmistress of blissylvania." the circular had the desired effect. mrs. peace plenty was panic-stricken; sir harry hotspur vowed to wear his sword henceforth when he went abroad, and warned all wicked men that they'd better look out, for he would use it, and lady alma cara promised to take hero with her whenever she could if she went out. hero was her big st. bernard, and objected to much exercise in summer. lady alma cara did not seem disturbed by the awful rumors as to the strange tenant, but she was far too wise to tell the children that she thought there was no danger, knowing well that this was an opportunity for them to make much of, and that there was a certain pleasure in their fear. by sunday the reports of the mysterious tenant had multiplied, not lessening in horror. margery held her medals tight as she passed along the streets, though her terror was moderated when winnie, the cook, reported that he had been in the back of the church at the first mass, but had slipped out before any one could get a good look at him. jack and trix pointed out to margery with much pains, that this showed that he was even worse than they supposed, because he came to church only to pretend to be decent, but could not stay to face honest people. sunday night the sensation reached a tremendous pitch. the children had taken tea with trix, and had been entertained by katie with the latest news of the stranger. he did not live alone, after all; it seemed that he had an old woman for housekeeper, and though it was not certain who had seen her to report her appearance, it was quite certain that she had a hump, and never went out in the grounds of the dismals without a broomstick, which proved, so katie thought, that she was a witch. as to the man himself, he walked with his head down, and katie had heard that he cast no shadow, and the children wondered what kind of folks it was cast no shadow. the children did not know, but they did not like to ask, feeling sure they must be the most awful people possible, especially since they had never seen such, and shuddered at the thought. katie, a fresh-faced, pleasant little girl with no notion of doing them harm, but with an amiable desire to be agreeable, responded to their cries for more, with tales of banshees and witches till their blood froze in their veins, and they left for home in an agony of fear and went to bed in dumb suffering. had they spoken their fears their misery would have been short, but none of them mentioned the matter, and so no relief could come. each made a characteristic preparation for the dangers of the night. jack took his toy pistol and sword to bed, hoping in case of alarm the invader would mistake them for real ones. trix laid the ice-pick and fire-tongs on her pillow, and hung a bucket of water, to which she had tied a string, over her bedroom-door. amy put her rosary, crucifix, and prayer-book under her pillow, and made sure that she had on her medals and scapular, and then got an extra pillow and blanket to muffle her ears, which, as the night was warm, had its drawbacks. poor, nervous little margery sprinkled all her bed with holy water, collected every pious object which she possessed, and took tommy traddles to bed with her, that in case of danger she might protect him. to all the others sleep came soon in spite of fear, but margery lay cold and wakeful until the twitter and stirring of the birds outside her window, and the first rays of dawn brought the hope and comfort of another day. chapter v. the invasion of the amazons. margery arose from her night of terror armed with the courage of desperation. there were two letters in the post that morning addressed in her stiff little handwriting to lady catharine seyton and mrs. peace plenty. they were precisely alike, except in the address, and ran thus: "the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake requests you to meet her at the elm at the corner of the convent grounds after school to do something for the public safety." margery herself carried them to school and gave them to their owners, for it was her first day as postmistress. "they were marked 'immediate,' so i delivered them," she said to trix and amy, in the character of postmistress, with fine assumption of ignorance as to their contents. amy found her waiting with trix when she appeared at the trysting-place a trifle late. "now she's come; what is it, margery?" demanded trix, who never could endure waiting, and had been fuming because margery would not speak until amy had arrived. "it means that i can't stand this another moment," margery burst out, glad to express her feelings. "i wouldn't be so scared every night as i was last night for anything. i want you to go with me to the dismals, and see if that man's as bad as katie says." "i wouldn't go for the world," declared amy, blanching at the thought. "nor i," echoed daring trix. "you're such a scared cat, margery, i don't see what you want to go for." "it's because i am a scared cat," said margery. "i'm afraid not to go. i should think you'd dare what i dare, trix lane, when you're always talking about being a boy." "i suppose jack would think we were brave," remarked trix slowly. she and jack were engaged in a sort of perpetual "stump" as to which should outdo the other. margery saw an advantage here. "of course he would," she said. "he'd never dare say again that girls were cowards." "but i am," said amy candidly, "and i couldn't say i wasn't. still, if you go, margery, i'll go with you." "you dear thing," cried margery, giving her an enthusiastic hug. "i'll go; i'd like to," said trix hastily, trying to retrieve her reputation. "then we'll start right now," margery declared. "don't you see that i'm afraid to go, but i'm more afraid to stay away, because we _must_ know what's there? if i had to lie awake nights thinking about the hump-backed witch and the evil eye without seeing them i'd be a raving lumanic." margery meant lunatic or maniac, it is not clear which. the desperate band of amazons started valiantly down the street. as they neared the evergreens their pace slackened, but they did not halt. margery, the coward, went steadily on, and the others were ashamed not to follow. they entered "the dismals" by a less frequented way than the gate--in fact, they crawled through an opening in the fence, and concealed themselves not far from the back door, in the long grass that had not been cut for many summers. "my heart beats so i know he'll think some one's knocking," whispered poor amy, and to margery's additional alarm trix giggled hysterically. "oh, keep quiet, and just pray," she whispered. presently an old woman appeared, and the agonized trio noted that she carried a broom. but she certainly was not hunchbacked, but a slender, tiny old woman, with a smiling face, and she began using the broom in a most un-witchlike manner to clear off the back stoop. in spite of themselves the children felt a little reassured, but their fear returned when they saw a man come around the corner. he walked slowly, and they soon saw that this was because he read as he walked. a spaniel ran ahead of him, and came back, barking wildly. "why, sheila, i'm ashamed of you," said the man, closing his book, with one finger inside, and shaking the little volume at the excited dog. "how often must i tell you that i will never help you to catch birds, and much less in june, when they have families to look after?" his voice sounded kindly, and even sweet; his eyes were brown, and looked affectionately at the little dog. as amy said afterward, "neither looked like an evil eye." comfort began to come to the three palpitating little hearts in the grass, and though they dared not whisper it to each other, the conviction struck them that there must have been a mistake. just then sheila, the spaniel, ran towards them, barking in quite a different tone, and so sharply that her master turned to follow her. "that does not sound like birds, sheila," he said. "what have you found?" in an agony no words could represent the three valiant amazons lay quaking till they saw that the little dog had really scented them, and was leading her master straight to them. breaking cover like three startled quails they precipitately took to their heels, to the surprise of both dog and man. "stop!" shouted the stranger. "don't run, children; sheila won't hurt you." "but you might," thought the children, and fled faster, all their fear returning in their flight. margery and amy cleared the hole in the fence in rapid succession, but trix, not liking to wait her turn to go through, tried to climb over, and stuck fast on a paling. "if you leave me i'll die!" she shrieked to the other two, who were making off at a great rate. they turned and saw her face purple with fright, while the old woman, the man, and the little dog on the other side saw her long legs kicking so wildly that they looked several pairs instead of one. with heroism, genuine, if unnecessary, margery and amy stopped and turned back to their imprisoned comrade. they reached her head just as a hand touched her back. with a scream that made them sure that she had at least been stabbed, trix made one last, desperate effort to get away, and was still. "let me help you," said the man gently. "pray, don't be so frightened. indeed, my little dog would never hurt you, and as soon as i can get you off she shall apologize for frightening you so badly." so saying he extricated trix's dress, and set her on her feet. his touch was so careful that trix plucked up heart to look at him. he was not old, he was not ugly. trix felt sure that if she had met him elsewhere and otherwise she should have liked him. "weren't there more little girls?" he asked, laughing. "it seemed to me a dozen started up from the grass when sheila barked." "two, sir," trix murmured faintly. "they are on the other side." he came closer, and looked over. "please come back a moment, and let sheila apologize," he said, and margery and amy dared not refuse. they crawled back, and the man turned to the dog. "sit up, sheila; say you're very sorry," he commanded. sheila sat up at once and whined. "now go shake hands all round," said her master. sheila rose on her hind feet and walked to each in turn, offering her little brown right paw, which they accepted, almost forgetting their fears. "now won't you come back and rest?" asked the man. "oh! no, thank you," the three little girls said in chorus, as if they had been rehearsing it, turning at once towards the opening in the fence. "then good-by," said the man. "sheila and i are a bit lonely here, and we should be very glad to have you come again--when you can stay longer," he added, with such a merry twinkle of the eye that trix could not help responding with a laugh, and all replied, "thank you," in much better spirits, and went away quite enchanted with the mysterious tenant. the more they thought over their adventure, the more they found their new acquaintance delightful, and the faster they hurried to look up jack to vaunt their courage to him, and tell him the facts about their bugaboo. great was jack's amazement as he listened, and his admiration for their pluck was satisfactory even to trix. but the next day jack had a piece of news for them that restored the balance of importance among them, and re-established jack's self-esteem, which had been a little lowered by the brave deed of the girls. "well, what do you suppose i know?" he asked, coming down the orchard where the girls were putting the post-office to rights, the day after the invasion of "the dismals." "that wouldn't take long to tell," replied trix saucily. "you may have seen the man at the dismals, but i know who he is," jack continued, ignoring trix. "who?" cried each of the girls. "guess," said jack. "an escaped bandit," exclaimed trix. "an officer of the society that takes care of animals," said amy, who had been much impressed by the stranger's goodness to sheila. "an exiled prince," cried margery, returning to her first idea. "all wrong!" shouted jack triumphantly. "not even warm. i'll tell you what happened last night. i was reading in the library, and papa and mamma were there, and pretty soon i went to sleep. and after a while i woke up enough to hear them talking, and papa said: 'well, it must be that he has some motive for coming back here, for no one would choose to live in such a dreary place as the evergreens without reason.' that woke me up, and i pricked up my ears to listen. 'you know it was his grandfather's place,' mamma said; and papa said: 'but, my dear, people rarely live alone in a tumble-down house for their grandfather's sake.' mamma said: 'no, i think as you do, it must be something to do with isabel that brought him back here. then papa said: 'it would be queer if they were to marry, and be happy after all this time, like story-book people.' and mamma said she loved miss isabel so much, and she was so good and sweet, that she should be more glad of happiness for her than for almost anything else in the world. and she said she thought mr. robert dean was a good man. and then my old book tumbled down, and mamma said low: 'don't let jack hear anything of this;' and she said to me: 'jack, dear, don't you think you'd better go to bed?' and i didn't think so, but i had to go. and now, do you know who that man is?" "no," said amy, bewildered. "why, is he mr. robert dean?" asked trix, immediately adding: "i don't know who mr. dean is, though." but margery looked greatly excited. "is he the one miss isabel was going to marry, ever so long ago, when she was going to live in that house near yours, jack?" she asked. "right you are, peggy," said jack. "he's come back to take miss isabel away, i'll bet you, and so he is a robber, and we were right in the first place." trix assented cordially. "he'd better not try to take miss isabel off!" she said fiercely. amy and margery took another view. "may be she likes him, and would be glad to see him again," said amy. "maybe she'd rather have him come back." and margery said firmly: "i don't want any one to take miss isabel away, but if she would be happier, we must not say one word." "much he'd care what we said," muttered jack wrathfully. "yes," said margery, "but we mustn't say it anyway. we'll go to see him, for he asked us to, and we'll see if he is nice, and then we won't care if he does marry miss isabel. we'll be glad because she's glad, and we won't let her know once how we feel about it." margery's voice had been growing more and more quavering, and as she ceased speaking she sat down on the grass and cried as though her heart would break. the others looked at her in silence. they could not make up their minds to give up miss isabel, even for her happiness; but, on the other hand, they could not cry so tempestuously at the thought of losing her. "never mind, margery; you'll have us," said amy, sitting down by her and putting her arm around her. "yes; but you're none of you miss isabel. but i'll be glad, very glad," said margery, with a fresh burst of tears. chapter vi. further acquaintance. when mr. robert dean opened his front door in response to a faint ring at the bell, and saw three little girls and one very rosy-faced boy standing on the step, he had no idea that it was a self-appointed committee of investigation, and that his character was to be tried by a very exacting standard. yet such was the case. following margery's suggestion, beatrice, amy, and jack had gone with her to call on the new tenant, to see if by any possibility he could be good enough to be miss isabel's husband, in case that were his object in coming to the evergreens. the visit was a difficult one, and was made still more so by the committee not finding mr. dean in the grounds as they had hoped to do, and thus being obliged to walk deliberately up the steps and ring the bell. mr. dean looked down on them with some surprise, and margery said faintly: "we've come to call on you, sir, as you asked us." "oh, yes; we've met before," said mr. dean, recognizing trix's black eyes, and laughing as he remembered the plight from which he had rescued her. "i am very glad to see you and so i am sure will sheila be. will you kindly walk into my parlor, like four pleasant flies, though i think i am not a spider." the children thanked him, and followed him into the old house. the parlor was darkened, and their host went to the window and threw open the blind. the light revealed a room furnished in the taste of more than fifty years ago. haircloth chairs were ranged at intervals around the walls, a carpet strewn with immense roses covered the floor, and the wall-paper in panels representing a tiger hunt so fascinated jack's wondering gaze that he became quite lost in its contemplation. margery had perched herself on the haircloth sofa, which was so slippery that she had to hold herself on by the bolster-like ends, for her feet did not nearly reach the floor. she rejoiced when she was rescued from her precarious situation by their host turning from the window with the words: "my name is robert dean. will you please tell me yours, that we may begin properly?" all the others looked toward margery, feeling that as it was her expedition, it was for her to do the honors. margery gladly slipped down on her feet. "this is beatrice lane; we call her trix," she began. mr. dean made a profound bow. "and the name suits her, if one may judge by appearances," he said. "and this is amy tracy, and my cousin, jack hildreth." "and you?" suggested mr. dean. "i should like to call you something too." "i am margaret gresham," said margery, blushing. "i think you would be much more comfortable if you would take this low chair that my grandmother embroidered, rather than perch on that abominable sofa again," said her host, handing margery a small ebony chair with a carved back and a seat of faded satin embroidered with flowers dim with time. "thank you," said margery, with profound inward gratitude. "it seems a pity to sit on it if your grandmother embroidered it." "it has been used a great many times, and was made for another margaret, who for many years has been out of the world where things grow old and fade," replied mr. dean. "my father had a sister who died when she was just sixteen. this chair, i have been told, grandmother embroidered for her on her fifteenth birthday." "how lovely to have it still!" said margery, rising to look at the flowers again. "i am not eleven yet--not till october." "that is a great age," said mr. dean, smiling. "and now you really do not know how glad i am that you came to-day. i was feeling a trifle blue, and wondering if i should be lonely all my life, and just then the bell rang, and four good fairies appeared. by the way," he added, starting up boyishly, "suppose we go into the garden? sheila can come there; i dare not let her in here for fear of my housekeeper. she is a little woman, and i am a big man, but i am afraid of her. you see she was my old nurse, and i got into the habit of minding her when i was small. i think that she makes pretty good cake, though i am not the judge of cake that i was when i was younger. if you will go into the garden i'll ask her to give us some, and get your opinion." he led the way through the side door, and the children found themselves at once in such a dear old garden that four "ah's!" of satisfaction arose. "what a beautiful, lovely old garden!" cried trix. "it is as nice as miss isabel's." mr. dean turned quickly. "do you know miss isabel?" he asked. "know her!" cried jack. "she's our best friend." "and she's lovelier than any one else in all the world," added trix, with defiance in her voice, remembering who he was and for what he might be there. but margery kept her big gray eyes fastened on his face, and saw the color come there and his eyes grow moist. "so she is, beatrice," he said. "you are fortunate to have her friendship." something in his voice melted all margery's distrust; she slipped her hand confidingly into his. "we love her more than all the world," she said softly. "we have a club, and her name in the club is alma cara." some sure instinct always led little margery to divine the right and kindest thing to do. mr. dean looked down on her pale face and earnest eyes. "and i believe you are the one who named her," he said. and from that moment, though he grew to be very fond of the three other children, margery was his especial pet and friend. mr. dean left them after this, and returned, bringing the cake and sheila. the little dog was introduced to jack in proper form, shook hands with each of her guests, walking over to them on her hind legs to do so, and graciously accepted cake from the children, first sniffing each piece cautiously, like the dainty, well-fed creature that she was. mr. dean touched amy's badge inquiringly. "might one ask what that means?" he said. "it's a secret," began amy, looking hesitatingly at the others. "oh, i beg your pardon," said mr. dean. "but i think we could tell mr. dean, couldn't we?" suggested margery. "yes," replied all the other members of the club promptly. there was no question but that the investigating committee had made up its mind, individually and collectively, to a favorable report on the stranger. "it is the happy thought club," explained amy, indicating the initials on her badge; "and we have a post-office." and each adding a bit of information, the story of the post-office was told him. mr. dean laughed heartily over the names. "what fun you must have!" he exclaimed. "if i come to return your call, will you show me the post-office?" "oh, yes," cried margery. "i am post-mistress this week. and, you know, we have one honorary member, and she's miss isabel, and her name is the lady alma cara. no matter what we do, we always have miss isabel, because we can't get on without her." "it is not easy, my little maid, to get on without miss isabel," said mr. dean gently. "what would you do if you could not see her, or speak to her, or write to her for ten year?" "we wouldn't stand it: we will always keep her," cried trix, firing up, and regarding this as a direct threat from him whom she was still ready to regard as an enemy. but margery understood. "i'd hardly be able to breathe," she said pityingly, laying her hand on her new friend's coat-sleeve; "but i'd know it would be better by and by." "you dear little atom," said mr. dean, putting his hand on her dark hair, "it is no wonder that you at least have a white dove on your badge." in a moment mr. dean spoke again, quite cheerfully: "now i have been thinking of something while we have been sitting here. i cannot tell how long i shall be at the evergreens; it may be all summer, it may not be a month. it depends on whether i succeed in what i came to do. i should like to see as much of you as i can while i am here; do you suppose that if i asked you to tea some day before long you would all come?" "oh, yes, sir; we'd like to, if we may," said all four children heartily. "i think that your mothers will allow it," said mr. dean. "you see you do not know me, nor i you, because you were all babies when i went away from here, but i knew your mothers and fathers. now are you not surprised?" jack blushed painfully, but trix said, with great presence of mind: "i don't think that i ever heard them speak of you." "very likely not----" mr. dean was beginning, when amy interrupted him. "we were afraid of you," she said, in spite of the warning kicks and frowns of the others. amy had a tendency to frankness that was at times wholly uncontrollable. "we had heard from trix's waitress, katie, that you had the evil eye and your house-keeper was a witch, so the day before yesterday, when sheila found us, we were hiding in the grass to see if you were so bad." the others watched mr. dean anxiously to see what effect this dreadful revelation of amy's might have, and were relieved when he threw back his head and laughed merrily. "well done!" he cried. "i had no idea that i was alarming the neighborhood. i am glad that you decided in my favor, as i suppose you did, since you came to see me." "oh, yes; don't mind that nonsense," said trix, and margery, rising to go, held out her hand, saying, "i think we shall be real friends." "thank you," replied mr. dean, bowing over her little fingers as if, as trix afterwards remarked, "she had really been the lady griselda of the castle." "good-by," said the children; "we've had a beautiful time. come and see us, and we'll show you our post-office." "good-by, my dears; thank you for coming, and come often," said mr. dean, as he held the garden gate open for them, and watched them go away, while sheila "shook a day-day with her tail," as amy said. "well, what do you think?" asked trix, as they walked towards miss isabel's, whom they had not seen for four whole days, because she had been away. "he's all right," said jack comprehensively. "i think he's nice," said amy emphatically. "he's the nicest man, except my father, i ever saw," announced trix. margery sighed gently. "i like him," she said, "and i'm sorry for him, because i think he's lonely and feels sad. he's most as nice for a man as miss isabel is for a lady." and praise could go no further. miss isabel welcomed her fellow-members of the club heartily. "we've something very interesting to tell you," said amy, the moment the salutations were over. "i am all attention," said miss isabel, coming to sit down before them. "we've been making a call at the dismals, on mr. dean," said trix. miss isabel sprang up again and went to the window. "and he's very nice, miss isabel," added margery conscientiously. "we were afraid of him because we heard that he was a robber, or had the evil eye. so we went to see, and it isn't any of it true, and to-day we went to call on him, and we're going to take tea with him soon. he's kind, and he has the loveliest little dog, and he seems not very happy, and we're sorry, because he's nice." miss isabel turned and came back to them. "and what about the post-office?" she asked, ignoring the new acquaintance. trix and jack stared, margery looked hurt, and amy murmured in helpless bewilderment: "it's very well, thank you." suddenly jack brightened. "were you thinking what i was?" he asked. "you know i could easily move those partitions over in the lower row of the post-office, to make it hold another box like the upper row." "i am afraid i don't understand, jack," said miss isabel. "why, then we could ask mr. dean to be an honorary member, too," explained jack. "oh, yes!" cried the three girls. "i'm sure he'd be delighted; he seemed so interested in the office," said amy. "should you mind?" asked trix. "may we?" while margery said nothing, but looked eager. "my dear children, you may do anything you like, and will you do one favor for me?" said miss isabel. "if it is not too much trouble, will one of you bring my mail to me every day? it is getting so warm, i shall not feel like going down." "why, we'd love to," they all cried. "let me do it all the time," begged jack. "you will all come; i want you all," said miss isabel, rising. "you won't mind if i say good-by? i--i feel tired. good-night, dears; come back as soon as you can." she kissed each one lovingly, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was impatient to be left alone. the children went down the street in wondering silence, which amy was the first to break. "miss isabel's sick," she said. "she didn't care one bit about our visit to the dismals," said trix. "and she always cared for everything we cared for," complained jack. "she's not one bit like our miss isabel; i guess she thinks mr. dean's bad." "no," said margery decidedly; "miss isabel's good to bad people. never mind; she loves us just as much. i think miss isabel's not happy to-day. i wonder why nice people are not always happy? now, i'm sure mr. dean's nice, but he seems sad, and to-night our dear miss isabel's troubled. we'll ask mr. dean to join the post-office--that was a good idea, jack--and then he won't be so lonely, and we'll love all miss isabel's troubles away. oh, dear," sighed margery wistfully, "i'd like to make the whole world happy." chapter vii. a new member. mr. dean returned the children's visit without loss of time. he found them assembled in mr. gresham's orchard, and was given the seat of honor on an old stump, while he was shown the beauties of the post-office. his admiration for this institution satisfied even the children's enthusiasm, and when it had been exhibited from every possible point of view, margery turned to amy and said: "tell him." "no, you tell him," said amy. "jack ought to tell him," said trix, "because he thought of it." "yes, tell, jack," echoed margery and amy. "now what is this mystery?" asked mr. dean. "it's nothing much," jack replied, blushing furiously. "you see i thought--we thought that you might like--oh, i mean maybe you'd be another honorary member." "of the post-office, the h. t. c.?" asked mr. dean. jack nodded. "if you don't think we're too little for you," he added. "i should be delighted," replied mr. dean, rising to bow. "it is rather if you don't think i am too big for you. but i'll tell you a secret. i grew up outside, but inside i stayed a boy--do you see?" "yes, i see," cried amy. "what a lovely way to grow up! i mean to be a woman that way, too." "that's like miss isabel," remarked trix, but jack, with an eye solely on the business in hand, said: "we'd like lots to have you join if you will." "i feel honored, and i accept with much gratitude," said mr. dean, and even trix's sharp eyes, which were always on the watch lest she were laughed at, could see nothing but pleasure in his face. "now you'll have to choose a name," cried amy, jumping around in high glee. mr. dean considered a moment. "i think, on the whole, oliver twist would be an appropriate name for me this summer," he said, with humorous melancholy. "oliver twist? what is that? sir oliver twist, or plain mr. oliver twist?" asked trix. "are none of you plain mr. or miss; are you all a knight or lady?" mr. dean inquired. "no; amy is mrs. peace plenty, but the rest of us are lady, and jack is sir harry hotspur," answered margery gravely. "and your miss isabel?" suggested mr. dean. "oh, she is lady alma cara; it would never do for her to be plain _mrs._," said trix. "i suppose not," assented mr. dean, with a queer little quirk of the lip. "i like 'plain mrs.' rather well myself sometimes, however. but i shall have to be just mr. oliver twist; it would never do to turn poor hungry oliver into a knight. amy and i will be the every-day people, while you others do the nobility for us. and i should like to know when you are all coming to take tea with me? will the day after to-morrow suit you?" "yes, thank you," replied the children. "then that's settled. and, jack, do you know a boy who would go fishing with me to-morrow after school?" "i think i do," said jack, looking up with a beaming face. "then will that boy come along with me now, and get his mother's permission to go?" inquired mr. dean, rising. "and, by the way, at what time do we come for our mail?" "we came at first before school," said trix, "but it made us so late that now we come after school, when miss isabel used to come." "does miss isabel usually come at this hour?" asked mr. dean, brushing his hat carefully. "she's not coming at all now," said amy. "it's getting so warm, she says, that she would like us to bring her mail to her." something like a shadow crept over mr. dean's face; margery thought that he looked hurt. "we are to take her mail to her in turn; we agreed to that," she said, coming close to him. "we'll all take turns going." he smiled at her sadly. "all of you whom she wishes to see," he said. "good-by till the day after to-morrow, then, and thank you for this honor more than i can say. come along, jack." trix watched them enviously as they disappeared. "that's why i hate to be a girl," she said. "no one thinks you ever want to go fishing, and i love it just as much as jack does." "isn't he splendid!" cried the other two, disregarding her woes, and she cheered up in agreeing with them. the tea was a delightful occasion, and the new member proved an acquisition beyond words, for now there frequently appeared in the boxes a card signifying that there was a parcel too big to go into the box, which might be had on inquiry of the postmaster. the new member devised this plan, and he was generally the sender of the parcels. these varied in contents from delicious candy, plants, books, toys, and all sorts of treasures, to six downy ducklings sent to margery because she had expressed a desire to have some. this funny parcel was considered by the others as a good joke, but margery took it seriously, and her gratitude was unbounded. "dear mr. twist," she wrote in acknowledgment. "i cannot tell you how much pleased i am. if there is anything i can do to show you how much i like my lovely little ducks, and how i thank you, tell me what it is, and i will do it." the reply came the next morning, and margery found herself taken rather painfully at her word. "most noble lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake," it ran. "there is a favor which i could receive at the hands of your ladyship which would give me the keenest pleasure, and your generous offer makes me bold to ask it. i have heard that you write poems. will you be so very kind as to send me some of your work through the post-office? i should be most grateful for the favor, and treasure the poems as a precious memento of your ladyship's goodness." this letter threw margery into an agony of excitement. "who told him?" she demanded sternly, looking with dilated eyes over the edge of the missive. "i may have just mentioned that you wrote poetry that day that we went fishing," said jack sheepishly. "what's the harm, peggy?" "yes, what's the harm?" echoed amy, who was much impressed by the request. "you do write poetry, and it's lovely." "oh, don't be a goose, margery; there's no harm in mr. dean knowing about it," said trix. "anyway, he does know, and you've got to send him some, so what shall it be?" "i have to do it, but i don't like to," sighed margery, tasting the trials of geniuses with indiscreet friends. "what shall i send him?" "'the knight,'" said jack promptly. "'rome,'" said trix. "'rome' is unfinished," objected margery. "'millie maloe,'" said amy. "i'll send 'the knight' and 'millie maloe,'" margery decided, and the next morning's mail contained a thick letter for mr. oliver twist. "dear mr. twist," this letter ran, "the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake sends two poems to you, as you asked her to. she hopes you will excuse mistakes in 'millie maloe,' because she was only eight years old when she wrote it, and 'the knight' one she wrote last spring; and i am sorry jack told you, because i don't like to be silly, but she is glad to do anything to please you because you are so good to us." millie maloe. all alone she is wandering, all alone in the snow; lost in the pathless forest, poor little millie maloe. the tall tress shake able her, and the winds whistle and sigh, and poor little millie is shiv'ring, and she thinks she's going to die; and she falls asleep on the dry leaves covered o'er with snow, but is waked by darling rover-- ah, happy millie maloe! the dog is bending o'er her, and a sleigh is drawing near, and soon she's with her father, who clasps his baby dear. the knight. in a nameless grave does the good knight rest. he has fought for the cross, and so he is blest. far away, in a castle grim, his wife watcheth and prayeth for him. her baby son around her plays and tosses the beads while she prays. a message comes from the holy war breathing of love for the son he ne'er saw. days after another one comes-- he's dead! "god pity the sorrowing ones." the lady griselda received a polite note of thanks for the favor thus shown mr. oliver twist, and the matter was forgotten. school closed, and the fresh warmth of june gave place to the fierce heat of july. gentle miss isabel was ailing, and the children divided their time between her and their new friend. even jack, who was less observant than the girls, discovered that though no subject was as welcome to mr. dean as whatever they might have to say of miss isabel, she did not care to hear them talk of mr. dean, and it puzzled them sorely to account for such hardness of heart in her who never before failed to throw herself wholly into their interests. it was an unusually burning day, the sun beating down with terrible heat, and not a breath stirring the drooping leaves, when trix, who was postmistress that week, handed a magazine to margery with her other mail. it was from mr. oliver twist, and she tore off the wrapper hastily, for everything from him was sure to be interesting. it was a child's magazine, and as she turned its pages she stopped suddenly, and grew so pale that amy dropped her doll, to the great danger of its precious nose, and flew with trix to her side. "what is it?" they cried. "look!" gasped margery. they followed her finger pointing, and there in the glory of type was "millie maloe" and "the knight," signed with her own name--margaret gresham. the girls nearly fell over in their wonder and awe, and margery looked so white and excited that they really feared she would faint. "jack, come here!" cried trix and amy, waving their hands wildly to jack, who appeared that moment in the gate. "hurry! oh, hurry!" jack ran over to them. "what's up?" he asked. "mr. dean's sent margery's poetry to the magazine. look at it!" cried trix, snatching the magazine from the hands of the dazed authoress. "oh, jolly me!" cried jack, much impressed. "why, you're a writer now, like--like--oh, those people what write poetry for the papers." "i'm going to find mamma," said margery, rising in solemn ecstasy; "and then i'm going to thank him." having rejoiced her family with a glimpse of her greatness, margery went forth, attended by her admiring cousin and friends. first they went to the evergreens--they had determined never to call the place "the dismals" again, since it had become so pleasant to them, and, they wakened mr. dean from the nap into which he had fallen over his book, overcome by the great heat. "you are very good to me; i came to thank you," said margery simply, kissing him as she spoke. "did you like it, little white dove?" he asked, taking the poetess on his knee. "you are such a grave dove, and so still when you feel glad or sorry that it is hard telling when you are pleased." "i like it _very_ much," said margery earnestly--"i like it more than i can say, and when i grow up i mean to write all the time." and there was told the secret that margery had never uttered, for she did not tell her dreams as the others did. "we are going now to show the magazine to miss isabel," said margery, slipping down. "to miss isabel?" repeated mr. dean. "let me tell you something. i am going away." "oh!" cried four pained voices. "yes," continued mr. dean, "i mean to go next week. you are sorry, my dear little club, and i am sorry to leave you. you tried to make me live in blissylvania, but it has been no use. i am going away." "oh! not forever," cried trix, while amy's lips quivered, and jack stooped to lace his boot. mr. dean did not answer. "you'll all write me, and we shall be friends wherever i am," he said instead. but margery, unstrung by her previous joy and this keen sorrow, threw her magazine from her in a passion of tears. "you shan't go, you can't go!" she screamed. "what's the use of being famous, or writing poetry, or doing anything, if you can't have the people you love?" mr. dean gathered her up, hushing her like a baby. "i don't know, my little margery," he said. "i have been trying to answer that question, but i can't." they were four tear-stained and swollen faces that appeared before miss isabel a little later. the joy of seeing margery's verses in print was forgotten in their sorrow over their threatened loss. miss isabel rejoiced at margery's glory, but her words awoke no enthusiasm in return. "you'll be glad," said amy, almost bitterly, "so i suppose i'd better tell you why we don't care any more about the verses. mr. dean's going away." miss isabel flushed and grew pale. "why should i be glad if you feel badly?" she asked gently. "i am sorry for you, for i think that you were having good times with him." "it's not that, miss isabel," said margery, with indignant vigor. "we love him." and miss isabel kissed her. "it's very strange," remarked trix on the way home, "how if you have one thing you can't have another. we got the post-office and mr. dean, but miss isabel's been so queer all summer, it's been almost like not having her. and now margery's poems are published mr. dean is going away. i think everything is crooked, and i don't know whether we're having a good time this summer or not, in spite of the post-office and all our fun." margery walked on in a brown study, so lost to her surroundings that she ran into butcher davis's big newfoundland dog, which always sat in the middle of the sidewalk, and would not have moved if the president and the queen had come along arm in arm, and she begged his pardon, to the amusement of the other three. "i thought he was some one else," she said, arousing herself, while jack shouted with laughter. "what's the matter, megsy; writing another poem?" he asked. "i won't tell you," she said. "i've had an idea." "tell us; how queer you look!" cried trix, giving her a little shake of impatience. "i won't tell any one on earth; so there!" said margery, with entire decision. "i want you all to make a novena for me, and begin right off to-night. i want you to pray for my plan, but i won't tell you what it is." "have you a plan, margery?" asked amy, who regarded margery as a superior being, whose thoughts were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. "yes, i've a plan," replied margery. chapter viii. margery's plan. the next morning margery ate her breakfast of rolls and a bowl of blueberries and milk without in the least realizing what she put into her mouth. her family was used to her abstractions, which usually ended in the announcement of some wonderful discovery or new verses, and paid no attention to her far-away look on this particular morning. she did her practising as faithfully as ever, but with such evident forgetfulness of what she was about that her mother came all the way down-stairs to ask her to defer it to another time, when her thoughts should be untangled. accordingly she arose and went up-stairs, brushed her hair, and braided it with great care, donned her clean blue chambray with her favorite white ruffles, and went forth in solemn excitement towards the evergreens, to unfold her plan to mr. dean. she found him in the library putting his books and magazines in a case, in view of his coming departure. margery's face clouded at the sight, but brightened again when she remembered that she had come to stay him. "why, what brings you so early, little dove?" asked mr. dean, brushing the dust from his knees as he rose to welcome her. "and all alone? how is it that you have flown away with none of your flock?" "i did not want the rest," replied margery. "i came to see you about something important." "and i am very glad to have you all to myself," said her friend. "come here, and sit by me on the sofa. you will not slip off of this one as you do from that slippery hair-cloth thing in the parlor. now, what is the great matter that you have to tell me? anything wrong with the post-office?" margery arranged herself beside him on the sofa, crossed her ankles, smoothed her dress, clasped her hands in her lap, and immediately unclasped them to remove her hat, folded them again, and was ready to begin. "you see," said margery, "i was thinking about your going away, and about miss isabel." mr. dean looked rather startled. "that is a queer subject for your thoughts, margery," he said. "i think that you are sorry that you are not friends with miss isabel," margery continued. "i am very sorry that i am not friends with miss isabel," mr. dean repeated gravely. "now i think miss isabel doesn't know," said margery. "doesn't know what, little dove?" mr. dean asked. "i don't know, but she doesn't know something," margery replied. "miss isabel's this way: if anybody does anything she doesn't like, she always forgives them right away, before they ask her to, and if anybody's bad she says maybe they aren't what they seem. now you're nice, and yet you're the only one she acts so queer about. i've puzzled and puzzled over it, and i can't see why it is, but i know she doesn't understand. i think you're friends all the time, only it's all horrid." "well," said mr. dean, smiling a little, "i think it's rather horrid myself." "yes," assented margery. "now why don't you send her a letter through our postoffice, and tell her how badly it makes us all feel?" mr. dean sat up straight, and looked at her. "i never once thought of the little post-office!" he cried. "you're both members," margery went on, "and you're the only ones who haven't written to each other. now don't you think miss isabel would be pleased if you wrote her through our little post-office? maybe she feels slighted." "margery, it's an inspiration," cried mr. dean. "and i could address it to miss alma cara." "oh, yes, you'd have to, because that's her post-office name, only it's not _miss_, it's _lady_ alma cara. and you know it would be all part of our play, and yet it wouldn't, because it's dreadful not to be friends with people; but she wouldn't mind so much if you wrote her that way." mr. dean was walking up and down the room by this time, and he came over and stood before margery. "did you ever hear that solomon was a little girl before he grew up?" he asked. "i never heard about solomon when he was little, but i guess he was a little boy," replied margery. "well, i am sure that he was a little girl with a pale face and blue dress, and that some good fairy made him into a king when he was big enough, and the same good fairy brought him here to me to-day, once more in the form of a little girl," said mr. dean. margery laughed. "do you think it is a good plan?" she asked delightedly. "good plan, margery?" cried mr. dean. "solomon himself could have thought of no wiser. i'll try it, and you will carry miss isabel the letter." he took her face in his hands and kissed her hair. "you dear little soul," he said, "i think that you will grow up a second miss isabel." and margery felt that in all her life she could never again have such praise as this. "will you write it soon?" she asked, putting on her hat, and pulling its elastic from the ribbon on the end of her braid. "you'll find the letter in to-morrow morning's mail," replied mr. dean. "i shall be in more of a hurry about it than you are." "and if you and miss isabel were friends you wouldn't go away, would you?" asked margery wistfully, turning back in the doorway. "in that case i promise to stay--oh, no one knows how long," said mr. dean; and margery ran down the walk with hope and joy speeding her steps. she found tommy traddles watching for her return, for he was devoted to his little mistress, and sat at the door on the lookout, and crying for her when she was out, which was proof that she made life pleasant for him when she was at home, for if any animal appreciates being treated with attention it is the cat. he arose, welcoming her with loud mews, alternating with the softest murmurs, and jumping up on a table, where he could rub his head against her cheek, and give her hands sundry pats with his white paws. then he ran away and hid behind the door, solely for the pleasure of jumping out at her, and then waited for her to hide, which she did behind the sofa, and when she cried "coop!" tommy traddles came creeping softly to look for her, and when he found her, sprang up on the sofa, and gave her a pat, instantly running away to hide himself, as if he said, "now you're _it_; come find me." when hide-and-seek grew tiresome, tommy traddles went to get the stick which was his favorite plaything, and brought it to margery in his teeth, laying it at her feet, and rubbing his head against her, and making the most coaxing murmurs to induce her to whisk it about for him to run after. margery never could resist his pleadings, and cat and child had a delightful frolic until both curled up on the big sofa, and fell into a long summer noonday sleep. the afternoon seemed interminable to margery, so full of impatience was she for the hour when her plan should be carried out. jack, trix, and amy came over for three-cornered puss-in-the-corner and old-man-among-your-castle after tea, which helped her through the few hours that lay between then and bed-time. when her friends had gone margery slipped down into the orchard, through the wet grass, regardless of low shoes and damp ankles. she opened the drop-box--it was her turn to be postmistress--and thrust her hand down to the bottom. one letter was there, a big, thick one. she took it out; yes, she was right. even by the starlight she recognized mr. dean's fine, clear hand. while they were playing he had come in the orchard gate and posted it. she ran with it to the house, but she knew before she held it under the gaslight that she should find it addressed to lady alma cara, blissylvania, new york. "now if only miss isabel will forgive him, and he can stay here, and we can all be friends," thought the little conspirator. she took the letter to her own room and put it under her pillow. the moon peeped in a little later and saw a small figure in its white night dress kneeling by the bed, and praying very hard for the success of the plan that might give happiness to the two friends whom margery loved best. it was long before she went to sleep, and when she did it was to dream that tommy traddles had joined the club, and that instead of wearing the dove badge, he had two white wings growing from his striped back, and was flying over the orchard to take mr. dean a message from the president, saying that he had been appointed postmaster of blissylvania, at miss isabel's request. and all night long she wakened at intervals to slip her hand under the pillow to make sure that the plump letter was still safe. chapter ix. one honorary member to the other honorary member. tommy traddles was aroused from his morning nap by the shock of seeing his little mistress appear at half-past five all dressed and ready for the day. he welcomed her with his usual salutation of soft murmurs, rubbing his head against her, which she interpreted to mean on this occasion, "why are you dressed so early?" "i couldn't sleep, tommy," margery answered; "i have so much on my mind." by six the entire household was awake, for margery began to practise energetically, that there should be no hindrance to her starting to take the letter to miss isabel as soon as breakfast was over. mary, miss isabel's old servant, told margery that miss isabel was in the garden, and the little girl ran quickly through the big hall and down the box-bordered paths to find her. miss isabel was watering and tending her lilies. she looked pale and ill as she bent over the tall stalks, in her white morning gown, dusting the glossy leaves, and showering them from her little watering-pot. margery thought that she had never seen her beloved miss isabel look so weary and sad, and fear for her health for a moment drove all thought of the letter from her mind. "dear miss isabel, are you ill?" she cried, running to throw her arms around her. miss isabel brightened as she turned to meet her. "why, my margaret!" she cried; "you startled me! what a very early bird you are! no, i am not ill, only a trifle tired, and perhaps a little sad." this recalled margery to her errand. "i brought you a letter, lady alma cara," she said. miss isabel set down the watering-pot, and put out her hand. "was it a special delivery that you came so early?" she asked. "i think it was," said margery, "though it was not marked." suddenly miss isabel dropped her shears and sponge, and sat down on the old gray stone bench, beside which the lilies grew white and stately; they were not as white as miss isabel's face as she looked at margery. "what is this, margery?" she asked. "mr. dean wrote it," began margery, very much frightened. "he is going away, and we can't bear it, and he wants you to be friends, and so do we, for then he would stay, and he has told you all about it, so that you'll be nice to him, as you are to everybody else, even--even _worms_," said margery, inspired to this comparison by looking down at the lilies' roots. "please, _please_ don't be angry with him any more, miss isabel. you're the nicest of anybody in the whole world, except mamma, and he's the next nicest." miss isabel was sobbing. "go back, dear margery," she whispered. "you must go away now." margery was dreadfully frightened. she knelt at miss isabel's feet, and pulled her hands from before her face, peering under a lily to look at her. "are you angry?" she implored. "only tell me that; are you angry?" "yes," said miss isabel, suddenly laughing in a queer sobbing way; "why didn't you bring this letter before?" and margery went away, pondering over this incomprehensible answer. as she walked slowly down the street she saw trix and amy coming to meet her. trix's face was tragic; her cheeks were crimson, her lips set, her brow dark, and her eyes full of dumb misery. amy's comfortable, rosy little countenance was stamped with sympathetic sorrow. margery saw that something dreadful must have happened. "what's the matter?" she called out, as soon as they could hear, running to receive the answer. "i have been sent with a note to your house, and i'm to stay with you all day till three, and if i go out i'm not to go near home," replied trix in an awful tone. "going to spend the day? i'm glad. what's the matter, trix, that you look so solemn," asked margery. "don't you know what that means?" demanded trix, in such a horror-stricken manner that margery trembled and shook her head. "i'll tell you, then," said trix. "you know mamma fell down-stairs three weeks ago and sprained her ankle?" "yes, i know that," said margery. "well, the doctors are coming to-day to cut her leg off," declared trix, and margery gasped, as did amy, though she had been told this before. "how do you know?" demanded margery, recovering from the shock. "i'm sure of it," trix replied. "i've heard how they do those things. they send the children out of the way always, and mamma thought i would never guess, and it would be easier for me to come home and find her leg gone than to be there and smell the ether and hear her groan, and i _know_ that's it, and i shall die, i shall die!" margery and amy looked at each other, feeling helpless in the face of such a calamity as this. "did you say anything to my mother?" margery asked at last. "no, i gave her mamma's note, and that will tell her," said trix. "i didn't want her to know i knew, because they were trying to keep it a secret from me." "it's awful!" shuddered margery. "you'd better come home with me, trix, and we'll try to do something to forget it." "forget it!" cried trix, turning on her indignantly, as they began to walk onward. "do you think you could forget it if you knew those horrid doctors were cutting off your mother's leg, and she had to go on crutches forever? perhaps they're coming with their knives this minute." margery looked faint, amy began to sob, and trix quivered from head to foot. "we shall all go crazy if we think of it," said margery, bracing herself. "it may not be that at all." "i tell you i know it is," asserted trix, so confidently that margery yielded the point. "well, come home, and don't let us talk of it," she said. "i know some people walk very nicely with crutches, and it doesn't hurt to have a leg taken off, because they use ether." but there was no consoling trix, and the task of entertaining her proved a heavy one. jack came, and heard the story with so much excitement that the others were wrought to a higher pitch than ever. "i'm going to be a doctor myself when i grow up," he announced. jack would have had more lives than a cat to follow half the callings that at different times he thought that he should like to follow. "i'd like to cut off legs. now, don't you fret, trix; your mother'll be all right in a few days, and crutches would only be fun. think how fast i can go on stilts, and that must be about a million times harder, for you don't have even one foot on the ground. i've thought of a good play. we'll pretend this house is a castle besieged by the enemy, and i'll be a scout. i'll go around by trix's house every half hour, and come back to let you know how it looks." this idea was hailed with rapture, and was about to be carried out, but just as jack had reached the front gate mrs. gresham's voice was heard from the window. "jack! jack!" she called. "yes, aunt margaret," replied jack, pausing. "if you are going out, don't go near mrs. lane's house," said his aunt. so that plan was never fulfilled. luncheon made one of the hours pass a little better, but after luncheon trix's restlessness became uncontrollable. she wandered in and out of the house; she accepted amy's proposition to make a visit to the church and pray for her mother, but, as amy remarked, "did not seem to feel any better after it." she quarrelled with jack, and almost fell out with margery, for she teased tommy traddles till that confiding cat fled in terror, and altogether led her friends such a life that no prisoners could long for freedom more eagerly than they longed for three o'clock to come. it never occurred to one of the four to lay their trouble before mrs. gresham, and she being busy did not discover its symptoms. children are such queer little beings that they will sometimes suffer all sorts of misery without a word, and in this case the feeling that there was a secret to be kept from them made them unwilling to betray their knowledge of it. at last it was ten minutes to three, and trix could go. amy, margery, and jack accompanied her. "i don't smell ether," remarked amy as they went in the door. katie, smiling with all her might, showed them into the parlor. mrs. lane, looking very bright and happy, stood by the window; she turned at once, and came swiftly forward to meet the children. "look, trix!" she said, and pointed to a piano standing in all the glory of new polish over at the end of the room. "for me!" gasped trix. "yes, for you. you see now why i sent you off," said her mother. "i didn't want you to see it until it was all in place." trix had longed for a new piano, but she did not know whether to be glad or sorry; the revulsion of feeling was too strong. "and you didn't have your leg cut off, after all?" asked jack. "i don't understand," said mrs. lane in bewilderment. "trix thought you were having your leg cut off, and that was why you sent her away," explained margery. "we've had an awful day." "you poor, poor child!" cried her mother, taking trix in her lap, in spite of her great length. "why didn't you tell mrs. gresham?" and for the first time in that hard day trix burst out crying, though she explained that it was because she was so glad. "to think that we've had such a dreadful day for nothing," said jack, in profound disgust, as they left the house. "why, jack hildreth, i'm ashamed of you; one might think you were sorry that mrs. lane wasn't a cripple," cried his cousin. the children parted at their respective homes, and margery went around by the orchard to look at the post-office, for throughout the troublous day she had not forgotten her anxiety as to miss isabel and the letter. she met miss isabel coming out of the gate as she went in. she was all in white, with a bunch of sweet peas at her belt; her face was glowing with color, her eyes shining. margery did not stop to consider how strange it was to find her there now when she had ceased coming to the post-office; she only stood still in wondering amazement at the change in miss isabel since morning. miss isabel put her arms around her, and nearly kissed her breath away. "you little dove of good tidings, my dear little margery, how can i love you enough?" she cried. "have you answered?" asked margery eagerly. "i posted a note just now, and it was addressed to mr. oliver twist," said miss isabel, and fairly ran away. margery went at once to take it out of the box. it was alarmingly thin, and her heart sank. still, you could not always judge letters by the outside, and she ran with it all the way to the evergreens. she found mr. dean marching up and down the walk, "just as if he were expecting some one," thought margery. "a letter, margery?" he cried, as soon as he saw her. "yes, but it's very thin, and yours was so thick," said margery, not wishing him to be disappointed. he snatched it from her and tore it open while she stood by trembling with eagerness to know whether he was to stay or go, and whether miss isabel had been so cruel as not to forgive him, and to make the children lose their kind new friend. it was a tiny note, but it took mr. dean ten minutes to read it, with bowed head, and only his shoulders visible to anxious margery. then he straightened himself, and turned towards her such a happy face that her heart leaped with joy. "i shall not go away, my little dove," he said simply. "then miss isabel isn't angry any more?" asked margery. "no, and it is your blessed little plan that saved us," said mr. dean. "you dear little dove of peace and good tidings, you brought the olive branch." "and now i can keep you and miss isabel?" asked margery. "you can keep me; i'm not so sure about miss isabel," said mr. dean. "i'm not afraid of losing her," laughed margery happily. "oh, i'm so glad, i'm so glad you can stay!" "what shall we do to show how glad we are?" asked mr. dean. margery considered the question seriously. "let's kneel right down and thank god," pious little margery suggested at last, and as there was no one there to see, the big man and the little maiden knelt down on the grass under the pines with their gothic arches, and said a most sincere prayer of thanksgiving. "but are you sure it is all right; it was such a little note, and yours was so thick?" said margery as they arose. "all right; it was little, but it was enough," said mr. dean, taking out the note and refolding it carefully to restore it to his pocket. and margery went home pondering the mysterious ways of grown people. she was quite sure that she should never have been satisfied with such a tiny note in reply to a long letter. margery went to bed early that night, needing rest after a long and wearing day. she lay in her little white bed looking out at the soft summer twilight in which her two friends, whom she had been the means of reuniting, were that moment walking and talking after a separation of ten years. the stars shone down on her peacefully, and the one bright one that she called "her star" looked right into her eyes. "it's glad, too, that everything is happy, and mr. dean is going to stay. it's smiling good-night." and smiling back to it, margery passed into happy dreams. chapter x. a picnic. trix and amy were twins--that is, as they explained to everybody, one was eleven and the other ten, and they weren't the least bit of relation to one another, but both their birthdays was the same day, the eighth of august. on the afternoon of the seventh four small notes appeared in the post-office addressed to lady catharine seyton, mrs. peace plenty, lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake, and sir harry hotspur, stating that the favor of their company was requested for a day in the woods on the following day by lady alma cara and mr. oliver twist, in celebration of the birthday of lady catharine seyton and mrs. peace plenty. the recipients of this invitation showed their joy with less dignity of manner than one might have expected from their lofty titles. sir harry hotspur immediately climbed a tree, and sat whooping on a limb for a few moments before descending in a somersault from a lower one. lady catharine seyton, regardless of her eleven years, danced a sort of impromptu skirt dance, in which lady griselda joined, and mrs. peace plenty hopped on and off the apple-tree stump, which served as a seat, fully twenty times without stopping, which was undignified in a well-known philanthropist. the eighth dawned fair and lovely, though rather warm. the four children met at miss isabel's gate, where she and mr. dean were awaiting them. amy brought her doll rose viola along, for, as she justly remarked, she did not see why growing up need make one forget old friends, and for her part she meant to play with rose viola till she was twenty. a three-seated wagon stood waiting them as they came up to the meeting-place, and hampers of the most exciting appearance stuck out all round under the seats. "trix and amy are the guests of honor to-day, because it is their birthday," announced mr. dean. "up with you first, lassies, and many happy returns of the day." the drive to the woods was a delight in itself, so fragrant was the air, and so beautiful the roadside with the bright flowers of august, and the blackberries showing red through the vines, with some black as jet, and here and there the leaves beginning to bronze. the last of the drive was through the woods, and the shrill voices hushed as the great trees darkened the road, and the wheels rolled almost noiselessly over the fragrant carpet of brown pine needles. they left the horse and his driver at the last point where driving was possible, and lading themselves with the contents of the wagon went on afoot. "there is a spring not far from here," said mr. dean. "i came prospecting the other day, and i thought that would be the best place for us to pitch our tents, for i expect to be both hungry and thirsty." the spot that mr. dean had selected for their use was the prettiest in all the woods. though the fierce heat of the sun, penetrating even the thick hemlocks, had dried much of the delicate leafage, the spring had here kept the moss bright and green, and the brakes and ferns grew tall and lovely in all the hollows. the children drew long breaths of satisfaction as they paused here, and stooped to lay their burning cheeks on the cool pillows of moss. miss isabel sank down with a happy sigh, caressing a fern at her side with her delicate fingers, as if it were a little baby's hair. but her guests were not disposed to be quiet long. "now what shall we do?" said jack, starting up after fully three minutes and a half of silent enjoyment of the peace and refreshment of the spot. "what would you like to do first?" asked mr. dean, with a twinkle in his eye. "eat," said jack promptly. "i knew it," cried mr. dean, laughing, "and to be quite honest, i am hungry myself." "open the small hamper," said miss isabel. "i provided a little lunch and a big lunch, and we may have the little one first." the "little lunch" proved to be hard-boiled eggs, thin bread and butter, and bottles of milk, with ginger cookies for dessert. the last crumb vanished speedily, for although the girls had laughed at jack for being hungry the very first thing, they were quite ready to take their share of the luncheon. "and now i've thought of a splendid play," announced trix, removing the crumbs from her lips in the most simple, if not the most elegant manner, by the tip of her slender red tongue. "miss isabel and mr. dean must be a queen and king, and we will be their subjects, and they must send us to explore the countries around their kingdom, and do all kinds of brave deeds, and we must come back to report them, and then they must send us again. some of us can discover countries, and some report on the plants, and fruits, and things in the neighboring kingdoms, and some must kill dragons and all those things." "isn't that a great play, trix!" cried jack in ecstasy. "i'll kill dragons." "i'd like to discover," said margery. "i'll report the flowers and things," said amy. "and i want to be a knight sent out to have adventures," declared trix. "will you play that, miss isabel? will you, mr. dean?" "by all means," replied mr. dean. "i'd like it very much," said miss isabel. "then you sit here," said trix, in great delight. "wait till i make your throne with these shawls. and now we'll kneel before you, and you must send us on these expeditions. and remember, we're all knights, because girls can't do such things." four faces were raised to the sovereigns seated on the empty lunch-basket and a rock, while four knightly figures, three in bright ginghams and one in knickerbockers, knelt to receive their commands. "sir harry hotspur," began the king, "there is a monstrous dragon devastating our kingdom on the west. take thy trusty sword and slay this monster, bringing me its head, and fail not, as ye be a good knight and true." "yes, your majesty," replied sir harry, rising and backing from the royal presence, and then starting westward at a pace that plainly showed how his horse was plunging beneath him, as he waved his pine sword in his right hand and blew an imaginary trumpet in his left. "and you, sir percival," the queen said, "go abroad to the kingdoms adjoining our domain, and bring me tidings of the kinds of fruits and plants that flourish in those foreign parts, and if possible bring me also specimens of these." "yes, your majesty," replied rosy-cheeked sir percival, trying to rise gracefully as the first knight had done, and getting entangled in her pink gingham skirts. "and, sir philip," the king said, "don light armor and select your trustiest steed, for it is my will that you go to discover new countries, if such there be, for the honor of our name and the increase of our kingdom." "sire, i will go right gladly," replied sir philip loyally. "and you, brave and bold sir guy," the queen said, "ride hither and yon seeking adventure for the glory of knighthood and the succor of the unfortunate." "your majesty, i obey," replied sir guy, making a profound bow, and doffing a helmet that looked uncommonly like a shade hat with yellow daisies. the band of knights began returning in what seemed like two or three minutes, but which was a period of from three to five years. sir harry bore the dragon's head, which he presented kneeling to the king. "it was a dreadful fight, your majesty," said the panting knight. "all around the dragon's cave lay men's bones." "think ye they were the bones of the victims which he had devoured?" the king asked. "i am sure of it, your majesty, for i barely escaped," said sir harry; "but at last i gave one terrible stroke, and his head rolled at my feet. here it is." jack had had a hard time digging up the root which represented the dragon's head. "you have our royal thanks," said the king, "and you shall learn that one monarch at least is not ungrateful." sir philip was the next to arrive. he--or she--knelt at the feet of the king. "well, sir philip," he asked, "were you successful?" "more than i expected to be, my liege," replied sir philip. "i found a large continent north of this kingdom, and an island to the east. they are inhabited by a singular race, but the chief with whom i talked is willing to embrace christianity, so i doubt not they will be loyal subjects of your throne." "well done, valiant sir philip," said the queen; "permit me to decorate you with the isabellan medal," and she pinned in the gathers of the blue gingham shirt-waist which covered the breast of this knight a large round leaf, bearing the word "honor" pricked in it with a pin. "and here comes sir guy," cried the king. sir guy came running, his hair was unbraided, and his cheeks flushed, and his dark eyes bright. "i found a lovely maiden chained to a rock, and four ruffians about to stab her. i made them all fly, and here is the maiden," and sir guy produced a little white kitten mewing feebly. "oh, trix, give her to me!" cried margery. "no; i'm going to keep her myself," said trix, dropping the rôle of sir guy. "i found her, and you've got tommy traddles, and i haven't any kitten. she's most starved: mayn't i give her milk, miss isabel?" "of course you may. you really did have an adventure," cried miss isabel. "perhaps it is a fairy birthday present, trix, and she is an enchanted princess. but at last here comes sir percival. good sir percival, we began to fear you had perished." "here are all the flowers and fruits i could find," said sir percival, presenting an enormous bunch of all sorts of blossoms. "but here is something else i found, and it looks like shells--see;" and sir percival, who was not as good as the rest in keeping up what margery had called "historical ways of talking," held out something to the queen. "a fossil!" cried her majesty. "sir percival, i congratulate you; you have really made a discovery. where did you find it?" "oh, need i be sir percival any more? it's so hard to talk that way. i can't tell you unless i can be myself," implored amy. "oh, pshaw! you can't pretend worth a cent," said jack in disgust; but miss isabel said, "why, of course; we don't want to do anything for fun when it is no longer fun. tell on, amy." "you know that little hill over there beyond the spring," began amy, much relieved. "they've been taking out some rock on the side, and i was looking there when i found this lump of something that looked like mud, and when i took it up i found it was hard, and it had all these shells in it. they look like scallop shells, but they can't be, because they are in the woods. what are they, miss isabel?" "the shells can tell us," said miss isabel, putting the lump of clay to her ear and pretending to listen. "i'll tell you what they say. it is this shell that is speaking; it says: many ages ago, before adam was made, there was a great lake where these woods now are, and this shell lived in the water, and was the house of a little mollusk, like shells nowadays. and once there came a great commotion in the waters and something like an earthquake in the land, and when it was over the lake was gone, and in its place was a valley, and the hill was thrown up, and beautiful great plants of such kinds as grow now only in the tropics began to flourish, for it was very warm. and the shell says it found itself thrown up into clay-like mud, and pretty soon the mollusk died, for it could not live out of the water. and then it grew very cold, and great glaciers went crashing and cracking, and sliding to the sea over this very spot where we now sit. and then the land in the northern latitudes sank, and made the climate warmer again, and the glaciers began to melt, and as they melted they dropped great quantities of stone and gravel and soil made of the stones their awful strength had ground up, and the hollow where the lake had been was filled up, and the little shell says it was imbedded in the soil made by the passing and breaking up of the glacier, and a great bowlder fell on top of it, dropped by the glacier, and which was taken out of the hill only the other day, and once more this little shell saw the sun. and it says it wonders to see such creatures as we are, for though more ages ago than we can imagine it saw great animals much larger than the elephant wandering here, it never before saw anything that could understand its wonderful history, for when it last saw light god had not made man." "oh, miss isabel, is it a fairy story?" "oh, miss isabel, is it true?" cried trix and amy together. margery almost sobbed in excitement; she stretched out her hand for the fossil. "i can't think so far back," she whispered. "before god made man!" but jack said, "i know; that's geology, and it's splendid. i mean to study it when i get big." "it is all true, dears," said miss isabel, "and no one can 'think so far back,' nor take in the wonders of the story. and it is geology, as jack says; but no fairy story, amy, is half so lovely and interesting as the story that nature tells." "do you know that nature is telling me a story about little jack horner, and i think i should like to put my hand in that hamper and pull out a plum--in other words, i'm hungry, isabel," said mr. dean. so they all attacked the "big luncheon," and when they had eaten all the chicken, and rolls, and cake, and fruit that they possibly could, and had given the white kitten the bones, they were disposed to rest, and all but amy lounged on the moss in every attitude of perfect ease. suddenly miss isabel asked, "where is amy?" and that moment a faint scream came as answer to her question. everybody ran towards the direction whence the sound came. there stood poor little mrs. peace plenty up to her knees in black mud, and if she tried to extricate one foot the other only sank the deeper. "i came to get some water," she sobbed, "and when i came around here behind the spring to see what it looked like i got stuck." "never mind, amy, we'll pull you out," said mr. dean cheerily. "jack, help me drag this dead tree over." they swung the fallen trunk around, and with that to stand on soon pulled amy out, and set the poor child on firm land again, though with both her low shoes gone, and her skirts in a sorry plight. "it's lucky that it is time to go home," remarked miss isabel, as she took off amy's stockings to rub her feet. "you must carry her to the wagon." mr. dean obediently shouldered the little girl, and they started in procession out of the woods. "i am glad the hampers are empty," remarked mr. dean. "mrs. peace plenty is a solid little body." the drive home in the long, warm rays of the afternoon sun warmed amy thoroughly and restored her shaken nerves. "i never had such a lovely birthday in all my life, and i thank you ever and ever so much," said trix, as they set her down at her own gate. "and you have had a whole long eleven, too," laughed mr. dean. "i have had such a good time i can't tell you," said amy, in her turn, as she was deposited at home. she was a funny figure standing there barefooted, the black mud of the woods dried on her skirts and hands, clutching her stiff stockings, her precious fossil, and rose viola to her breast. "many happy returns, many happy returns," mr. dean, miss isabel, jack, and margery called back to her as they drove away. "i'm afraid there won't be many returns of her shoes," remarked jack. "but in spite of that it's been a perfect picnic." chapter xi. a wedding. mr. dean was to marry miss isabel, after all! the tidings came to the children as a blow at first, and they, especially margery, felt that it was almost taking advantage of their confidence, since that was not at all the end they had in view in seeking to have mr. dean stay at the evergreens. but in time they grew reconciled to the arrangement, and even came to see that it was the best one possible, for now they could visit both miss isabel and mr. dean at once, instead of dividing their time between them. it helped them to see that this wedding was a desirable plan, that the day appointed for it was margery's eleventh birthday, october fourteenth, and that all the little girls were to be bridesmaids, and jack best man, in spite of his being but twelve years old, for miss isabel declared that this must be a club wedding, since without the h. t. c. it might never have come about. four pairs of little bare feet sprang to the floor early in the morning of october fourteenth, moved by the thought that margery was eleven years old and it was miss isabel's wedding-day, and they sped to the window to see what sort of weather it was. nor was one likely to sleep late when a dress of softest pink mull, with a big picture hat to match, lay like a kind of rosy dawn on a chair ready for the bridesmaid to put on. and jack had gone to bed with his first long trousers laid where his eyes could rest on them the moment they opened, and with his patent-leather shoes in shining glory on the hearth, and he arose in a flurry that was still dignified, feeling that much of the success of the wedding lay on his shoulders. the weather was all that it should be; a soft haze rested over all the earth, the leaves were blazing in the glory of their october colors, and there was that wonderful hush upon nature that comes when the harvest is over, the work done, and summer pauses lingeringly, as if dreading to say good-by. there was only happiness in each little heart that lovely morning; all doubt had been removed from the children's minds, and they had learned to see what a delightful thing it was that their miss isabel would no longer be lonely in the old house. "for," as amy sagely remarked, "when we were there we couldn't tell how lonely she was, because we _were_ there, and she wasn't lonely, but when we were gone she must have been sad, and now we shall know that when we aren't there mr. dean will talk to her till we come back." at half-past ten three pink skirts fluttered out of a carriage at miss isabel's door. the mass was to be at eleven. it would have been dreadful to have been late, and they had all insisted on their privilege of seeing miss isabel first in her bridal dress. very sweet and lovely she looked with the white veil crowning her bright hair, and such a peaceful look on her face that amy cried out as she kissed her, "you look so good, miss isabel, as well as pretty." miss isabel had three little boxes all ready containing her gifts to her bridesmaids, and when they opened them, behold there lay before their delighted eyes a dear little dove in pearls, so that the only regret that they felt in wearing their pretty pink dresses, that the blue badge with the dove was forbidden them, was more than taken away. miss isabel fastened the pins in the soft ruffles around each little yoke, and whispered to her bridesmaids that these were badges of her love, as well as reminders of the club and the happiness that had come from it. and she satisfied trix's solicitude for jack by assuring her that he had a pin precisely like theirs for a scarf-pin. then she kissed each face under its big mull hat, gathered up her gloves, and they all went down to get into the carriages to drive to the church, whence miss isabel should return miss isabel no longer. the little church was filled, for miss isabel had many friends, and everybody was deeply interested in this wedding because they knew it was the happy ending of an old story. and everybody knew, too, that it had come about through the children's club, and the old women in the side aisles nudged each other as the lohengrin wedding march pealed through the church, and whispered, "there they are; there are the children," as the three little maids in pink came slowly down the aisle, preceding miss isabel on the arm of her uncle, who had come all the way from chicago that on this great day she might have the arm of one of her kindred on which to lean. and mr. dean met her at the sanctuary gate, looking very proud and happy, with jack beside him suffering torture from his stiff collar, but enjoying himself immensely none the less. then miss isabel and mr. dean entered the sanctuary, and mass began. it did not seem long to the excited children before the organ once more pealed forth, this time in the jubilant strains of mendelssohn's wedding march, and they were proceeding down the aisle in twos, trix and amy, margery and jack, and behind them mr. and mrs. dean, while audible exclamations of "god bless her!" came from the humbler friends to whom miss isabel had given help and happiness, and tearful smiles and loving looks followed her from those to whom she had given happiness also, though they had not needed alms. the old house looked beautiful on their return. all the rooms were filled with palms and white and golden chrysanthemums, and the sun lit up the place into splendor. "i believe they built these old houses just for weddings and balls; i never knew it could look so fine," said jack to margery, pausing on the threshold, and feeling without understanding why that the dignified old rooms were made for grandeur. at the wedding breakfast margery, as first bridesmaid, sat at mrs. dean's right hand, and jack at mr. dean's left, trix next to him, and amy next margery. they found that for once in their life they had enough ice-cream and dainties, and jack leaned over and whispered to trix, "i've taken my watch out, and i can't get it back," which remark caused trix to choke in the most embarrassing manner over her last spoonful of ice. jack had hardly succeeded in the difficult task of restoring his watch to the tight vest, and was sitting back at peace with all mankind, when he heard mr. dean saying something so dreadful that he could not credit his own ears. he looked up; mr. dean's eyes had a twinkle in them that jack had learned meant mischief, and he certainly was saying: "mr. john hildreth, my best man, will make a few remarks on this happy occasion." jack sank back farther, looking painfully red and frightened, but trix poked him energetically. "get up, jack; he wants you to make a speech," she whispered. "you've got to do it. pooh! what do you care; you know most of the people here." jack arose; his very ears were crimson, and his voice trembled. "ladies and gentlemen," poor jack began. "hear! hear!" cried one of the guests, in what was meant for encouragement, but had the opposite effect. "ladies and gentlemen," jack said again, "i didn't know best men had to make speeches. i never made a speech." here the poor child stuck fast, and mrs. dean whispered to her husband to be merciful and tease him no more, while trix in a stage whisper said, "go on, say something about the weather, the breakfast, and miss isabel, or mr. dean, or anything." "i think we have very nice weather for a wedding," jack went on, acting on this hint; "and once i heard a saying, 'happy the bride that the sun shines on.' and we've had a fine breakfast, and enjoyed ourselves very much, and i couldn't eat another bit. and we all love miss isabel so much, that at first we didn't want mr. dean to marry her, but after we got acquainted with him we didn't mind, because he's most as nice as she is. so we were willing--i mean margery, and trix, and amy, and me--and i--to have her marry him, and we're all perfectly satisfied, and we think they've had a nice wedding, and we hope they'll have a great many more." a great deal of laughter and cheering greeted this happy ending, under cover of which trix whispered: "o jack! you goose; why did you go and spoil it? the rest was splendid. they can't have a great many more weddings; people don't keep getting married." "some people do," retorted jack. "isn't there a tombstone in the cemetery that says, 'here lies amos barnes, and amelia, and frances, and rosa, and harriet, wife of the above'?" however, jack got upon his feet again, quite emboldened by his success. "i didn't mean we hoped they'd have a great many more; i meant we wish them many happy returns of the same." and not even trix could see why the guests laughed again, but they applauded heartily, and mr. and mrs. dean told jack that his speech was very nice, and they thanked him very much. so jack felt rather puffed up, and tried hard not to look as if the eyes of the world were on him; and under cover of the applause for jack, mr. and mrs. dean arose and slipped away up-stairs, and presently they reappeared, mr. dean carrying an umbrella and a travelling shawl, and mrs. dean dressed all in soft dove-gray with chinchilla collar, and the children saw that she had pinned on her breast the blue badge of the h. t. c. and that one little act explained why they had so loved miss isabel, for even in that exciting moment she remembered to give them pleasure. from the foot of the stairs, all down the long hall, and out the door, even while mrs. dean paused to kiss her small bridesmaids, swarming eagerly around her, she was pelted with a shower of rice, and it rattled on the top of the carriage as the door shut, and jack hit the back with an old slipper provided for that purpose, and then the wheels rattled down the gravel of the driveway, and miss isabel was gone. a feeling of desolation crept over the children; the girls' eyes were full of tears, and jack felt a lump in his throat, for though they knew that miss isabel would be back in two weeks, it seemed horribly like giving her up. but the situation was saved from becoming melancholy by amy's small brother, who, standing quietly in his white dress and blue kid shoes, had been watching the departure from under his waving mop of golden hair. he now trotted off to the parlor, and returned with the hearth-broom. "well, if nobody else is goin' to get married, i dess i'd better thweep up dis rice," he remarked, and everybody laughed, and the solemnity of the moment was broken up. fifteen minutes passed, and most of the guests had gone, when children began arriving, and more and more, till amy, trix, margery, and jack were completely puzzled to see all their schoolmates enter. but mrs. gresham explained the mystery by telling them that it was a plan of miss isabel's to surprise margery, as it was her birthday, as well as miss isabel's wedding-day. so she had asked mrs. gresham to help her, and the orchestra was to remain, and the children were to have a party for the rest of the afternoon. this exciting information drove all thoughts of loneliness out of the children's heads, and soon the big rooms were filled with gay little figures, dancing to the liveliest music under the stately palms and bright golden chrysanthemums. and so while the cars were whirling their dear miss isabel away to begin her new life, her loving thought gave margery a happy ending of her birthday, and made the children feel that she was still too near them to be lonely, and that the time would be all too short for them to plan the welcome home that they meant to give her. chapter xii. the end of the year and of the post-office. christmas had come and gone, and it was the last day of the year. the christmas tree still stood in the bay-window, and tommy traddles had not ceased to find delight in setting in motion with his paw the decorative balls within his reach on the lower limbs, and eying wistfully those that hung higher. the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and the snow fell swiftly and silently outside, drifting like a white veil across the window, and heaping itself on the sills. margery sat watching it listlessly, swinging the curtain cord, and wondering what made the others so long. the post-office had languished of late, having been crowded out of mind by the holiday preparations and the colder weather. no one would confess to being tired of it, but sometimes there were two or three days between the delivery of mails, which were steadily growing lighter; indeed, no one but lady alma cara and mr. oliver twist were still faithful correspondents. at last trix and amy came running in the gate, and margery sprang to meet them. they stamped the snow off in the vestibule, and took off their things in the hall, where trix had a struggle with her rubber boots, which, as she needlessly observed, were growing too small for her. "now what shall we do?" demanded trix, as they came into the sitting-room, bringing with them such an atmosphere of out-of-doors that tommy traddles retired to the hearth-rug. "why, i'm looking for jack," answered margery. "he has some secret which he wouldn't tell me, but he said he'd come over this afternoon surely and tell me. he said it was half good and half bad, and i can't think what it can be." "i don't believe it's much," said trix sceptically. "jack has such lots of notions." but margery shook her head. "this is something," she began, when amy interrupted her. "i hear him now, coming through the back way," she said, and had scarcely spoken when jack appeared, half a dozen cookies in each hand and busy with another. "winnie's baking," he explained, not very clear in speech, "and i helped myself. they're prime; have one," and he offered each girl a cookie with princely generosity. "now, jack, what's your secret?" demanded margery. "are you going to tell me to-day? mind those crumbs; this room's been swept this morning." jack nodded energetically, signifying in pantomime that he would tell them as soon as the cookies had disappeared; so there was nothing to do but wait for this to happen with what patience they could summon. at last the final morsel vanished, and after a provokingly elaborate brushing of his knees, and careful sweeping up of crumbs with the hearth-brush, jack seated himself on the edge of a chair, and looked from one to the other. "oh, tell me, jack; hurry up!" cried margery, while trix threw a down pillow at him, which he caught, saying: "thank you," putting it at his back. "do you want me to tell you, megsy?" he asked. "well, i'm going away to school." a thunderbolt in the midst of the snow could not have produced greater consternation. "jack!" cried all three in tones of horror. "you're not." "yes, i am; papa has decided. i am going next monday." "to boarding-school?" asked trix, regret at his going and envy struggling in her face. "yes; you see, papa thinks i can prepare for my first communion better in the school than here, and you know i want to make it with you next june." "oh!" cried margery, who had been sitting in speechless grief, a little ray of light breaking into the gloom of her face. "then you're not going far?" "oh, no; only in town. i can come home at easter, and june will soon be here," replied jack. "and we can write to him," said amy, trying as usual to see a bright side. "but it will be so lonesome without jack," said margery, her voice quivering, for she had never had a brother, and this cousin had been all to her that a brother could be. "it's a pity he must go," said trix, tilting one foot up and down on the toe of her slipper, which she thus slipped on and off at the heel in a pensive manner; "but as amy says, we can write to him, and the post-office will be more fun again," thus admitting by implication what no one had been willing to confess, that the post-office was less delightful than at first. silence followed this remark. amy and margery looked at one another. "we should have to take the post-office in the house," trix went on, continuing her line of thought. "no one could go down into the orchard for mail all winter." "and what house could we put it in?" asked margery. "none of us wants to be postmaster all the time now, though we did at first, and it would be a nuisance for any of us to have to go into some one else's house to take care of the mails." neither liked to be the one to propose discontinuing it, but jack did not mind, because since he was going away he could not bear his part in it that winter in any case. "why not give up the post-office?" he asked. "we'd be the h. t. c. just the same, and you're all sick of it anyway." "you are too," said trix, indirectly admitting that she was. "well, even if i weren't, i couldn't play post-office this winter," jack replied. "i say, let's get the post-office in here, and burn it for a farewell ceremony, and then if we want to have another i'll make one next summer. anyhow, this one's warped." trix cheered up. "let's," she said briefly. "burn our post-office!" amy gasped. margery looked happier. "and i could write an ode, and we'd read it while it burned. but you'd have to ask alma cara and mr. oliver twist first, jack, because they're members. you go there, and while you're gone i'll write the ode." "first let's vote on whether we burn it or not," said jack. "all in favor of burning the post-office please signify it by saying aye." "aye," said trix and margery unanimously. "how do you vote when you want to and don't want to?" asked amy. "you decide which you want more," said margery. "o amy, you goose, we'll have another next summer, if we want one, and what's the use of a post-office without jack," said trix impatiently. "sure enough," said amy. "well, i vote aye, then." "now once more," cried jack. "all in favor say aye." "aye," cried the four voices. "now, jack, run up to mr. dean's while i write an ode," said margery, and jack went. "they say give it up till next summer, and then decide whether to begin again," announced jack, returning out of breath. "they say better not drag on if it's burdensome. i'm going down to the orchard to get the post-office." "how shall we burn it?" asked amy, when jack came back. "i've been thinking of the ceremonies on the way," jack replied, depositing the post-office on the floor. "i say we all march around it three times in silence, and then each of us lay our hand on it once for farewell. and then i'll make a speech, and then we'll each take a corner and carry it to the fire and lay it on the coals, and we'll stand around and watch it burn while margery reads the ode." "it's awfully solemn," said amy, shuddering. "it's fine," said trix. "ode done, margery?" "yes, it will do," said margery, giving a last wild flourish with her pencil. "come on then," said jack. "move the table." they pushed the table out of the way, and three times the members of the h. t. c. encircled the doomed post-office in solemn silence, after which each laid a hand on its top as a farewell greeting. then with a gesture commanding silence jack began to speak. "this office, ladies, has served us long and faithfully, and many are the pleasures it has given us. we owe to it that our dear friend, mr. oliver twist, is still with us, and it has made the lady alma cara happy and done a noble work in the six months of its life. but the year is ending to-night, and the office is to end with it, because each has lasted as long as it can. we say farewell to this happy year, and we are glad that it was so happy. and we say farewell to our good post-office, and we are glad it was so good. i for one shall keep its memory dear even in the new scenes to which i am about to depart. and if the h. t. c. has a new post-office next summer we shall still love and cherish the recollection of this one, to which we now say good-by. girls, take a corner each." amy sniffed outright as she lifted her end, and margery looked excited, while trix whispered to her, "i think jack will be a priest, he preaches so splendidly." they bore the little post-office to the grate, and laid it on the coals. it was wet with snow, and sputtered, and steamed awhile before it kindled. at last a little tongue of flame ran along the roof, and came out at one of the boxes. "now, margery, begin your ode," whispered jack. "read slowly." margery read: "sweet post-office, though you are dear, the hour has come to say good-by; you end now with the ending year, and we stand here to see you die. you served us well in summer's heat; you changed two foes to man and wife; we ran to you with hurried feet, because you were our joy in life. though you are warped, we do not spurn; we love you still, though you are bent, and standing here to see you burn we read to you our hearts' lament. the new year comes to-morrow morn, when one brave dove far schoolward flocks; in june, if a new office's born, we'll think your spirit's in the box, and thus you will be with us yet; old office, we will hold you dear; our first friend we can ne'er forget, so good-by, old office, and old year." this ode, in spite of its halting in some of its feet, was hailed with rapturous approval by margery's audience. "there goes the last end of the office," cried jack excitedly. "and our post-office is over," said amy sadly. "and jack's going away," added margery. "only till june, and then we'll have a new office and jack back again," said trix. "and the happy thought club's going to last forever," cried jack. "let's give three cheers for the h. t. c. as a close of the exercises. hurry up before the box is quite gone." the cheers were given, and then four figures curled up on the hearth-rug to watch the last embers of the post-office fade away, and build castles in the air for the future achievements of the h. t. c. in the new year so close upon them. * * * * * printed by benziger brothers, new york. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: one by one they emerged from their corner.--_page ._] molly brown of kentucky by nell speed author of "the tucker twins series," "the carter girls series," etc. [illustration] a. l. burt company publishers new york printed in u. s. a. copyright, , by hurst & company, inc. printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i a letter ii the orchard home iii kent brown iv afternoon tea v letters from paris and berlin vi at the tricots' vii a mother's faith viii des halles ix the american mail x the zeppelin raid xi "l'hirondelle de mer" xii tutno xiii the "signy" xiv the cablegram xv wellington again xvi irishman's curtains xvii heroes and hero worshipers xviii circumstantial evidence xix wasted dye xx a war bride xxi the flight xxii the wedding breakfast xxiii the star-spangled banner molly brown of kentucky. chapter i. a letter. from miss julia kean to mrs. edwin green. giverny, france, august, . dearest old molly brown of kentucky: you can marry a million professor edwin greens, b.a., m.a., ph.d., l.d. (the last stands for lucky dog), and you can also have a million little green olive branches, but you will still be molly brown of kentucky to all of your old friends. i came up to giverny last week with the polly perkinses. they are great fun and, strange to say, get on rather better than most married folks. jo is much meeker than we ever thought she could be, now that she has made polly cut his hair and has let her own grow out. polly is more manly, too, i think and asserts himself occasionally, much to jo's delight. i should not be at all astonished if his falsetto voice turned into a baritone, if not a deep bass. he walks with quite a swagger and talks about my wife this and my wife that in such masculine pride that you would not know him. paris was rather excited when we came through last week. i have been at quimperle all summer and only stopped in paris long enough to get some paints and canvas. i had actually painted out. jo had written me to join her in this little housekeeping scheme at giverny. i wish you could see the house we have taken. it is too wonderful that it is ours! such peace and quiet! especially so, after the turmoil in paris. i have seen so few papers that i hardly know what it is all about; no doubt you in kentucky with your _courier journal_ know more than i do. they talk of war, but of course that is nonsense. anyhow, if there is a war, i bet i am going to be johnny on the spot. but of course there won't be one. i miss kent,--but i need hardly tell you that. i almost gave in and sailed with him, but it was much best for me to wait in france for my mother and father. they are now in berlin waiting for the powers that be to give some kind of a permit for some kind of a road that bobby is to build from constantinople to the interior; that is, he is to build it if he can get the permission of the imperial government. what the germans have to do with turkey, you can search me, but that is what bobby writes me. he has done a lot of work on it already in the way of preliminary plans. i am to hang around until i hear from them, so i am going to hang around with the polly perkinses. no doubt kent is home by this time. i envy him, somehow. it is so wonderful to have a home to go to. now isn't that a silly line of talk for judy kean to be getting off, i, who have always declared that a gypsy van was my idea of bliss? i never have had a home and i never have wanted one until lately. i fancy that winter in paris with your mother in the rue brea was my undoing. of course, if bobby had been anything but a civil engineer and mamma had been anything but so much married to bobby that she had to trot around with him from one end of the earth to the other, why then, i might have had a home. but bobby is bobby and he wouldn't have been himself doing anything but building roads, and i certainly would not have had mamma let him build them all by his lonesome. the truth of the matter is, i was a mistake. i should either never have been born or i should have been born a boy. geewhillikins! what a boy i would have been! somehow, i'm glad i'm not, though. i am wild to see little mildred. it seems so wonderful for you to be a mother. i know you will make a great job of being one, too. are you going to have her be an old-fashioned baby with the foregone conclusion that she must "eat her peck of dirt," or is she to be one of these infants whose toys must be sterilized before she is allowed to play with them, and who is too easily contaminated to be kissed unless the kisser gargles first with corrosive sublimate? please let me know about this, because kiss her i must and will, and if i have to be aseptic before i can do it, i fancy i had better begin right now. here is polly with the mail and paris papers. will finish later. it has come! actual war! we feel like fools to have rushed off here to the country without knowing more about the state france was in. i can hardly believe it even now. they are asking americans to leave paris, but i can't leave. how can i, with mamma and papa in berlin? i am going to stay right where i am until things settle themselves a little. the peasants even now do not believe it has come. we are not much more than an hour from paris, but there are many persons living in this village who have never been to paris. the old men stand in groups and talk politics, disagreeing on every subject under the sun except the one great subject and that is germany. hatred of germany is the one thing that there are no two minds about. the women look big-eyed and awestruck. there are no young men--all gone to war. they went off singing and joking. what i long for most is news. we don't get any news to speak of. i am filled with concern about bobby and mamma. it is foolish, as they are able to take care of themselves, but bobby is so sassy. i am so afraid he might jaw back at the emperor. he is fully capable of calling him to account for his behavior. some one should, but i hope it won't be bobby. polly perkins is going to drive a red cross ambulance. he is quite determined, so determined that he has actually produced a chin from somewhere (you remember he boasted none to speak of). it is quite becoming to him, this determination and chin, and jo is beaming with pride. i believe if polly had wanted to run, it would have killed jo. excuse the jerkiness of this, but i am so excited that i can only jot down a little at a time. things are moving fast! the artists and near artists at madame gaston's inn are piling out, making for paris, some to sail for united states and others to try to get into england. jo and i had determined to sit tight in our little house with its lovely walled garden that seems a kind of protection to us--not that we are scared, bless you no! we just felt we might as well be here as anywhere else. this morning jo came to breakfast looking kind of different and yet kind of familiar--she had cut off her hair! "i mean to follow polly," she remarked simply. "follow him where?" "wherever he goes." and do you know, molly, the redoubtable jo burst into tears? i was never more shocked in my life. if your aunt sarah clay had dissolved into tears, i would not have been more at a loss how to conduct myself. i patted her heartily on the back but the poor girl wanted a shoulder to weep on and i lent her one. i tell you when jo gets started she is some bawler. i fancy she made up for all the many years that crying has been out of her ken. my neck is stiff from the wetting i got. nothing short of the plumber could have stopped her. when she finally went dry, she began to talk: "by i'b glad bolly didn zee be bake zuch a vool ob byself!" "well, you had better look after your p's and s's or you'll be taken up as a german spy." that made her laugh and then she went on to tell me what she meant to do, the p's still too much for her but her s's improving. "what's the use of my brofession now? i'd like to know that. miniature painting will be no good for years to come. this war is going to be something that'll make everybody baint on big canvasses. who will want to look at anything little? i tell you, judy, the day of mastodons is at hand! there'll be no more lap-dogs, no more pet canaries. the one time lap-dogs will find themselves raging lions; and the pet canaries will grow to great eagles and burst the silly wires of their cages with a snap of their fingers----" "whose fingers?" i demanded. "never mind whose! mixed metaphors are perfectly permissible in war time." i was glad to see she could say such a word as permissible, which meant that her storm of weeping had subsided. "are you going as a red cross nurse?" i asked. "nurse your grandmother! i'm going to drive an ambulance or maybe fly." "but they won't want a woman in the thick of the fight!" "well, who's to know? when i get a good hair-cut and put on some of polly's togs, i bet i'll make as good a man as pol--no, i won't say that. i'll never be as good a man as he is. i'm going to try the aviation racket first. if they won't take me, i'll get with the red cross, somehow. i know i could fly like a bird. i have never yet seen the wheels that i could not understand the turning of. i believe it is not so easy to get aviators. it is so hazardous that men don't go in for it. i am light weight but awfully strong." "but, jo, what are you going to do about your feet?" you remember, molly, what pretty little feet jo has. "oh, i'll wear some of polly's shoes and stuff out the toes. i bet i'll walk like charlie chaplin, but when one is flying, it doesn't make much difference about feet." nothing is going to stop her. she is to start to paris to-morrow, and i will go, too. i know all of you think i should stay here in g---- until i can get into communication with bobby, but molly brown, i can't do it. when history is being made, i simply can't stand aside and see it. i've got to get in it by hook or crook. don't be scared--i am not going to fly! i wish i could, but i promised kent brown i would never fly with any man but him, and while it was done in jest, in a way i still feel that a promise must be kept. i wish i were not made that way. i'd like to dress up like jo bill perkins and pass as a man, and i could do it quite as well as jo, in spite of her having practiced being a boy all her life, but i can't help thinking what bobby has always said to me: "just remember you are a lady and you can't go far wrong." somehow, i am afraid if i cut off my hair and discarded skirts, i might forget i am a lady. it is an awful nuisance being one, anyhow. i don't know just what i am going to do, but i certainly can't cross the atlantic, with bobby and poor little mamma somewhere in germany, maybe locked up in dungeons or something. i know it won't help them any for me to be in france, but at least i will be nearer to them geographically. my letter of credit on the paris bankers will put me on easy street financially, so as far as money is concerned, bobby will know i am all right. i can't think the war will last very long. surely all the neutral countries will just step in and stop it. the french are looking to united states. it is very amusing to hear the old peasants talk about lafayette. they seem to think tit for tat: if they helped us out more than a century ago, we will have to help them out now. i can't tell what i think just yet. everything is in too much of a turmoil. i wish i knew what bobby thinks. he is always so sane in his political opinions. i get more and more uneasy about them, bobby and mamma. such terrible tales of the germans are coming to us. i don't believe them, at least not all of them. how could a kindly, rather bovine race suddenly turn into raging tigers? why should any one want to do anything to bobby? i comfort myself with that thought and then i remember how hot-headed and impulsive he is, inherited directly from me, his daughter, and i begin to tremble. jo and i are settling up our affairs here. madame gaston is to take charge of our few belongings. i have a hunch it will be best to lighten our luggage all we can. jo is not going to turn into a man until we get to paris. she is too funny in her envy of old mère gaspard because of her big moustache. you know how many of the french peasant women have quite mannish beards and moustaches. mother gaspard has the largest and most formidable one i have ever seen, although she is a most motherly old soul, not a bit fatherly. i will write from paris again. i know kent is in a state of grouch with himself for sailing when he did. i believe he feels as i do about things happening. i don't want houses to burn down, but if they do burn, i want to see the fire; i don't want dogs to fight, but if there is a dog fight going on, i am certainly going to stand on my tiptoes and look over the crowd and see them tear each other up; i certainly don't want the nations to go to war, but if they will do it, i am going to have experiences. please give my best love to all the family and a thoroughly sterilized kiss to that marvelous infant. i verily believe if it had not been for kent's overweening desire to behold that baby, he would have waited over for another steamer and in that way found himself in the thick of the fight. i am glad he went, however. if polly perkins developed a chin and rushed off, what might kent have done with an overdevelopment of chin already there? yours always, judy. chapter ii. the orchard home. "r. f. d., late as usual," laughed molly, as mr. bud woodsmall's very ramshackle ford runabout came careening through the lane and up the hill to the yard gate. "i fancy he has had to stop and talk war at every mail box on his route." "i think i'll go meet him," said professor edwin green, rather reluctantly arising from the chaise longue that seemed to have been built to fit his lack of curves, he declared. he had been sitting on the porch of the bungalow, eyes half closed to shut out everything from his vision but the picture of molly holding the sleeping baby in her arms. "you know you want to gossip with him--now 'fess up!" "well, i do like to hear his views of the situation in europe. they are original, at least. he says yankee capitalists are the cause of it all. don't you want me to put mildred down? she has been asleep for half an hour," and the young husband and father stood for a moment and looked down on his treasures with what judy kean always called his faithful-collie-dog eyes. "i know i oughtn't to hold her while she is asleep, but she seems so wonderful i can't bear to let her go. i think she is growing more like you, edwin." "like me! nonsense! that would be a sad thing to have wished on the poor innocent when there are so many handsome folks in the carmichael and brown family from whom she could inherit real beauty." "but edwin, you are handsome, i think. you are so noble looking." "all right, honey, have it your own way," and he stooped and kissed her. "i will allow that the baby has inherited my bald head if you like--hi there!" he called to mr. woodsmall, who was preparing to unlock the mail box, "i'll come get it," and he sprinted down the walk where the garrulous postman held him enthralled for a good fifteen minutes. a blue envelope with a foreign postmark told him there was a letter from julia kean that would be eagerly welcomed by molly, but there was no stopping the flow of r. f. d.'s eloquence. the causes of the war being thoroughly threshed out, he finally took his reluctant departure. "a letter from judy kean! now you will have to put the baby down!" so little mildred was tenderly placed in her basket on the porch and molly opened the voluminous epistle from the beloved judy. "oh, edwin, she is not coming home! i was afraid she would want to do something judyesque. only listen!" and molly read the giverny letter to her husband. "what do you think kent will say to this? i know he is very uneasy about her anyhow since the war broke out, and now--well, i'm glad i'm not in his shoes. she is not very considerate of him, i must say." "oh, you men folks!" laughed molly. "i can't see how she could leave france until she knows something about her mother and father, and after all, i don't believe kent and judy are engaged." "not engaged! what do you think kent has been doing this whole year in paris if he wasn't getting engaged?" "studying architecture at the beaux arts. sometimes persons can know one another a long time and be together a lot and not get engaged," she teased. it was a very well-known fact that professor edwin green had been in love with molly brown for at least five years, and maybe longer, before he put the all important question. "yes, i know, but then----" "then what? my brother kent is certainly not able to support a wife yet, and maybe they are opposed to long engagements." "well, all the same i am sorry for kent. it was bad enough when you went abroad and the ocean was between us and i knew you were being well taken care of by your dear mother,--but just suppose it had been war time and you had been alone! the news from france is very grave. it looks as though the germans would eat christmas dinner in paris as they boast they will." "oh, edwin, no!" and molly turned pale. "well, look at these head lines in to-day's paper. it looks very ominous. when did you say you were expecting kent home?" "by to-morrow at latest. he wrote mother he was to stay some time in new york to try to land a job that looked very promising." "here she comes now!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy as it always did when his mother-in-law appeared on the scene. mrs. brown was coming through the orchard from chatsworth. her hair had turned a little greyer since molly's marriage, but not much; her step was still light and active; her grey eyes as full of life; and in her heart the same eternal youth. "well, children! did you get any mail? how is my precious little granddaughter? i've a letter from kent. it just did beat him home. paul 'phoned from louisville that he is in town now, just arrived and will be here with him this afternoon. i am so excited!" dear mrs. brown's life was made up of such excitements now: her children always going and returning. mildred, mrs. crittenden rutledge, had left for iowa only two days before, having spent two months with her little family at chatsworth; now kent was almost home; and in less than a month the greens would make their annual move to wellington. sue, the eldest daughter, married to young cyrus clay, lived within a few miles of chatsworth and seemed the only one who was a fixture. paul's newspaper work kept him in louisville most of the time and john, the doctor, made flying visits to his home but had to make his headquarters in the city for fear of missing patients. ernest, the eldest son, was threatening to come home and settle at chatsworth, but that was still an uncertainty. "i must read you judy's letter, mother. i know you will feel as uneasy as we do about her. edwin thinks she should come home, but i think she could hardly leave, not knowing something more definite about her mother and father, who may be bottled up in germany indefinitely." "only think of the sizzle mr. kean will make when they finally draw the cork," laughed mrs. brown; but when molly read the whole of judy's letter to her, the laughter left her countenance and she looked very solemn and disturbed. "poor kent!" she sighed. "i wonder what he will do," from molly. "do? why, he will do what the men of his blood should do!" mrs. brown held her head very high and her delicate nostrils quivered in the way her family knew meant either anger or high resolve. "he will go to france and either stay and protect judy or bring her back to his mother." "but, mother, are you going to ask this of him? maybe he won't think it is the right thing to do." "of course, i am not going to ask it of him. i just know the 'mettle of his pasture.'" "but the expense!" "expense! molly, you don't sound like yourself. what is expense when your loved ones are in danger?" "but i can't think that judy could be in real danger." "i can't think anything else. you surely have not read the morning paper. the germans are advancing so rapidly.... the atrocities in belgium! ugh! i can't contemplate our judy being anywhere in their reach." "but, mother, they must be exaggerated! people could not do what they say they have done, not good, kind german soldiers." "molly! molly! your goodness will even let you love the germans. i am not made that way. the anglo saxon in me is so uppermost and i feel such a boiling and bubbling in my veins that nothing but my grey hairs keeps me from joining the red cross myself and helping the allies!" "well, then you don't blame miss judy kean," laughed professor green, who never loved his mother-in-law more than when, as old aunt mary expressed it, "her nose was a-wuckin'." "blame her! no, indeed! if i were her age, i'd do exactly what she is doing, but i should certainly have expected molly's father to come over and protect me while i was being so foolhardy." "judy doesn't say she is going as a nurse," said molly, referring to the letter. "jo williams is to fly and judy seems uncertain what she is going to do,--just see the fight, as far as i can make out. i know judy so well i just can't feel uneasy about her. you mustn't think i am mercenary, mother, or careless of my friend. judy always lands on her feet and is as much of an adept in getting out of scrapes as she is in getting in them." "my darling, of course i didn't mean you were mercenary," cried mrs. brown, seeing in molly's blue eyes a little hurt look at the vigorous tone she had taken when molly merely suggested expense. "i just think in your desire to think well of every one, nations as well as individuals, that you are blind to the terrors of this war. if judy will only go to sally bolling, she will be taken care of. i fancy sally is at la roche craie now." "oh, i had forgotten to think of what this must mean to cousin sally!" exclaimed molly. "the truth of the matter is that it is so peaceful here my imagination cannot picture what it is over there. i am growing selfish with contentment. of course philippe d'ochtè will join his regiment and poor cousin sally and the marquis will suffer agonies over him." "yes and over france!" said edwin solemnly. "i remember so well a conversation i had with the marquis d'ochtè on the subject of his country. i believe he really and truly puts his country above even his adored wife and son. that is more patriotism than i could be capable of----" "not a bit of it, my dear edwin," broke in mrs. brown. "'i could not love thee half so well loved i not honour more.' "molly and your little baby mildred are but a part of your country, and if the time should come and your country called you, you would answer the call just as i hope my own sons would." "oh, mother, you are a spartan! i am not so brave, i am afraid," said molly. "even now at the thought of war, i am thanking god my mildred baby is a girl." little mildred, at mention of her name, although it would be many a day before she would know what her name was, awakened and gave an inarticulate gurgle. mrs. brown dropped the rôle of spartan mother and turned into a doting grandmother in the twinkling of an eye. "and was um little tootsie wootsies cold? come to your granny and let her warm them. molly, this baby has grown a foot, i do believe, and look what a fine, strong, straight back she has! and does oo want your granny to rub your back? only look, her eyes have brown lights in them! i said all the time she would have brown eyes." "and not molly's blue eyes! oh, mother, that is very bad news to me. why, the baby's eyes are as blue as the sea now. they could not change," and edwin green peered into his offspring's face with such intentness that the little thing began to whimper. the proper indignation being expressed by the females and the baby dangled until smiles came and a crow, mrs. brown informed the ignorant father that all young animals have blue eyes and there is no determining the actual colour of a baby's eyes until it is several months old, but that the minute brown or golden lights begin to appear in blue eyes, you can get ready to declare for a brown-eyed youngster. "well, she will surely have molly's hair," he insisted. "that we can't tell, either," said the all-knowing grandmother. "you see, she is almost bald now except for this tiny fringe that is rapidly being worn off in the back. that does seem a little pinkish." "pinkish! oh, mother-in-law, what a word to express my molly's hair!" "can't you see she is getting even with you for making mildred almost cry?" laughed molly. "i know she is going to have my hair because when you slip a little bit of blue under that little lock that is on the side, where it hasn't rubbed off, the 'pink' comes out quite plainly. my mildred will be a belle. i have always heard it said that a girl with brown eyes and golden hair is born to be a belle. oh, yes, i will call the baby's hair golden although i have always called my own red." "i don't know whether i want her to be a belle or not," objected edwin. "she might be frivolous." "frivolous with your eyes! heavens, daddy, she couldn't be!" mrs. brown contentedly smiled and rocked the baby, who crowed and cooed and kicked her pretty pink tootsies. the sun shone on the orchard home and a particularly obliging mocking bird burst into song from one of the gnarled old apple trees, heavy with its luscious fruit. mocking birds are supposed not to sing in august, but sometimes they do, and when they do, their song is as wonderful and welcome as an unlooked-for legacy. molly looked over the fields of waving blue grass to the dark beech woods that bordered the pasture, a feeling of great happiness and contentment in her heart. how peaceful and sweet was life! she leaned against her husband, who put an ever-ready arm around her, and together they gazed on the fruitful landscape. mrs. brown crooned to the baby a song ever dear to her own children and one that had been sung to her by her own negro mammy. "mammy went away--she tol' me ter stay, an' tek good keer er de baby, she tol' me ter stay an' sing dis away: oh, go ter sleepy, little baby! oh, go ter sleep! sleepy little baby, oh, go ter sleepy, little baby, kaze when yer wake, yo'll git some cake, an' ride a little white horsey! we'll stop up de cracks an' sew up de seams-- de booger man never shall ketch you! oh, go ter sleep an' dream sweet dreams-- de booger man never shall ketch you! oh, go ter sleep! sleepy little baby, oh, go ter sleepy, little baby, kaze when you wake, you'll git some cake, an' lots er nice sugar candy!" how could whole countries be at war and such peace reign in any spot on the globe? the whirr of an approaching motor awoke them from their musings and stopped the delightful song before one-third of the stanzas had been sung. it was kent with john in the doctor's little runabout. "my boy! my boy!" and mrs. brown dropped the baby in her basket and flew across the grass to greet the long-absent kent. "i couldn't wait for paul but had to get old dr. john to bring me out. mumsy, how plump and pink you are. i declare you look almost as young as the new baby," said kent after the first raptures of greeting were over. "and molly, you look great! and 'fessor green, i declare you are getting fat. i bet you have gained at least three-quarters of a pound since you got married. positively obese!" "you haven't said much about the baby," objected molly. "well, there's not much to say, is there? she is an omnivorous biped, i gather, from the two feet i can see and her evident endeavor to eat them, at least, i fancy that is why she is kicking so high. she has got edwin's er--er--well--his high forehead----" "she is not nearly so bald-headed as you were yourself," declared his mother. "you were such a lovely baby, kent, the loveliest of all my babies, i believe. i always adored a bald-headed baby and you had a head like a little billiard ball." they all laughed at this and kent confessed that if he had been bald-headed himself, he believed the little mildred must be, after all, very charming. "any letters for me?" he asked, and molly thought she detected a note of anxiety below all the nonsense he had been talking. "no, i have not seen any." "well, have you heard from--from judy kean?" "yes," confessed molly. "i got a letter to-day." "please may i see it?" "yes, of course you may." but molly felt a great reluctance to show julia kean's letter to her brother. she knew very well he was uneasy already about their friend and was certain this letter would only heighten his concern. kent was looking brown and sturdy; he seemed to her to have grown even taller than the six feet one he already measured when he went abroad. his boyish countenance had taken on more purpose and his jaw had an added squareness. his deep set grey eyes had a slight cloud in them that molly and her mother hated to see. "it is judy, of course," they said to themselves. "i landed my job in new york," he said, as he opened the little blue envelope. "splendid!" exclaimed molly. mrs. brown tried to say splendid, too, but the thought came to her: "another one going away from home!" and she could only put her arm around her boy's neck and press a kiss on his brown head. they were all very quiet while kent read the letter. dr. john, alone, seemed disinterested. he very professionally poked the infant in the ribs to see how fat she had grown and, also, much to the indignation of molly, went through some tests for idiocy, which, of course, the tiny baby could not pass. chapter iii. kent brown. "mother, will you come and take a little walk with me?" asked kent as he finished judy's letter. with his hand trembling, although his eyes were very steady and his mouth very firm, he tucked the many thin blue sheets back in their envelope. "yes, my son!" mrs. brown held her head very high and in her expression one could very well read: "i told you so! did i not know the 'mettle of his pasture'?" "mother," he said, as he drew her arm in his and they took their way through the orchard to the garden of chatsworth, "i must go get judy!" "yes, my son, of course you must." "oh, mother, you think it is the only thing to do?" "of course, i know it is the only thing to do. i told molly and edwin only a few minutes ago that you would want to do it." "and what a mother! i--well, you know, mother, i am not engaged to judy--not exactly, that is. she knows how i feel about her and somehow--i can't say for sure--but i almost know she feels the same way about me, at least, feels somehow about me." "of course she does! how could she help it?" "you see, i knew it would be some time before i could make a decent living, and it did not seem fair to judy to tie her down when maybe she might strike some fellow who would be so much more worth while than i am----" "impossible!" "i used to think maybe pierce kinsella would be her choice, when they painted together so much." "that boy! why, kent, how could you?" "well, he was a very handsome and brilliant boy and is pretty well fixed by his uncle's generosity and bids fair to make one of the leading portrait painters of the day. his portrait of you has made every lady who has seen it want him to do one of her. of course, he can't make all of 'em look like you, but he does his best." "it may have been wise of you not to settle this little matter with judy, son, but somehow--i wish you had." "it was hard not to, but i felt she was so far away from her parents. i thought she would be back in america in a month, at least. i wanted her to come with me, but she felt she must wait for them, and of course, i had to hurry back because of the possible job in new york. i am afraid that i will lose that now, but there will be others, and i just can't think of the things that might happen to my judy--she is my judy, whether we are engaged or not." "when will you start, son?" "why, to-night, if you don't mind." "certainly to-night! i have money for you." "oh, mother, the money part is the only thing worrying me. i have a little left, but not enough to get me over and back. i must have enough to bring judy back, too. you see, a letter of credit now in paris is not worth the paper it is on." "no, i did not know. that is the one part of judy's letter that put me at ease about her. i thought she had plenty of money, and money certainly does help out." "well, that is the part of her letter that made me know i must go get her. the americans who are abroad simply can't get checks cashed. she might even be hungry, poor little judy." "thank goodness, i have some money--all owing to judy's father, too! if he had not seen the bubbles on that puddle in the rocky pasture, we would never have known there was oil there. what better could we do with the money that mr. kean got for us than use it to succor his daughter?" "oh, mother, you are so--so--bully! i know no other word to express what you are. i am going to pay back every cent i borrow from you. thank goodness, i saved a little from the money i made on the architectural sketches i did for the article dickson wrote on the french country homes. i'm going over steerage." "you are going over in the first class cabin! steerage, indeed! i lend no money for such a trip." "all right, mother! you are the boss. and now, don't you think i'll have time to go see aunt mary a few minutes?" "of course you must go see the poor old woman. she has been afraid she would not live until you got home. she is very feeble. dear old aunt mary!" they had reached the chatsworth garden and kent noticed with delight the hollyhocks that had flourished wonderfully since he had dug them up that moonlight night more than three years ago and transplanted them from the chicken yard, where no one ever saw them, to the beds in the garden, and all because miss julia kean had regretted that they were not there to make a background for the bridal party, after they had determined to have mildred's wedding out of doors. "haven't they come on wonderfully? i know judy would like to see how well they have done. i think hollyhocks are the most decorative of all flowers. i wonder we never had them in the garden before, mother." both of them were thinking of mildred's wedding on that rare day in june. kent remembered with some satisfaction that in the general confusion that ensued after mildred and crit were pronounced, by dr. peters, to be man and wife, and everybody was kissing everybody else, he had had presence of mind to take advantage of the license accorded on the occasion of a family wedding and had kissed his sister molly's college friend, miss julia kean. "by jove! i think war ought to give a fellow some privilege, too," he declared to himself. "i think i'll do the same when i see the young lady in france." they found aunt mary lying in state in a great four poster bed, while her meek half-sister, sukey jourdan, administered to her wants, which were many and frequent. "lawsamussy, if that ain't that there kent! whar you come from, son? i done got so old an' feeble i can't say mister ter nobody. you alls is all ernest and sue and paul and john and mildred and kent and molly ter me. cepn molly is molly baby. i still got strenth fer that. law, miss milly, ain't he growed?" "yes, aunt mary, he is looking so well, and now he is going to turn right around and go back to france to-night." "don't say it! lawsamussy, miss milly, did he fergit somethin'?" "well, not exactly," laughed kent, "but i didn't bring something with me that i should have." "well, you be sho ter make a cross an' spit in it. if'n you fergits somethin' er fin's you has ter tu'n aroun' an' go back 'thout res'in' a piece, if'n you makes a cross an' spits in it, you is sho ter have good luck. here you, sukey, set a better cheer for miss milly. wherfo' you done give her sich a straight up'n down cheer?" "oh, this will do very well, sukey," said mrs. brown. "you bring another, sukey. i don' see what makes you so keerless. i low if'n 'twar that no count buck jourdan, you'd be drawin' up the sofy fer his triflin' bones." poor sukey had no easy job to keep aunt mary satisfied. the old woman, having been a most energetic and tireless person in her day, could not understand that the whole world of darkeys could not be as she had been. sukey's son buck, the apple of her mild eye, was the bane of aunt mary's existence. she never missed a chance to make her younger half-sister miserable on his account. indeed, sukey, mild as she was, would not have stayed with aunt mary except for the fact that aunt mary had insured her life for her with the understanding that she was to minister to her to the end. it was dearly paid for, this service, as the old woman was most exacting. lenient to a degree of softness with white folks, she was adamant with those of her own race. "how do you feel, aunt mary?" asked kent, looking with sorrow on the wasted features of the beloved old woman. "well, i'm a feelin' tolerable peart this mornin' although endurin' of the night i thought my hour had struck. i got ter dreamin' 'bout my fun'ral, an' i got so mad cause sis ria bowles done brought a fun'ral zine like one she done tuck ter brer jackson's orgies! an' dead or not, i wa'nt gonter stan' fer no sich monkey shines over me." "why, what did she take to brother jackson's funeral?" laughed kent. "ain't you heard tel er that? she cut a cross outn that there sticky tangle yo' foot fly paper en' she kivered it all over with daisy haids an' call herse'f bringing a zine. i riz up an' spoke my mind in my dream an' i let all these here niggers in jeff'son county know that if they don't see that i gits a fust class fun'ral, i gonter rise up when i ain't a dreamin' an' speak my min'." sukey jourdan listened to this tirade with her eyes bulging out of her head, much to aunt mary's satisfaction, as she very well knew that the way to manage her race was to intimidate them. "i done been carryin' insuriance in two clubs an' a comp'ny, an' betwixt 'em i's entitled ter seventeen hacks. i'm a trustin' ter miss milly an' that there paul ter make 'em treat me proper. paul done say he will black list 'em in his newspaper if'n they leave off one tit or jottle from the 'greement. i sho would like ter see my fun'ral. i low it's a goin' ter be pretty stylish. i done pinted my pall buriers an' bought they gloves an' i low ter be laid out myself in my best black silk what miss milly done gimme goin' on sixteen year, come nex' christmas. i ain't a wo' it much, as i had in min' ter save it fer my buryin'. some of the mimbers gits buried in palls made er white silk. they do look right han'some laid out in 'em, but then palls is made 'thout a piece er back an' i has a notion that when gabrel blows his trump on that great an' turrerble day that ole mary morton ain't a goin' ter be caught without no back ter her grabe clothes. it mought make no diffrunce if'n peter will let me pass on in, 'cause i low that the shining robes will be a waitin' fer me--but sposin'--jes' sposin'----" and the dear old woman's face clouded over with anguish, "jes' sposin' peter'll say: 'you, mary morton, g'long from this here portcullis. you blongs in the tother d'rection,' an' i'll hab ter tun 'roun' an' take the broad road ter hell! what'll i feel like, if'n i ain't got no back ter my frock? no, sir! i's a goin' ter have on a dress complete. it mought be that peter'll think better er me if i shows him sech a spectful back." "you not get in heaven!" exclaimed kent. "why, aunt mary, there wouldn't be any heaven for all of us bad brown boys if you weren't there." "well, now them is words of comfort what beats the preacher's. i done always been b'lievin' in 'fluence an' i mought er knowed my white folks would look arfter me on the las' day jes as much as ever. i kin git in as miss milly's cook if'n th'aint no other way. i been a 'lowing whin i gits ter heaven i wouldn't have ter work no more, but sence i been a laid up in the baid so long i gin ter think that work would tas'e right sweet. cookin' in heaven wouldn't be so hard with plenty of 'gredients ter han' and no scrimpin' and scrougin' of 'terials. a lan' flowin' with milk an' honey mus' have aigs an' butter. here you, sukey jourdan! whar you hidin'?" "here i is, sis ma'y, i jes' stepped in the shed room ter men' the fire ginst 'twas time ter knock up a bite er dinner fer you." "well, while i's a thinkin' of it, i want you to git my bes' linen apron outn the chist--the one with the insertioning let in 'bove the hem, an' put it in the highboy drawer with my bes' black silk. i low i'll be laid out in a apron, 'cause if'n i can't git inter heaven no other way, i am a thinkin' with a clean white apron on i kin slip in as a good cook." "dear aunt mary, you have been as good as gold all your life," declared mrs. brown, wiping a tear from her eye, but smiling in spite of herself at aunt mary's quaint idea of a way to gain an entrance through the pearly gates. aunt mary had had many doubts about her being saved and had spent many weary nights, terrified at the thought of dying and perhaps not being fit for heaven, but now that she had thought of wearing the apron, all doubts of her desirability were set at rest; indeed, her last days were filled with peace since she felt now that even peter could not turn back a good cook. "i must be going, aunt mary," said kent, taking the old woman's withered hand in his strong grasp. "i'll be home again in a few weeks, i fancy, maybe sooner." "they's one thing i ain't arsked you yit: whar's that there judy gal? i been a dreamin' you would bring her back with you." "she is the thing i am going back to france for, aunt mary." "sho nuf? well, well! they do tell me they's fightin' goin' on in some er them furren parts. sholy miss judy ain't nigh the fightin' an' fussin'?" "yes, i am afraid she is. that's the reason i must go for her." "oh, kent son! don't you git into no scrap yo'sef. it's moughty hard fer young folks ter look on at a scrap 'thout gittin' mixed up in it. don't you git too clost, whin you is lookin', either. them what looks on sometimes gits the deepes' razor cuts with the back han' licks. you pick up that gal an' bring her back ter you' maw jes' as fas' as yo' legs kin carry you." "i'll try to," laughed kent. "don't try! jes' do it! that there judy gal is sho nice an' 'ristocratic, considerin' she ain't never had no home. she done tell me whin she was here to little miss milly's weddin' that she an' her folks ain't never lived in nothin' but rented houses. that's moughty queer to me, but 'cose niggers don't understan' ev'y thing. well, you tell her that ole mary morton say she better pick up an' come back to chatswuth." "i certainly will, aunt mary, and good-by!" the old woman put her hand on his bowed head for a moment, and while she said nothing, kent took it for a benediction. chapter iv. afternoon tea. molly had established the custom of afternoon tea in her orchard home, and while she had been greatly teased by her brothers for introducing this english custom into kentucky country life, they one and all turned up on her porch for tea if they were in the neighborhood. "it is one place where a fellow can always find some talk and a place to air his views," declared john, as he reached for another slice of bread and butter. "it isn't the food so much as the being gathered together." "well, you are gathering a good deal of food together in spite of your contempt for it," put in paul. "that's the sixth slice! i have kept tab on you." "why not? i always think plain bread and butter is about the best thing there is." "yes, why not?" asked molly, calling her little cook kizzie to prepare another plate of the desirable article. "aunt clay, you had better change your mind and have some tea and bread and butter." mrs. sarah clay had driven over in state from her home when she heard kent had arrived. she wanted to hear the latest news, also to tender her advice as to what he was to do now. she presented the same uncompromising front as of yore, although her back had given way somewhat to the weight of years. judy kean always said she had a hard face and a soft figure. this soft figure she poured into tight basques, evidently determined to try to make it live up to her face. "tea!" she exclaimed indignantly. "i never eat between meals." "but this is a meal, in a way," said molly hospitably bent, as was her wont, on feeding people. "a meal! whoever heard of tea and bread and butter comprising a meal?" and the stern aunt stalked to the end of the porch where the baby lay in her basket, kicking her pink heels in the air in an ecstasy of joy over being in the world. "molly, this baby has on too few clothes. what can you be thinking of, having the child barefooted and nothing on but this muslin slip over her arms? she is positively blue with cold." molly flew to her darling but found her glowing and warm. "why, aunt clay, only feel her hands and feet! she is as warm as toast. the doctor cautioned me against wrapping her up too much. he says little babies are much warmer than we are." "well, have your own way! of course, although i am older than your mother, i know nothing at all." "but, aunt clay----" "never mind!" poor molly! she could never do or say anything to suit her aunt clay. she looked regretfully at the old lady's indignant back as she left her and joined kent, who was sitting on a settle with his mother, holding her hand, both of them very quiet amidst the chatter around the tea table. they made room for their relative, who immediately began her catechism of kent. "why did you not come home sooner?" "because i had some work to do, sketches illustrating an article on french country houses." "humph! did you get paid for them?" "yes, aunt clay!" "now, what are your plans?" "i have landed a job in new york with a firm of architects, that is, i had landed it, but i am not so sure now since----" "good! you feel that you had better stay at home and look after chatsworth." "oh, no! i am sure i could not be much of a farmer." "could not because you would not! if i were your mother, i would insist on one of you staying at home and running the place." "ernest is thinking of coming back, giving up engineering and trying intensive farming on chatsworth." "ernest, indeed! and why should he have wasted all these years in some other profession if he means to farm?" "well, you see," said kent very patiently because of the pressure he felt from his mother's gentle hand, "farming takes money and there wasn't any money. ernest always did want to farm, but it was necessary for him to make some money first. now he has saved and invested and has something to put in the land, and he is devoutly hoping to get out more than he puts in." "if putting something in the land means expensive machinery, i can tell him now that he will waste money buying it. but there is no use in telling ernest anything--he is exactly like sue: very quiet, does not answer back when his elders and betters address him, but, like sue, goes his own way. sue is very headstrong and simply twists my husband's nephew around her finger. i was very much disappointed in cyrus clay. i thought he had more backbone." sue brown, now mrs. cyrus clay, had been the one member of the brown family who always got on with the stern aunt clay; and kent and his mother were sorry to hear the old lady express any criticism of sue. it seemed that sue had done nothing more serious than to persuade cyrus to join the country club, but it was against mrs. sarah clay's wishes, and anything that opposed her was headstrong and consequently wicked. "but to return to you----" kent let a sigh escape him as he had hoped he had eluded further catechism, "what are you going to do now?" "well, to-night i go back to new york, and day after to-morrow i take a french steamer for havre." "havre! are you crazy?" "i don't know." "what are you going to do in france with this war going on?" "i am not quite sure." this was too much for the irate old lady, so without making any adieux, she took her departure, scorning the polite assistance of her three nephews. professor green called her coachman and helped her into the great carriage she still held to, the kind seen now-a-days only in museums. "kent, how could you?" laughed mrs. brown, in spite of her attempt to look shocked. "i think kent was right," declared molly. "how could he tell aunt clay he was going to france to get judy? she would never have let up on it. i'm glad she has gone, anyhow! we were having a very nice time without her." "molly!" and mrs. brown looked shocked. she always exacted a show of respect from her children to this very difficult elder sister sarah. "oh, mumsy, we have to break loose sometimes!" exclaimed molly. "the idea of her saying mildred was blue with cold! criticising poor sue, too! goodness, i'd hate to be the one that aunt clay had taken a shine to. i'd almost rather have her despise me as she does." "not despise you, molly,--you don't understand your aunt clay." "well, perhaps not, but she puts up a mighty good imitation of despising. i think it is because i look so like cousin sally bolling and she never forgave the present marquise d'ochtè for making fun of her long years ago. and then to crown it all, cousin sally got the inheritance from greataunt sarah carmichael and married the marquis, at least she married the marquis and then got the inheritance. it was too much for aunt clay." mrs. brown looked so pained that molly stopped her tirade. aunt clay was the one person whom molly could not love. she had a heart as big as all out doors but it was not big enough to hold aunt clay. "here comes sue! how glad i am! she 'phoned she would be here before so very long. what a blessing she missed aunt clay! see, she is running the car herself and isn't it a beauty? cyrus just got it for her and sue runs it wonderfully well already. i forgot to write you about it, kent. but best of all! what do you think? cyrus has had the muddy lane that was the cause of sue's hesitating whether to take him or not all drained and macadamized. the approach to maxton is simply perfect now." "good for cyrus!" said kent, jumping up to meet his sister, who drove her big car through the gate and up the driveway as though she had been running an automobile all her life. "only think, five browns together again!" exclaimed paul, as they seated themselves on the porch of the bungalow after duly admiring the new car. molly had kizzie brew a fresh pot of tea and john was persuaded to eat some more thin slices of bread and butter. "yes, five of you together again," said mrs. brown wistfully. "ah, me! i wish i could get all seven of you at chatsworth once more. indeed, i wish i had all of you back in the nursery again." "but where would i come in then?" said edwin green whimsically. "and little mildred?" from molly, hugging her infant. "and sue's new car, not to mention cyrus?" teased kent. "you are right, children. i should be more of a philosopher. "'the moving finger writes: and, having writ, moves on: nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.'" molly stood over kent with a cup of steaming tea and taking her cue from her mother's quotation from the rubaiyat and prompted by his knownothing attitude with his aunt clay, she got off the stanza: "yesterday this day's madness did prepare; to-morrow's silence, triumph, or despair: drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: drink! for you know not why you go, nor where." chapter v. letters from paris and berlin. from miss julia kean to mrs. edwin green. paris, and no idea of the date. no fixed address, but the american club might reach me. molly darling: things are moving so fast that even i can't quite catch on, and you know i am some mover myself. jo and i came to paris as i wrote you we would, but i haven't seen her since. she told me in as polite words as she could command that she couldn't be bothered with me any more. at least that was the trend of her remarks. she has the business before her of making up to look as much like a man as possible and then of being taken into the aviation school. i met an art student from carlo rossi's on the street and he told me polly was already the proud driver of an ambulance. lots of the american art students have enlisted or joined the red cross. if i liked sick folks or nursing, i think i'd join myself. i feel that i should be doing something while i wait to hear from bobby. i hope to see the american ambassador next week. he is simply floored under with duties just now. i don't want any help from him, but just to find out something about bobby and mamma. if you could see paris now! oh, molly, our gay, beautiful, eternally youthful city has grown suddenly sad and middle-aged. there is no gaiety or frivolity now. her step has changed from a dance to a march. her laughter has turned to weeping, but silent weeping--she makes no outcry but one knows the tears are there. her beautiful festive clothes are laid away and now there is nothing but khaki and mourning. the gallant little soldier is to discard his flaming red trousers and blue coat for khaki. the german finds him too easy a mark. i begin to tremble for paris, but strange to say i have no fear for myself. i have seen the ambassador! he was very grave when i told him about bobby. there was some english capital involved in the railroad that bobby was to build in turkey, and for that reason there may be some complication. he is to communicate with gerard immediately. in the meantime, he advises me to go home. i told him i had no home, but would wait here until i found out something. he asked me if i had plenty of money and i told him yes, indeed, my letter of credit was good for almost any amount. i had not had to draw on it as i had stocked up before i went to g---- to keep house with the polly perkinses. the ambassador actually laughed at me. do you know, i can't get any more money? what a fool i have been! i have been so taken up with paris and the sights and sounds that money has never entered my head. i have quite a little left, though, and i intend to live on next to nothing. the bents have left for america and have given me their key to use their studio as i see fit. mrs. bent wanted me to go with them, but i can't go until we hear from gerard. now i am back in the rue brea! it seems strange to be there again where we had such a glorious winter. the studio where kent and pierce kinsella lived all last year is vacant. i don't know where pierce is. gone to war, perhaps! i spend the days on the streets, walking up and down, listening to the talk and watching the regiments as they move away. i ran across some old friends yesterday. you remember a wedding party i butted in on at st. cloud that day i scared all of you so when i took the wrong train from versailles and landed at chartres? well, i ran plump against the bride on montparnasse (only she is no longer a bride but had a rosy infant over her shoulder). she came out of a little delicatessen shop and her husband in war togs followed her, and there i witnessed their parting. i seem fated to be present at every crisis in their lives. the girl did not recognize me but the young man did. i had danced with him in too mad a whirl for him to forget me. then came the old father and his wife who looked like a member of the commune. they keep the little shop, it seems. i shook hands with them and together we waited for the young man's regiment to come swinging down the street. with another embrace all around, even me, he caught step with his comrades and was gone. the bonnemère clasped her daughter-in-law to her grenadier-like bosom and they mingled their tears, the rosy baby gasping for breath between the two. the old father turned to me: "this is different from the last time we met, ma'mselle!" "yes, so different!" "come in and have a bite and sup with us. there is still something to eat in paris besides horse flesh." his wife and daughter-in-law joined him in the invitation and so i went in. i enjoyed the meal more than i can tell you. the grenadier is some cook and although the fare was simple, it was so well seasoned and appetizing that i ate as i have not done since i got back to paris. the truth of the matter is, i am living so cheap for fear of getting out of money and i am afraid i have been neglecting my inner man. i can't cook a thing myself, which is certainly trifling of me, and so have depended on restaurants for sustenance. i dressed the salad (you remember it is my one accomplishment) and it met with the approval of host and hostess. i told them of my trouble and how i felt i must wait until i heard something definite of my mother and father, and they were all sympathy. i have promised to come to them if i get into difficulty, and you don't know the comfortable feeling i have now that i have some adopted folks. i might go to the marquise d'ochtè, but i know she has all on her hands and mind that she can attend to. i don't need anything but just companionship. i am such a gregarious animal that i must have folks. i am dying to hear from you and to know if kent landed his job. is he--well, angry with me for staying over? i would not have missed staying for anything, even if he should be put out. i can't believe he is, though. i had rather hoped for letters when the american mail came in this morning, but the man at the bank was very unfeeling and had nothing. nobody seems to be getting any mail. i wonder if they are stopping it for some reason or other. i have a great mind to take this to some american who is fleeing and have it mailed in new york. i will do that very thing. good by, molly--don't be uneasy about me. you know my catlike nature of lighting on my feet. your own, judy. from mr. robert kean to his daughter julia. berlin. my dear judy: i know you are intensely uneasy about us, but down in your heart you also know that we never get into scrapes we can't get out of, and we will get out of this. this letter will probably be postmarked sweden but that does not mean i am there. in fact, i am in durance vile here in berlin. i am allowed to walk around the streets and to pay my own living expenses but leave berlin i cannot. your mother can't leave, either--not that she would. you know how she thinks that she protects me and so she insists that she will stay. i am allowed to write no letters and can receive none. i am getting this off to you by a clever device of your mother's, which i shall not divulge now for fear it might be seized and thus get an innocent person in bad with this remarkable government. i am kept here all because i know too much about the geography and topography of turkey. of course i have made careful maps of the proposed railroad from constantinople, the one we have been trying to get the concessions for. well, they have naturally seized the maps. but before i dreamed of the possibility of this war, for, like all of us fool anglo saxons, i have been nosing along like a mole, i had a talk with a high prussian muckamuck at dinner one evening about this proposed road and i drew the blame thing on the table cloth, and with bits of bread and salt cellars and what not i explained the whole topography of the country and the benefit it would be to mankind to have this particular railroad built, financed by my particular company. that was where i "broke my 'lasses pitcher." of course, having surveyed the country and made the maps, at least, having had a finger in the pie from the beginning, i can reproduce those maps from memory, if not very accurately, at least, accurately enough to get the germans going if that particular information should be needed by the allies. do you know what i see in this? why, turkey will be in this war before so very long. i am hungry for news. i feel that i will go mad if i can't get some information besides what is printed in these boot licking newspapers of berlin. they speak of their soldiers as though they were avenging angels--avenging what? avenging the insult belgium offered them for not lying down and making a road of herself for them to walk over. avenging france for not opening wide her gates and getting ready the christmas dinner the kaiser meant to eat in paris. i'd like to prepare his christmas dinner, and surely i would serve a hors-d'oeuvre of rough-on-rats, an entrée of ptomaines, and finish off with a dessert of hanging, which would be too sweet for him. now just suppose this letter is seized and they see this above remark--what then? i must not be allowed to write my opinion of their ruler to my own daughter, but these prussians who go to united states and get all they can from our country, feel at perfect liberty to publish newspapers vilifying our president and to burst into print at any moment about our men who are high in authority. berlin is wild with enthusiasm and joy over her victories. every belgian village that is razed to the ground makes them think it is cause for a torch-light procession. i can't understand them. they can hardly be the same kindly folk we have so often stayed among. they are still kind, kind to each other and kind in a way to us and to all the strangers within their gates, but how they can rejoice over the reports of their victories i cannot see. they one and all believe that they were forced to fight. they say france was marching to berlin for the president to eat christmas dinner here, and that belgium had promised they should go straight through her gates unmolested and did not regard the agreement of neutrality. i say nonsense to such statements. at least i think nonsense. i really say very little for one who has so much to say. i am bubbling over to talk politics with some one. your poor little mumsy listens to me but she never jaws back. i want some one to jaw back. i have promised her to keep off the subject with these prussians. they are so violent and so on the lookout for treason. there is one thing i am sure of and that is that no frenchman would want to eat christmas dinner or any other kind of dinner here if he could eat it in paris. i am sick of raw goose and blood pudding and limburger cheese. as i write this tirade, i am wondering, my dear daughter, where you are. did you go back to america with kent brown, who, you wrote me in your last letter, was sailing in a week, or are you in paris? i hope not there! since i see the transports of joy these law-abiding, home-loving citizens, women and men, can get in over an account of what seems to me mere massacre, i tremble to think what the soldiers are capable of in the lust of bloodshed. from the last bulletin, the germans are certainly coming closer and closer to paris. i hope they are lying in their report. they are capable of falsifying anything. i am trying to get hold of our ambassador to get me out of this mess, but he is so busy it is hard to see him. i think he is doing excellent work and i feel it is best for me to wait and let the americans who are in more urgent need get first aid. i have enough money to tide us over for a few weeks with very careful expenditure. of course i can get no more, just like all the rest of, the americans who are stranded here. i feel terribly restless for work. i don't know how to loaf, never did. i'd go to work here at something, but i feel if i did, it would just mean that these prussians could then spare one more man for their butchery, and i will at least not help them that much. your mother and i are on the street a great deal. we walk up and down and go in and out of shops and sit in the parks. i keep moving as much as possible, not only because i am so restless but because i like to keep the stupid spy who is set to watch over me as busy as possible. he has some weird notion that i do not know he is ever near me. i keep up the farce and i give him many anxious moments. yesterday i wrote limericks and nonsense verses on letter paper and made little boats of them and sent them sailing on the lake in the park. if you could have seen this man's excitement. he called in an accomplice and they fished out the boats and carefully concealing them, they got hold of a third spy to take them to the chief. i wonder what they made of: "the window has four little panes: but one have i. the window panes are in its sash,-- i wonder why!" or this: "i wish that my room had a floor-- i don't so much care for a door, but this walking around without touching the ground is getting to be quite a bore!" i only wish i could see the translations of these foolish rhymes that must have been made before they could decide whether or not i had a bomb up my sleeve to put the kaiser out with. fancy this in german: "the poor benighted hindoo, he does the best he kindo; he sticks to caste from first to last; for pants he makes his skindo." some of the ships sank and they had to get a boat hook and raise them. my nonsense seems to have had its effect. i saw in this morning's paper that some of the foreigners held in berlin have gone crazy. i believe they mean me. i must think up some more foolishness. i feel that the more i occupy this spy who has me in charge, the better it is for the allies. i try to be neutral but my stomach is rebelling at german food, and who can be neutral with a prejudiced stomach? we are trying to cook in our room. you know what a wonder your little mumsy is at knocking up an omelette and making coffee and what not, and we also find it is much more economical to eat there all we can. when we are there, we are out of sight of the spy, who, of course, can't help his job, but neither can i help wanting to kick his broad bean. he is such a block-head. he reminds me of the mechanician man, in our comic papers: "brains he has nix." he is evidently doing just exactly what he has been wound up and set to do. i can't quite see why i should be such an important person that i should need a whole spy to myself. i can't get out of berlin unless i fly out and i see no chance of that. * * * * * i have had my interview with the ambassador. he sent for me, and the wonderful thing was that it was because of the ball you had set rolling in paris. when one ambassador gets in communication with another ambassador, even when it is about as unimportant a thing as i am, there is something doing immediately. you must have made a hit, honey, with the powers in france, they got busy so fast. it seems that the imperial government is very leary about me. my being an american is the only thing that keeps me out of prison. they are kind of scared to put me there, but they won't let me go. i had to wait an hour even after i got sent for, and i enjoyed it thoroughly because it was raining hard and blowing like blazes and i knew that my bodyguard was having to take it. indeed i could see him all the time across the strasse looking anxiously at the door where he had seen me disappear. i also had the delight of reading a two weeks old american newspaper that a very nice young clerk slipped to me. i suppose the american legation gets its newspaper, war or no. nothing can be done for me as yet. i have been very imprudent in my behaviour, reprehensible, in fact. the paper boats were most ill advised, especially the one that goes: "my window has four little panes." that is something to do with maps and a signal, it seems. "the window panes are in its sash," is most suggestive of information. ah, well! they can't do more than just keep us here, and if our money gives out, it will be up to them to feed us. the time may come when i will be glad to get even blood pudding, but i can't think it. your poor little mumsy, in spite of the years she has spent with me roughing it, still has a dainty appetite, and i believe she would as soon eat a live rat, as blood pudding or raw goose. she makes out with eggs and salad and coffee and toast. so far, provisions are plentiful. it is only our small purse that makes us go easy on everything. but if the war goes on (which, god willing, it will do, as a short war will mean the germans are victorious), i can't see how provisions will remain plentiful. what is england doing, anyhow? she must be doing something, but she is doing it very slowly. your being in paris is a source of much uneasiness to us, but i can't say that i blame you. you are too much like me to want to get out of excitement. i feel sure you will take care of yourself and now that the french are waltzing in at such a rate, i have no idea that the germans will ever reach paris. after all, this letter is to be taken by a lady who is at the american legation and mailed to mrs. edwin green and through her sent to you. they could not get it directly to you in france, but no doubt it will finally reach you through your friend, molly. i am trusting her to do it and i know she will do it if any one can, because she is certainly to be depended on to get her friends out of trouble. in the meantime, the ambassador here is to communicate formally with the ambassador in paris, and he is to let you know that all is well with your innocent if imprudent parents. of course, your mother could go home if she would, but you know her well enough to know she won't. in fact, there is some talk of making her go home, and she says if they start any such thing she is going to swear she can draw any map of turkey that ever was known to man, and can do it with her eyes shut and her hands tied behind her. we both of us wish you were safe in kentucky with your friends. we spend many nights talking of you and reproaching ourselves that we have left you so much to yourself. i don't see how we could help it in a way, but maybe i should have given up engineering and taken up preaching or been a tailor or something. then i might have made a settled habitation for all of us. your mumsy is writing you a long letter, too, so i must stop. she is quite disappointed not to use her clever scheme for getting the letter to you, and rather resents the lady at the legation. yours, bobby. chapter vi. at the tricots'. it took one month and three days for judy to get the above letter, but her mind was set somewhat at rest long before that time by the ambassador himself, who had learned through his confrère in berlin that mr. and mrs. kean were safe and at large, although not allowed to leave berlin. the daughter was so accustomed to her parents being in dangerous places that she did not feel so concerned about them as an ordinary girl would have felt for ordinary parents. ever since she could remember, they had been camping in out-of-the-way places and making hair-breadth escapes from mountain wild cats and native uprisings and what not. she could not believe the germans, whom she had always thought of as rather bovine, could turn into raging lions so completely. "bobby will light on his feet!" she kept saying to herself until it became almost like a prayer. "no one could hurt mamma. she will be protected just as children will be!" and then came terrible, exaggerated accounts of the murder in cold blood of little children, and then the grim truth of the destruction of louvain and rheims, and anything seemed possible. "a nation that could glory in the destruction of such beautiful things as these cathedrals will stop at nothing." but still she kept on saying: "bobby will light on his feet! bobby will light on his feet!" she no longer trusted the germans, but she had infinite faith in the sagacity and cleverness of her father. he always had got himself out of difficult and tight places and he always would. in the meantime, money was getting very low. try as she would to economize, excitement made her hungry and she must eat and eat three times a day. "if i only had molly brown's skill and could cook for myself!" she would groan as she tried to choke down the muddy concoction that she had just succeeded in brewing and was endeavoring to persuade herself tasted a little like coffee. she remembered with swimming eyes the beautiful little repasts they had had in the bents' studio during that memorable winter. "judy kean, you big boob! i believe my soul you are going to bawl about a small matter of food. if the destruction of louvain did not make you weep, surely muddy coffee ought not to bring tears to your eyes, unless maybe they are tears of shame." the truth of the matter was, judy was lonesome and idle. she could not make up her mind to paint. things were moving too fast and there was too much reality in the air. art seemed unreal and unnecessary, somehow. "great things will be painted after the war but not now," she would say. she carried her camera with her wherever she went and snapped up groups of women and children, soldiers kissing their old fathers, great ladies stopping to converse with the gamin of the street; anything and everything went into her camera. she spent more money on films than on food, in spite of her healthy hunger. on that morning in september as she cleared away the scraps from her meager breakfast, her eyes swimming from lonesomeness, appetite unappeased and a kind of nameless longing, she almost determined to throw herself on the mercy of the american legation for funds to return to new york. the americans had cleared out of paris until there were very few left. judy would occasionally see the familiar face of some art student she had known in the class, but those familiar faces grew less and less frequent. "there's the marquise! i can always go to her, but i know she is taken up with her grief over philippe's going a soldiering," she thought as she put her plate and cup back on the shelf where the bents kept their assortment of china. a knock at the door! who could it be? no mail came to her and no friends were left to come. "mam'selle!" and bowing low before her was the lean old partner of st. cloud, père tricot. "mam'selle, my good wife and i, as well as our poor little daughter-in-law, we all want you to come and make one of our humble menage." "want me!" exclaimed judy, her eyes shining. "yes, mam'selle," he said simply. "we have talked it over and we think you are too young to be so much alone and then if--the--the--well, i have too much respect for mam'selle to call their name,--if they do get in paris, i can protect you with my own women. i am not so old that i cannot hit many a lick yet--indeed, i would enlist again if they would have me; but my good wife says they may need me more here in paris and i must rest tranquilly here and do the work for france that i can best do. will you come, mam'selle?" "come! oh, père tricot, i'll be too glad to come. when?" "immediately!" judy's valise was soon packed and the studio carefully locked, the key handed over to the concierge, and she was arm in arm with her old friend on her way to her new home in the little shop on the boulevarde montparnasse. mère tricot, who looked like a member of the commune but acted like a dear, kindly old granny, took the girl to her bosom. "what did i tell you? i knew she would come," she cried to her husband, who had hurried into the shop to wait on a customer. it was a delicatessen shop and very appetizing did the food look to poor judy, who felt as though she had never eaten in her life. "tell me!" he exclaimed as he weighed out cooked spinach to a small child who wanted two sous' worth. "tell me, indeed! you said mam'selle would not walk on the street with an old peasant in a faded blouse if she would come at all, and i--i said mam'selle was what the americans call a good sport and would walk on the street with an old peasant, if she liked him, in any kind of clothes he happened to be in, rags even. bah! you were wrong and i was right." the old tricots were forever wrangling but it was always in a semi-humorous manner, and their great devotion to each other was always apparent. judy found it was better never to take sides with either one as the moment she did both of them were against her. how homelike the little apartment was behind the shops! it consisted of two bed rooms, a living room which opened into the shop and a tiny tiled kitchen about the size of a kitchen on a dining car--so tiny that it seemed a miracle that all the food displayed so appetizingly in the windows and glass cases of the shop should have been prepared there. "it is so good of you to have me and i want to come more than i can say, but you must let me board with you. i couldn't stay unless you do." "that is as you choose, mam'selle," said the old woman. "we do not want to make money on you, but you can pay for your keep if you want to." "all right, mother, but i must help some, help in the shop or mind the baby, clean up the apartment, anything! i can't cook a little bit, but i can do other things." "no woman can cook," asserted old tricot. "they lack the touch." "ah! braggart! if i lay thee out with this pastry board, i'll not lack the touch," laughed the wife. she was making wonderful little tarts with crimped edges to be filled with assortments of confiture. "let me mind the shop, then. i know i can do that." "well, that will not be bad," agreed old tricot. "while marie (the daughter-in-law) washes the linen and you make the tarts, mam'selle can keep the shop, but no board must she pay. i'll be bound new customers will flock to us to buy of the pretty face." judy blushed with pleasure at the old peasant's compliment. "and thou, laggard and sloth! what will thou do while the women slave?" "i--oh, i will go to the tabac's to see what news there is, and later to see if jean is to the front." "well, we cannot hear from jean to-day and paris can still stand without thy political opinion," but she laughed and shoved him from the shop, a very tender expression on her lined old face. "these men! they think themselves of much importance," she said as she resumed her pastry making. having tied a great linen apron around judy's slender waist (much slenderer in the last month from her economical living), and having instructed her in the prices of the cooked food displayed in the show cases, mère tricot turned over the shop to her care. the rosy baby was lying in a wooden cradle in the back of the little shop and the grandmother was in plain view in the tiny kitchen to be seen beyond the living room. "well, i fancy i am almost domesticated," thought judy. "what an interior this would make--baby in foreground and old mother tricot on through with her rolling pin. light fine! i've a great mind to paint while i am keeping shop, sketch, anyhow." she whipped out her sketch book and sketched in her motive with sure and clever strokes, but art is long and shops must be kept. customers began to pile in. the spinach was very popular and judy became quite an adept in dishing it out and weighing it. potato salad was next in demand and cooked tongue and rosbif disappeared rapidly. many soldiers lounged in, eating their sandwiches in the shop. judy enjoyed her morning greatly but she could not remember ever in her life having worked harder. when the tarts were finished and displayed temptingly in the window, swarms of children arrived. it seemed that mère tricot's tarts were famous in the quarter. more soldiers came, too. among them was a face strangely familiar to the amateur shop girl. who could it be? it was the face of a typical boulevardier: dissipated, ogling eyes; black moustache and beard waxed until they looked like sharp spikes; a face not homely but rather handsome, except for its expression of infinite conceit and impertinence. "i have never seen him before, i fancy. it is just the type that is familiar to me," she thought. "_mais quel type!_" judy was looking very pretty, with her cheeks flushed from the excitement of weighing out spinach and salad, making change where sous were thought of as though they were gold and following the patois of the peasants that came to buy and the argot of the gamin. she had donned a white cap of marie's which was most becoming. judy, always ready to act a part, with an instinctive dramatic spirit had entered into the rôle of shop keeper with a vim that bade fair to make the tricots' the most popular place on boulevarde montparnasse. her french had fortunately improved greatly since her arrival in paris more than two years before and now she flattered herself that one could not tell she was not parisienne. the soldier with the ogling eyes and waxed moustache lingered in the shop when his companions had made their purchases and departed. he insisted upon knowing the price of every ware displayed. he asked her to name the various confitures in the tarts, which she did rather wearily as his persistence was most annoying. she went through the test, however, with as good a grace as possible. shop girls must not be squeamish, she realized. one particularly inviting gooseberry tart was left on the tray. judy had had her eye on it from the first and trembled every time a purchaser came for tarts. she meant to ask mère tricot for it, if only no one bought it. and now this particularly objectionable customer with his rolling black eyes and waxed moustache was asking her what kind it was! why did he not buy what he wanted and leave? "_eh? qu'est-ce que c'est?_" he demanded with an amused leer as he pointed a much manicured forefinger at that particularly desirable tart. judy was tired and the french for gooseberry left her as is the way with an acquired language. instead of _groseille_ which was the word she wanted, she blurted out in plain english: "gooseberry jam!" "ah, i have bean pensè so mooch. you may spick ze eengleesh with me, mees. gueseberry jaam! ha, ha! an' now, mees, there iss wan question i should lak a demandè of the so beootifool demoiselle: what iss the prize of wan leetle kees made in a so lufly tart?" he leaned over the counter, his eyes rolling in a fine frenzy. where was mère tricot now? what a fine time to brandish her pastry board! gone to the innermost recesses of the apartment with the rosy baby! suddenly judy remembered exactly where she had seen that silly face before. "at versailles, the day i got on the wrong train!" flashed through her mind. she remembered well the hateful creature who had sat on the bench by her and insulted her with his attentions. she remembered how she had jumped up from the bench and hurried off, forgetting her package of gingerbread, bought at st. cloud, and how the would-be masher had run after her with it, saying in his insinuating manner: "you have forgot your _gouter, cherie_. do you like puddeen very much, my dear?" it was certainly the same man. his soldier's uniform made him somewhat less of a dandy than his patent leather boots and lemon coloured gloves had done on that occasion, but the dude was there in spite of the change of clothes. on that day at versailles she had seized the gingerbread and jammed it in her mouth, thereby disgusting the fastidious frenchman. she had often told the story and her amused hearers had always declared that her presence of mind was much to be commended. the soldier leaned farther and farther over the counter still demanding: "a leetle kees made in so lufly a tart." ha! an inspiration! judy grasped the desired gooseberry tart and thrust the whole thing into her mouth. there was no time to ask the leave of mère tricot. "_ah quelle betise!_" exclaimed the dandy, and at the same moment he, too, remembered the young english demoiselle at versailles. he straightened up and into his ogling eyes came a spark of shame. with a smile that changed his whole countenance he saluted judy. "pardon, mademoiselle!" judy's mouth was too full to attempt french but she managed to say in her mother tongue: "why do you come in a respectable place like this and behave just like a prussian?" "prussian! ah, mademoiselle, excuse, excuse. i--the beauty of the _boutiquier_ made me forget _la patrie_. i have been a roué, a fool. i am henceforth a frenchman. mademoiselle iss wan noble ladee. she efen mar her so great beauty to protec her dignitee. i remember ze _pain d'epice_ at versailles and _la grande bouchée_. mademoiselle has _le bel esprit_, what you call mericanhumor. _au revoir, mademoiselle_," and with a very humble bow he departed, without buying anything at all. the tricots laughed very heartily when judy told them her experience. "i see you can take care of yourself," said père tricot with a nod of approval. "if the prussians come, they had better look out." "do you forgive me for eating the last gooseberry tart?" she asked of mère tricot. "i was very glad of the excuse to get it before some one bought it from under my very nose." mother tricot not only forgave her but produced another one for her that she had kept back for the guest she seemed to delight to honour. "our _boutiquier_ has sold out the shop," declared the old man. "i shall have to go to market very early in the morning to get more provisions cooked." "ah, another excuse for absenting thyself!" "oh, please, may i go with you?" begged judy. "it will mean very early rising, but i shall be so pleased," said the delighted old man, and his wife smiled approval. it was arranged that judy was to sleep on a couch in the living room. this suited her exactly, as she was able after the family had retired to rise stealthily and open a window. the french peasant and even the middle class parisian is as afraid of air in a bedroom as we would be of a rattlesnake. they sleep as a rule in hermetically sealed chambers and there is a superstition even among the enlightened of that city that night air will give one some peculiar affection of the eyes. how they keep as healthy as they do is a wonder to those brought up on fresh air. judy had feared that her sleeping would have to be done in the great bed with marie and the baby and welcomed the proposition of the couch in the living room with joy. there was a smell of delicatessen wares but it was not unpleasing to one who had been economizing in food for so many days. "i'd rather smell spinach than american beauties," she said to herself, "and potato salad beats potpourri." her couch was clean and the sheets smelled of lavender. marie, the little daughter-in-law, had been a _blanchisseuse de fin_ before she became the bride of jean tricot. she still plied her trade on the family linen and everything she touched was snow white and beautifully ironed. the clothes were carried by her to the public laundry; there she washed them and then brought them home to iron. as judy lay on the soft, clean couch, sniffing the mingled smells of shop and kitchen and fresh sheets, she thanked her stars that she was not alone in the bents' studio, wondering what she was to do about breakfast and a little nervous at every sound heard during the night. even the bravest feels a little squeamish when absolutely alone through the long night. judy was brave, her father's own daughter, but those nights alone in the studio in rue brea had got on her nerves. it was just so much harder because of the gay, jolly winter spent in the place. "i feel like one who treads alone some banquet hall, deserted," expressed her sentiments exactly. once she dreamed that molly brown was standing over her with a cup of hot coffee, which was one of molly's ways. she was always spoiling people and often would appear at the bed side with matutinal coffee. the dream came after a particularly lonesome evening. she thought that as molly stood over her, her hand shook and some of the coffee splashed on her face. she awoke with a start to find her face wet with hot tears. here at the tricots, life was quite different. mère and père tricot were playing a happy duet through the night with comfortable snores. marie could be heard cooing to her baby as she nursed it and the baby making inarticulate gurgles of joy at being nourished. the feeling of having human beings near by was most soothing. judy did not mind the snores, but rejoiced in them. even when the baby cried, as it did once in the night, she smiled happily. "i am one of a family!" she exclaimed. chapter vii. a mother's faith. "edwin, kent has been gone over two weeks now and not one word from him," announced molly when mr. bud woodsmall had come and gone, leaving no mail of any great importance. "i can see mother is very uneasy, although she doesn't say a word." "what was the name of his steamer?" asked the professor as he opened his newspaper. "i wouldn't worry. mail is pretty slow and it would take a very fast boat to land him at havre and have a letter back this soon." edwin spoke a little absent-mindedly for the greens were very busy getting ready for their yearly move to wellington college and time for newspaper reading was at a premium. "but he was to cable." "oh! and what was the name of the steamer?" "_l'hirondelle de mer_, swallow of the sea. i fancy it must mean flying fish. paul says it is a small merchantman, carrying a few passengers." "_l'hirondelle de mer?_" edwin's voice sounded so faint that molly stopped packing books and looked up, startled. "what is it?" "it may be a mistake," he faltered. molly jumped up from the box of books and read over her husband's shoulder the terrible headlines announcing the sinking of the small merchantman _l'hirondelle de mer_ by a german submarine. no warning was given and it was not known how many of the crew or passengers had escaped. the news was got from a boat-load of half-drowned seamen picked up by an english fishing smack. the cargo was composed of pork and beef. molly read as long as her filling eyes would permit, and then she sank on her knees by her husband's chair and gave way to the grief that overcame her. "oh, molly darling! it may be all right. kent is not the kind to get lost if there is any way out of it." "but he would be saving others and forget himself." "yes, but see--or let me see for you--it says no women or children on board." "thank god for that!--and now i must go to mother." "yes, and i will go with you--but we must go with the idea of making your mother feel it is all right--that kent is saved." "yes--and i truly believe he is! i couldn't have been as happy for the last few days as i have been if--if--kent----" she could say no more. edwin held her for a moment in his arms and then called to kizzie to look after little mildred, who lay peacefully sleeping in her basket, blissfully ignorant of the trouble in the atmosphere. "look! there's mother coming through the garden! she knows! i can tell by the way she holds her head." "my children! you were coming to me. you know, then?" "yes, mother! but edwin and i think kent is too strong and active to--to----" "i know he is safe," declared the intrepid mother. "i am as sure of it as though he were here in the garden of chatsworth standing by me. one of my children could not have passed away without my being conscious of it." she spoke in an even, clear tone and her countenance was as one inspired. "oh, mother! that is what i felt, too. i could not have been so--so happy if anything awful had happened to kent." edwin green was very thankful that the women in his family could take this view of the matter, but not feeling himself to be gifted with second sight, he determined to find out for sure as soon as possible what had become of his favorite brother-in-law. he accordingly telegraphed a night letter to jimmy lufton in new york to get busy as quickly as possible, sparing no expense, and find out if the americans on board the vessel were saved. no doubt my readers will remember that jimmy lufton was the young newspaper man whom edwin green had feared as a rival, and now that he had won the prize himself, his feeling for that young man was one of kindliness and pity. answer came: a stray sailor had reported that he had seen the submarine take on board two of the passengers who were battling with the heavy sea. whether kent was one of them, he could not tell. there were days of anxious waiting. molly and edwin went on with the preparations for their flitting, but could not leave mrs. brown until she had assurance of the safety of her beloved son. that lady continued in the belief that all was well with him, in spite of no news. aunt clay came over to chatsworth to remonstrate with her younger sister over what she called her obstinacy. "why should you persist in the assertion that you would know if anything had happened to your son? we all know that things happen all the time and persons near to them go on in ignorance of the accidents. for my part, i think it is indecent for you and your daughters to be flaunting colours as you are. you should order your mourning and have services for those lost at sea." as mrs. brown's flaunting of colors consisted of one lavender scarf that nance oldham had knitted for her, this was, to say the least, unnecessary of sister clay. molly, who was present when the above unfeeling remarks were made, trembled with rage and wept with misery; but not so mrs. brown. "i don't agree with you," she said with a calmness that astonished her daughter. "well, if kent is alive, why does he not communicate with you? he is certainly careless of you to leave you in ignorance for all of this time." molly noticed with a kind of fierce joy that her mother's head was now held very high and her sensitive nostrils were a-quiver. "her nose was a-wuckin'," as aunt mary put it. "careless of _me_! kent! sister sarah, you are simply speaking with neither sense nor feeling. it has been your own fault that you have not obtained the love and affection of my children and so you wish to insinuate that they are careless of me. my son will let me know where he is as soon as he can. i already know he is alive and safe. you ask me how i know it! i can only say i know it." this was said with so much fire that aunt clay actually seemed to shrink up. she bullied mrs. brown up to a certain point, but when that point reached criticism of one of her children, woe betide aunt clay. molly, whose certainty of kent's being alive was beginning to grow weak and dim with the weary days, felt new strength from her mother's brave words. edwin green was forced to leave for the opening of wellington, but molly closed the bungalow and brought little mildred over to chatsworth, there to wait with her mother for some definite news. old aunt mary was a great comfort to them. she shared in their belief that their dear boy was alive. "cose nothin' ain't happened ter that there kent. didn't he tell me he was a goin' ter parus ter bring home that judy gal? the dutch ain't a goin' ter do nothin' ter a kind faceded pusson like our kent. as fer drowndin'! shoo! i done hear lewis say that kent kin outswim de whole er jeff'son county. he kin swim to indiany an' back thout ever touchin' lan', right over yander by the water wucks whar the riber is mo'n a mile. an' waves! why, lewis say whin the big stern wheelers is a jes' churnin' up the riber till it looks like the yawnin' er grabes at jedgement day that kent would jes' laff at them an' plunge right through jes' lak a feesh. an' i do hear tell that the waters er the mighty deep is salty an' that makes me know that kent ain't goin' ter sink. don't we tes' the brine fer pickles wif a aig? an' don't the aig float? an' if'n the mighty deep is called the briny deep don't that mean it kin float a aig? what kin float a aig kin float a young man what already knows how ter swim crost an' back on the 'hier riber." julia kean's second letter came, also the one from her father in molly's care. molly immediately sent it to the american club in paris. judy's letter certainly had nothing in it to reassure them as to her safety, except the meeting with the old man with whom she had danced at st. cloud. "it means that judy is able to make friends wherever she goes, and as she says, she can always light on her feet, somehow," sighed molly. she did not add what was in her mind: "if she had only come home with kent!" "mother, i must write to judy now that i have some kind of address. must i tell her?" "yes, my dear, tell her all we know, but tell her of our conviction that all is well. i will write to her myself, on second thought." john and paul both spent every night at chatsworth now, although it meant very early rising for both of them and often a midnight arrival or departure for dr. john, whose practice was growing but seemed to be restricted to persons who persisted in being taken very ill in the night. "it is because so many of them are charity patients or semi-charity and they always want to get all they can," he would declare. "of course, a doctor's night rates are higher than day rates, and when they are getting something for nothing, if they call me up at two a. m. they are getting more for nothing than they would be if they had their toe aches in the day time." ten days had passed since the half-drowned sailors had been picked up by the english fishing smack, and still no message from kent. mrs. brown wrote and dispatched her letter to judy kean. it was a hard letter to write, much harder than it would have been had there been an engagement between the two. the good lady felt that judy was almost like a daughter and still it required something more than existed to address her as one. she must convey to judy the news that kent was shipwrecked, and still she wanted to put in the girl's heart the faith she had in his safety. "poor judy! if she is alone in paris, think what it will mean for this news to reach her!" molly agonized to herself. "she may and may not care for kent enough to marry him, but she certainly is devoted to him as a friend. she will feel it just so much more keenly because he was on his way to her." molly could not sleep in her great anxiety, and her faith and the certainty of kent's safety left her. "i must keep up for mildred's sake," she would cry as she tried to choke down food. her every endeavor was to hide this loss of faith from her mother, whose belief in her son's being alive and well never seemed to falter. daily letters from edwin were molly's one comfort. he was back in the grind of lectures at wellington and was missing sorely his wife and child. "molly darling, you mustn't wait any longer in kentucky," her mother said at breakfast one morning. molly was trying to dispose of a glass of milk and a soft boiled egg, although her throat seemed to close at the thought of food. "but, mother, i wouldn't leave you for anything in the world," she declared, making a successful gulp which got rid of the milk, at least. "your husband needs you, child, and i know it would be best for you. there is no use in waiting." molly looked up, startled. had her mother, too, lost heart? her face had grown thinner in those days of waiting and her hair was quite grey, in fact, silvery about the temples; but her eyes still held the light of faith and high resolve. "she still has faith! and you, molly brown green! oh, ye of little faith! what right have you to be a clog and burden? take another glass of milk this minute and keep up your health and your baby's health." this to herself, and aloud: "why, mumsy, i want to stay right here. little mildred is thriving and edwin is doing very well at wellington. every one is asking him out to dine, now that he is untrammelled with a wife. he reports a big gain in attendance on last semestre and is as cheerful as can be. caroline, please bring me another glass of milk, and i think i'll get you to soft boil another egg for me!" chapter viii. des halles. mère tricot called judy just at dawn. the kindly old grenadier stood over her, and this was no dream--she held a real cup of coffee. "the good man is ready. i hate to wake you, but if you want to go to market with him, it is time." "oh, yes! it won't take me a minute." judy gulped the coffee and dived into her clothes. there seemed to be no question of baths with the good tricots, and judy made a mental note that she would go every day to the bents' studio for her cold plunge. a bathroom is the exception and not the rule in the poorer class of apartments in paris. in new york, any apartment worthy of the name boasts a bathroom, but not so in the french city. père tricot was waiting for her with his little green push cart to bring home the purchases to be made in market. he was dressed in a stiff, clean, blue blouse and his kindly, lank old face was freshly shaven. "ah, mam'selle! so you will go with the old man?" "go with you! of course i will! i love the early morning, and the market will be beautiful." the streets were very quiet and misty. paris never gets up very early, and as the cold weather comes, she lies abed later and later. the gardens of the luxembourg were showing signs of frost, or was it heavy dew? the leaves had begun to drop and some of them had turned. there was a delightful nip in the air and as judy and the old man trudged along, the girl felt really happy, happier than she had for many a day. "it must be having a home that is doing it," she thought. "maybe i am a domestic person, after all. "père tricot, don't you love your home?" "my home! you don't think that that shop in boulevard montparnasse is my home, eh?" "but where is your home then?" "ah, in normandy, near roche craie! that is where i was born and hope to die. we are saving for our old age now and will go back home some day, the good wife and i. jean and marie can run the shop, that is, if----" judy knew he meant if jean came through the war alive. "the city is not for me, but it seemed best to bring jean here when he was little. there seemed no chance to do more than exist in the country, and here we have prospered." "i have visited at roche craie. i think it is beautiful country. no wonder you want to go back. the d'ochtès were my friends there." "the marquis d'ochtè! oh, mam'selle, and to think of your being their guest and then mine!" judy could have bitten out her tongue for saying she had visited those great folk. she could see now that the dear old man had lost his ease in her presence. "they are the greatest landowners of the whole department." "yes, but they are quite simple and very kind. i got to know them through some friends of mine who were related to the marquise. she, you know, was an american." "yes, and a kind, great lady she is. why, it was only day before yesterday she was in our shop. she makes a rule to get what she can from us for her household. she has a chef who can make every known sauce, but he cannot make a tart like my good wife's. we furnish all the tarts of the d'ochtès when they are in paris. madame, the marquise, is also pleased to say that my _pouree d'epinard_ is smoother and better than gaston's, and only yesterday she bought a tray of it for their _déjeuner a la fourchette_. her son philippe is flying. the marquis, too, is with his regiment." "how i wish i could have seen her!" "ah, then, mam'selle would not be ashamed for the marquise to see her waiting in the shop of poor tricot?" "ashamed! why, père tricot, what do you take me for? i am only too glad to help some and to feel that i can do something besides look on," and judy, who had been walking on the sidewalk while her companion pushed his _petite voiture_ along the street, stepped down into the gutter and with her hand on the shaft went the rest of the way, helping to push the cart. as they approached the market, they were joined by more and more pedestrians, many of them with little carts, similar to père tricot's and many of them with huge baskets. war seemed to be forgotten for the time being, so bent were all of them on the business of feeding and being fed. "one must eat!" declared a pleasant fat woman in a high stiff white cap. "if paris is to be entered to-morrow by the prussians, i say we must be fed and full. there is no more pleasure in dying for your country empty than full." "listen to the voice of the halles, mam'selle. can't you hear it roaring? ah! and there is the bell of st. eustache." the peal of bells rose above the hum of the market. "st. eustache! can't we go into the church a little while first?" and so, hand in hand with the old normandy peasant, judy kean walked into the great old church, and together they knelt on the flagged floor and prayed. judy never did anything by halves, not even praying. when she prayed, she did it with a fervor and earnestness st. anthony himself would have envied. when they rose from their knees, they both looked happier. old tricot had prayed for his boy, so soon to be in the trenches, and judy offered an impassioned petition for the safety of her beloved parents. when they emerged from the church, the sun was up and the market was almost like a carnival, except for the fact that the color was subdued somewhat by the mourning that many of the women wore. "already so many in mourning!" thought the girl. "what will it be later?" "first the butter and eggs and cheese! this way, mam'selle!" they wormed their way between the great yellow wagons unloading huge crates of eggs and giant cheeses. the smell of butter made judy think of chatsworth and the dairy where she had helped caroline churn on her memorable visit to the browns. ah me! how glad she would be to see them again. and kent! she had not let herself think of kent lately. he must be angry with her for not taking his advice and listening to his entreaties to go back to the united states with him. he had not written at all and he must have been home several weeks. maybe the letter had miscarried, but other letters had come lately; and he might even have cabled her. he certainly seemed indifferent to her welfare, as now that the war had broken out, he had not even inquired as to her safety or her whereabouts; not even let her know whether or not the job in new york had materialized. she was awakened from her musings by her old friend, who had completed his bargaining for cheese, butter and eggs and now was proceeding to the fish market. "i must buy much fish. it is friday, you remember, and since the war started, religion has become the style again in france, and now fish, and only fish, must be eaten on friday. there are those that say that the war will help the country by making us good again." and so, in a far corner of the cart, well away from the susceptible butter and cheese, many fish were piled up, fenced off from the rest of the produce by a wall of huge black mussels in a tangle of sea weed. "well, there are fish enough in this market to regenerate the whole world, i should think," laughed judy. the stalls were laden with them and row after row of scaly monsters hung from huge hooks in the walls. men, women and boys were scaling and cleaning fish all along the curbings. "soon there will be only women and boys for the work," thought judy sadly, "and maybe it will not be so very long before there will be only women." cabbages and cauliflowers were bought next (cauliflowers that puddenhead wilson says are only cabbages been to college); brussels sprouts, too; and spinach enough to furnish red blood for the whole army, judy thought; then chickens, turkeys and grouse; a great smoked beef tongue, and a hog head for souse. the little green wagon was running over now and its rather rickety wheels creaked complainingly. old tricot and judy started homeward at as rapid a rate as the load would allow. judy insisted upon helping push, and indeed her services were quite necessary over the rough cobbles. when they reached the smooth asphalt, she told père tricot she would leave him for a moment and stop at the american club in the hope of letters awaiting there for her. how sweet and fresh she looked as she waved her hand at the old man! her cheeks were rosy, her eyes shining, and her expression so naïve and happy that she looked like a little child. "ah, gentile, gentile!" he murmured. his old heart had gone out to this brave, charming american girl. "and to think of her being friends with madame the marquise!" he thought. "that will be a nut for the good wife and marie to crack." he pushed his cart slowly along the asphalt, rather missing the sturdy strength that judy had put into the work. then he sat on a bench to rest awhile, one of those nice benches that paris dots her thoroughfares with and one misses so on coming back to united states. paris was well awake now and bustling. the streets were full of soldiers. old women with their carts laden with chrysanthemums were trudging along to take their stands at the corners. the air was filled with the pungent odors of their wares. old tricot stretched himself: "i must be moving! there is much food to be cooked to-day. it is time my mam'selle was coming along. ah, there she is!" he recognized the jaunty blue serge jacket and pretty little velour sport hat that judy always knew at which angle to place on her fluffy brown hair. "but how slowly she is walking! and where are her roses? her head is bent down like some poor french woman who has bad news from the trenches." chapter ix. the american mail. judy had, clasped in her arms, a package of mail, unopened except for the letter on top, which was the one that poor, brave mrs. brown had written her. she had kept throughout the letter the same gallant spirit of belief in her son's safety, but judy could not take that view. "gone! gone! and all because of poor miserable, no-account me!" her heart cried out in its anguish, but she shed no tear and made no sound. her face, glowing with health and spirits only a few minutes ago, was now as pale as a ghost and her eyes had lost their sparkle. père tricot hastened towards her as she came slowly down the street. "my dear little girl, what is it?" "he is drowned and all for me--just my stubbornness!" "who? your father?" "no!" "your brother, then?" "i have no brother." "ah, then, your sweetheart? your fiancé?" "i--i--sometime he might--that is, we were not fiancéd, not exactly." the old man drew her down on the bench beside him: "now tell me all about it, _ma pauvre petite_." and judy told him of her friends in kentucky. of molly brown and her brother kent; of her own stubbornness in not leaving france when the war broke out; and then she translated mrs. brown's letter for him. "ah, but the good lady does not think he is drowned!" "yes, but she is so wonderful, so brave." "well, are you not wonderful and brave, too? you must go on with your courage. if a mother can write as she has done and have faith in _le bon dieu_, then you must try, too--that will make you worthy of such a _belle mère_. does she not say that two passengers were seen to be saved by the enemy?" "oh, père tricot, you are good, good! i will try--if kent's own mother can be so brave, why surely i must be calm, too, i, who am nothing to him." "nothing? ah, my dear mam'selle, one who is nothing does not have young men take trips across the ocean for her. but look at the spinach wilting in the sun! we must hasten to get the cooking done." poor judy! all zest had gone out of the morning for her. she put her package of mail in the cart, not at all caring if it got at the fishy end, and wearily began to push. père tricot, well knowing that work was a panacea for sorrow, let her take her share of the burden, and together the old peasant in his stiff blue blouse and the sad young american girl trundled the provisions down the boulevard. "you have more letters, my daughter?" "yes, i have not read them yet. i was afraid of more bad news." "perhaps there is something from the mother and father." "no, the big one is from molly and the others are just from various friends." when they reached the shop, of course mère tricot started in with her usual badinage directed against her life partner, but he soon tipped her a wink to give her to understand that judy was in distress, and the kind old grenadier ceased her vituperation and went quietly to work washing spinach and making ready the fowls for the spit. judy took her letters to a green bench in the diminutive court behind the apartment which passed for garden, with its one oleander tree and pots of geraniums. her heart seemed to be up in her throat; at least, there was a strange pulsation there that must be heart. so this was sorrow! strange to have lived as long as she had and never to have known what sorrow was before! the nearest she had ever come to sorrow was telling her mother and father good-by when they started on some perilous trip--but they had always come back, and she was used to parting with them. but kent--maybe he would never come back! it was all very well for mrs. brown to refuse to believe in his being gone forever, but why should he be the one to be saved, after all? no doubt the passengers who were lost had mothers and--and what? sweethearts--there she would say it! she was his sweetheart even though they were not really engaged. she knew it now for a certainty. kent did not have to tell her what he felt for her, and now that it was too late, she knew what she felt for him. she knew now why she had been so lonesome. it was not merely the fact that war was going on and her friends were out of paris--it was that she was longing for kent. she understood now why she felt so homeless just at this time. she was no more homeless than she had always been, but now she wanted a home and she wanted it to be kent's home, too. fool! fool that she had been! why hadn't she gone home like all the sensible americans when war was declared? the browns would never forgive her and she would never forgive herself. she read again mrs. brown's letter. how good she was to have been willing to have kent turn right around and go back to paris for that worthless julia kean. and now he was gone, and it was all her fault! ah, me! well, life must be lived, if all the color had gone out of it. she wearily opened the letter addressed in molly's handwriting. it was from her father, and in it another from her mother, forwarded by molly. at last she had heard from them. they, too, hoped she had gone back to america. had taken for granted she had, since they had sent the letters to molly. she read them over and over. the love they had for her was to be seen in every word. never again would she part from them. how she longed for them! they would understand about kent, even though she was not engaged to him. and now she knew what bobby would advise her to do were he there in paris: "work! work until you drop from it, but work!" already the great range, that stretched the entire length of the tiny tiled kitchen, was filled with copper vessels, and appetizing odors were permeating the living room and the little shop beyond. "let me help," said judy bravely. "must i mind the shop or do you need me here? i can't cook, but i can wash spinach and peel potatoes." "marie can look after the shop this morning, my dear child, so you go rest yourself," said the good wife. "i don't want to rest! i want to work!" "let her work, mother! let her work! it is best so," and judy's old partner got the blue bowl, sacred to mayonnaise, and judy sat on the bench in the court and stirred and stirred as she dropped the oil into the beaten egg. her arm ached as the great smooth yellow mass grew thicker and thicker, but the more her arm ached, the less her heart ached. when the bowl was quite full, she started in on a great basket of potatoes that must be peeled, some for saratoga chips and some for potato salad. onions must be peeled, too, and then the spinach cleaned and chopped in a colander until it was a purée. the tricots worked with a precision and ease that delighted judy. she never tired of watching the grenadier turn out the wonderful little tarts. on that morning a double quantity was to be made as marie was to carry a basket of them to "the regiment"; that, of course, meant jean tricot's regiment. they had not yet been ordered to the front, but were ready to go at any moment. the old woman put batch after batch in the great oven. they came out all done to a turn and all exactly alike, as though made by machinery. then they were put in the show cases in the shop; and more were rolled out, filled and baked. "sometime may i try to do some?" the old woman smiled indulgently at judy's pale face. "you may try right now." judy made a rather deformed batch but mère tricot declared the children would not know the difference, and they could be sold to them. "the soldats must have the prettiest and another time you can make them well enough for them." so far, judy had not shed a tear. her eyes felt dry and feverish and her heart was still beating in her throat in some mysterious way. suddenly without a bit of warning the tears came. splash! splash! they dropped right on the tarts. "never mind the tarts!" exclaimed the kindly grenadier. "those must go to jean's regiment. they will understand." "i could not help it," sobbed poor judy. "i was thinking how proud kent would be of me when he knew i could make tarts and wondering how many he could eat, when all of a sudden it came to me that he never would know--and--and--oh, mother tricot!" and she buried her face on the bosom of the good old woman, who patted her with one hand and held her close while she adroitly whisked a pan of tarts from the oven with the other. "tarts must not burn, no matter if hearts are broken!" chapter x. the zeppelin raid. judy's cry did her good, although it left her in such a swollen state she was not fit to keep shop, which was what she had planned to do for the afternoon. "i think i'll go round to the studio in rue brea for a little while. i want to get some things." what she really wanted was to get a bath and to be alone for a few hours. her kind hosts thought it would be wise to let her do whatever she wanted, so they gave her god-speed but begged her not to be out late. judy now longed for solitude with the same eagerness she had before longed for companionship. she knew it would be unwise for her to give up to this desire to any extent and determined to get back to her kind friends before dark, but be alone she must for a while. she got the key from the concierge and entered the studio. all was as she had left it. windows and doors opened wide soon dispelled the close odor. a cold bath in the very attractive white porcelain tub, the pride of the bents, made poor judy feel better in spite of herself. "i don't want to feel better. i've been brave and noble all morning and now i want to be weak and miserable. i don't care whether school keeps or not. i am a poor, forlorn, broken-hearted girl, without any friends in all the world except some normandy peasants. the browns will all hate me, and my mother and father i may never see again. oh, kent! kent! why didn't you just pick me up and make me go with you? if you had been very, very firm, i'd have gone." judy remembered with a grim smile how in old days at college she had longed to wear mourning and how absurd she had made herself by dyeing her hair and draping herself in black. "i'm going into mourning now. it is about all i can do for kent. it won't cost much and somehow i'd feel better." judy, ever visualizing, pictured herself in black with organdy collar and cuffs and a mournful, patient look. "i'll just go on selling tarts. it will help the tricots and give me my board." she counted out her money, dwindled somewhat, but now that she was working she felt she might indulge her grief to the extent of a black waist and some white collars and cuffs. "i've got a black skirt and i'll get my blue suit dyed to-morrow. i'll line my black sport hat with white crêpe. that will make it do." in pity for herself, she wept again. she slipped out of the studio and made her few purchases at a little shop around the corner. madame, the proprietaire, was all sympathy. she had laid in an especial stock of cheap mourning, she told judy, as there was much demand for it now. it took nimble fingers to turn the jaunty sport hat into a sad little mourning bonnet, but judy was ever clever at hat making, and when she finished just before the sun set, she viewed her handiwork with pardonable pride. she slipped into her cheap black silk waist and pinned on the collar and cuffs. the hat was very becoming, so much so that judy had another burst of tears. "i can't bear for it to be becoming. i want to look as ugly and forlorn as possible." she determined to leave her serge suit in the studio and come on the following day to take it to a dye shop. as she was to do this, she decided not to leave the key with the concierge but take it with her. her kind friends looked sadly at the mourning. they realized when they saw it that judy had given up all hope of her friend. "ah, the pity of it! the pity of it!" exclaimed the old grenadier. marie, whose apple-like countenance was not very expressive of anything but health, looked as sympathetic as the shape of her face would allow. round rosy cheeks, round black eyes, and a round red mouth are not easy to mold into tragic lines, but judy knew that marie was feeling deeply for her. she was thinking of her jean and the possibility of turning her bridal finery into mourning. there was so much mourning now and according to the _temps_, the war was hardly begun. "i'll have my serge suit dyed to-morrow," judy confided to her. "ah, no! do not have it dyed! mère tricot and i can do it here and do it beautifully. the butcher's wife over the way is dyeing to-morrow and she will give us some of her mixture. it is her little brother who fell only yesterday." that night there was great excitement in the montparnasse quarter. a fleet of air ships circled over the city, dropping bombs as they flew. the explosions were terrific. the people cowered in their homes at first and then came rushing out on the streets as the noise subsided. père tricot came back with the news that no great harm had been done, but it was his opinion that the prussians had been after the luxembourg. "they know full well that our art treasures are much to us, and they would take great pleasure in destroying them. the beasts!" "where did the bombs strike?" asked judy from her couch in the living room. she had wept until her pillow had to be turned over and then had at last sunk into a sleep of exhaustion only to be awakened by the ear-splitting explosions. "i don't know exactly, but it was somewhere over towards the gardens of the luxembourg. i thank the good god you were here with us, my child." chapter xi. "l'hirondelle de mer." kent brown, when he reached new york on his return trip to paris in quest of the rather wilful, very irritating, and wholly fascinating judy, got his money changed into gold, which he placed in a belt worn under his shirt. "there is no telling what may happen," he said to the young kentuckian, jim castleman, with whom he had struck up an acquaintance on the train. "gold won't melt in the water if we do get torpedoed, and if i have it next me, whoever wants it will have to do some tearing off of clothes to get it. and what will i be doing while they are tearing off my clothes?" "good idea! i reckon i'll do the same--not that i have enough to weigh myself down with." castleman was on his way to france to fight. "i don't give a hang whether i fight with the english, french, serbs or russians, just so i get in a few licks on the prussians." he was a strapping youth of six feet three with no more idea of what he was going up against than a baby. war was to him a huge football game and he simply meant to get into the game. the _hirondelle_ was a slow boat but sailing immediately, so kent and his new friend determined to take it, since its destination, havre, suited them. "i like the name, too," declared kent, who shared with his mother and molly a certain poetic sentiment in spite of his disclaimer of any such foolishness. there were very few passengers, the boat being a merchantman. kent and jim were thrown more and more together and soon were as confidential as two school girls. kent had been rather noncommittal in his replies at first to jim's questions as to what his business was in the war zone at such a time if it were not fighting. as their friendship grew and deepened, as a friendship can on shipboard in an astonishingly short time, kent was glad enough to talk about judy and his mission in paris. "she sounds like a corker! when is it to be?" "i don't know that it is to be, at all," blushed kent. "you see, we are not what you might call engaged." "your fault or hers?" "why, we have just drifted along. somehow i didn't like to tie her down until i could make good--and she--well, i believe she felt the same way; but of course i can't say. she knows perfectly well that i have never looked at another girl since i saw her at wellington when she and my sister graduated there. she has--well,--browsed a little, but i don't think she ever meant anything by it. we get along like a house afire,--like the same things,--think the same way,--we have never talked out yet." "well, if you'll excuse me, i think you were an ass not to settle the matter long before this." "do you think so? do you think it would have been fair? why, man, i owed some money to my mother for my education in paris and did not even have a job in sight!" "pshaw! what difference does that make? don't you reckon girls have as much spunk about such things as men have? if i ever see the girl i want bad enough to go all the way to paris to get her, i'll tell her so and have an answer if i haven't a coat to my back." "perhaps you are right. i just didn't want to be selfish." "selfish! why, they like us selfish." kent laughed at the wisdom of the young hercules. no doubt they (whoever "they" might be) did like castleman selfish or any other way. he looked like a young god as he sprawled on deck, his great muscular white arm thrown over his head to keep the warm rays of the sun out of his eyes. his features were large and well cut, his hair yellow and curly in spite of the vigorous efforts he made to brush it straight. his eyes were blue and childlike with long dark lashes, the kind of eyes girls always resent having been portioned out to men. there was no great mentality expressed in his countenance but absolute honesty and good nature. one felt he was to be trusted. "doesn't it seem strange to be loafing around here on this deck with no thought of war and of the turmoil we shall soon be in?" said jim one evening at sunset when they were nearing their port. "we have only a day, or two days at most, before we will be in paris, and still it is so quiet and peaceful out here that i can hardly believe there is any other life." "me, too! i feel as though i had been born and bred on this boat. all the other things that have happened to me are like a dream and this life here on the good old _hirondelle de mer_ is the only real thing. i wonder if all the passengers feel this way." there were no women on board but the other passengers were frenchmen, mostly waiters from new york, going home to fight for _la france_. the cargo was pork and beef, destined to feed the army of france. "what's that thing sticking up in the water out yonder?" exclaimed kent. "it looks like the top of a mast just disappearing." "a wreck, i reckon!" exclaimed jim. kent smiled at his countryman's "reckon." having been away from the south for many months, it sounded sweet to his ears. the "guess" of the northerner and "fancy" of the englishman did not mean the same to him. the lookout saw the mast-like object at the same time they noted it, and suddenly there was a hurrying and scurrying over the whole ship. "look, it's sunk entirely out of sight! jim castleman, that's a german submarine!" the shock that followed only a moment afterwards was indescribable. it threw both of the kentuckians down. they had hastened to the side of the vessel, the better to view the strange "thing sticking up out of the water." the boats were lowered very rapidly and filled by the crazed passengers and crew. the poor waiters had not expected to serve their country by drowning like rats. as for the crew,--they were noncombatants and not employed to serve any country in any way. they were of various nationality, many of them being portuguese with a sprinkling of scandinavians. "here's a life preserver, brown! better put it on. this ain't the ohio." "good! i'll take my chances in the water any day rather than in one of those boats. can you swim?" "sure! i can do three miles without knowing it. and you?" "hump! brought up within a mile of the ohio river and been going over to indiana and back without landing ever since i was in pants." "well, let's dive now and get clear of the sinking boat. if anything happens to me and you get clear, you write my sister in lexington--she's all i have left." "all right, jim! let's shake. if i give out and you get through, please go get judy and take her back to my mother." "that's a go! but see here, there is nothing going to happen to us if endurance will count for anything. have you got on your money belt?" "yes; and you?" said kent, feeling for the gold he carried around his waist. "i'm all ready then." the boats, loaded to their guards, were putting off. our young men felt it was much safer to trust to themselves than to the crazy manning of the already overloaded boats. they were singularly calm in their preparations as they strapped on the life preservers. "jim, throw away the papers you have, recommending you to that french general. we may get picked up by the submarine, and as plain, pleasure-seeking americans we have a much better chance of being treated properly than if one of us was going to join the allies." kent had inherited from his mother the faculty of keeping his head in time of peril. "good eye, old man! they are in my grip and can just stay there. i reckon i'm a--a--book agent. that won't compromise me any." "all right, stick to it! and here goes! we must stay together." the kentuckians dived as well as the bulky life preservers would permit and then they swam quietly along side by side. the ship was rapidly settling. the last boat was off, so full that every little wave splashed over its panic-stricken passengers. chapter xii. tutno. the sea was comparatively calm and quite warm. if it had been anything but a shipwreck, our young men would have enjoyed the experience. they congratulated themselves that they had trusted to their own endurance and the life preservers rather than to the crazy boats when they saw one of the overloaded vessels come within an ace of turning turtle. the submarine was now on top of the water and was slowly steaming towards the scene of disaster. the boats made for the opposite direction as fast as the oarsmen could pull. they had not realized that all the submarine wanted was to destroy the pork and beef cargo. the hungrier the french army got the sooner they would be conquered by the germans. "well, my friend the book agent, what do you think about swimming in the direction of the enemy? remember we are americans, just plain americans with no desire to do anything in the way of swatting prussians.--neutral noncombatants!" said kent, swimming easily, the life preserver lifting him so far out of the water that he declared he felt like a bell buoy. "yes, i'll remember! my line is family albums and de luxe copies of ruskin. i hope those poor devils in the boats will make land or get picked up or something." "me, too! if the sea only stays so smooth they can make a port in less than a day, if they don't come a cropper. we are almost in the english channel, i should say, due south of the scilly islands." "well, i feel as though i belonged on them--here we are shipwrecked and floating around like a beach party, conversing as quietly as though it were the most ordinary occurrence to book agents and damsel seekers!" "there is no use in getting in a stew. i have a feeling that the germans are going to pick us up. they are heading this way and i don't reckon they will let us sink before their eyes. if they don't pick us up, we are good for many hours of this play. i feel as fresh as a daisy." "same here!" "thank god, there weren't any women and children on board!" said kent fervently. "yes, i was feeling that all the time. i'd hate to think of their being in those crazy boats." the german boat was quite close to them now. the deck was filled with men, all of them evidently in great good humour with themselves and fate because of the terrible havoc they had played with the poor _hirondelle de mer_, who was now at her last gasp, the waves washing over her upper decks. "_wei gehts?_" shouted jim, raising himself up far in the water and wigwagging violently at the death dealing vessel. it was only a short time before the efficient crew had kent and jim on board, in dry clothes and before an officer. the fact that they were americans was beyond dispute, but their business on the other side was evidently taken with a grain of salt by the very keen looking, alert young man who questioned them in excellent english. jim was quite glib with his book agent tale. he got off a line of talk about the albums that almost convulsed kent. "why were you going to paris to sell such things? would a country at war be a good field for such an industry?" "but the country will not be at war long. we expect the germans to have conquered in a short time, and then they will want many albums for the snapshots they have taken during the campaign. i have been sent as an especial favor by my company, who wish to honor me. i hate to think of all my beautiful books being sunk in the _hirondelle_." jim looked so sad and depressed that the young officer offered him a mug of beer and urged him to try the bologna sausage that was among the viands waiting for them. kent's reason for going to paris was received with open doubt. it was very amusing in a way that they should be completely taken in by jim's ingenuous tale of albums while kent, telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, should be doubted. "going to paris to bring home a young lady? is she your sister?" "no, she is a friend of my sister," answered kent, feeling very much as though he were saying a lesson. "do you know paris?" "yes, i studied architecture at the beaux arts last winter." "ah, then your sympathies are with france!" "i am an american and my nation is remaining neutral on the war." "yes, your nation but not the individuals! what were your intentions after finding the young lady?" "to take her back to united states as fast as we could go." "well, well! i am afraid the young lady will have to content herself in paris for some weeks yet, as we are bound for other ports now. make yourselves at home," and with a salute the officer left them to the welcome meal which had immediately been furnished them after their ducking. if the kentuckians had had nothing to do but enjoy life on that submarine, no doubt they could have done it. they were treated most courteously by officers and men. the food was plentiful and wholesome, the life was interesting and conversation with the sailors most instructive, but jim was eager to strike that blow against prussia and it was extremely irksome to him to have to keep up the farce of being a book agent. kent was more and more uneasy about judy, realizing, from the sample of germans he now came in contact with, that ruthlessness was the keynote of their character. they were fighting to win, and win they would or die in the attempt; by fair means or foul, they meant to conquer the whole world who did not side with them. "gee, if i don't believe they can do it," sighed jim, as he and his friend were having one of their rare tete-a-tetes. "they have such belief in their powers." "yes, they seem much more stable, somehow, than the french. did you ever imagine anything like the clockwork precision with which this monster is run?" "when do you reckon we will get off of her? we have been on a week now and i see no signs of landing us. i am always asking that human question mark, captain von husser, what he is going to do with us, and he just smiles until his moustache ends stick into his eyes, and looks wise. i feel like hansel and gretel and think maybe they are fattening us to eat later on. i am getting terribly flabby and fat," and jim felt his muscles and patted his stomach with disapproval. "i'd certainly like to know where we are. you notice they never tell us a thing, and since we are allowed only in the cabin and on a certain part of the deck, we never have a chance at the chart. i wish they would let us bunk alone and not have that fat head in with us. this is the first time they have let us talk together since we got hauled in, and i bet some one is to blame for this." kent had hardly spoken before a flushed lieutenant came hurriedly up and with ill-concealed perturbation entered into conversation with them. "gee whiz!" thought kent. "i wish jim castleman and i knew some kind of a language that these butchers did not know. but the trouble is they are so terribly well educated they know all we know and three times as much besides." suddenly there flashed into his mind a childish habit the browns used to have of speaking in a gibberish called tutno. "i wonder if jim knows it! i've a great mind to try him." putting his hand on his friend's arm, he said quite solemnly: "jug i mum, sank a nun tut, yack o u, tut a lul kuk, tutno." "sus u rur e!" exclaimed jim, delightedly. the lieutenant looked quite startled, wigwagged to a brother officer who was passing and spoke hurriedly to him in german. as german was worse than greek to kent and jim (they had studied some greek at school but knew no german) they did not know for sure what they were saying, but from the evident excitement of the two officers they gathered they had quite upset the calculations of their under-sea hosts. "gug o tot, 'e mum, gug o i nun gug, sus o mum e!" exclaimed kent with such a mischievous twinkle in his eye that the two officers bristled their moustaches in a fury of curiosity. "yack o u, bub e tut!" was jim's cryptic rejoinder. for the benefit of my readers who have never whiled away the golden hours of childhood with tutno or who have perchance forgotten it, i reckon (being a southerner myself, i shall say reckon) i had better explain the intricacies of the language. tutno is a language which is spoken by spelling and every letter sounds like a word. the vowels remain the same as in english but the consonants are formed by adding u and then the same consonant again. for instance: m is mum; n is nun; t is tut; r is rur. there are a few exceptions which vary in different localities making the language slightly different in the states. in kentucky, c is sank; y is yack; j is jug. now when jim exclaimed: "yack o u bub e tut!" he conveyed the simple remark: "you bet!" to kent's knowing ears. kent had opened the conversation by the brilliant remark: "jim, can you speak tutno?" and jim had answered: "sure!" then kent had come back with: "got 'em going some!" the kentuckians were in great distress when they realized that no doubt the sinking of the _hirondelle de mer_ had been reported in the united states and that their families must be in a state of doubt as to their whereabouts. they had requested the captain to let them send a message if possible, and he had told them with great frankness that in war time the women must expect to be uncertain. two more ships had been sunk since they had been taken on board, but they were kept in ignorance as to what ships they were or what had been the fate of the crew or passengers. they knew that some men had been added to the number of prisoners on board, but as they were kept in a compartment to themselves, they never saw them. between operations, when the submarine came up on top of the water and all on board swarmed on deck to smoke and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, kent and jim were politely conducted down into the cabin after they were deemed to have had enough, and then the other prisoners, whoever they were, were evidently given an airing. after our young men started their tutno game they were never left alone one minute. such a powwowing as went on after it was reported was never beheld. it was evidently considered of grave international importance. once they found their keeper taking furtive notes. evidently they hoped to gain something by finding out what the americans were saying. the plentiful food that had at first been served to them was growing more meagre and less choice. there was nothing but a small portion of black bread with very bad butter and a cup of coffee for breakfast; a stew of a nondescript canned meat and more black bread for dinner, and for supper nothing but black bread with a smearing of marmalade. jim's superfluous flesh began to go and kent got as lean as a grey hound. "pup rur o vuv i sus i o nun sus, lul o wuv, i rur e sack kuk o nun!" said jim, tightening his belt. it had been more than two weeks since the sinking of the _hirondelle_ and the young men were growing very weary of the life. their misery was increasing because of the uncertainty they knew their families must be in. no respite was in sight. they could tell by the balmy air when they were allowed on deck that they were further south than they had been when they were struck, but where, they had not the slightest idea. "the water looks as it does around burmuda, but surely we are not over there," said kent in tutno. "the lord knows where we are!" answered jim in the same language. "i wish the brutes would let us telegraph our folks, somehow. they could do it if they chose. they can do anything, these prussians." when kent said prussians in tutno: "pup rur u sus sus i nun sus," the young officer whose turn it was to guard them whipped out his note book and examined it closely. "sus often repeated!" he muttered. chapter xiii. the "signy." "the orders of the commander are for the americans to disembark!" a lieutenant clicked his heels in front of our friends and saluted. "bub u lul lul yack!" shouted jim. "where? when?" "immediately!" the submarine was on the surface of the water, but jim and kent had been ushered below, evidently to give their mysterious fellow prisoners a turn at the deck. they were never allowed to see them, and to this day are absolutely ignorant as to who they were or how many or of what nationality. it turned out that a swedish vessel, the _signy_, had been sighted thirteen miles off the spanish port of camariñas. she was signaled and ordered to take aboard the kentuckians and land them. explicit commands were given the captain of the _signy_ that she was to land the young men immediately. kent and jim were too glad to get off the submarine to care where they were being landed. they only hoped it was not in south america. "gug o o dud bub yack!" shouted jim to the grinning crew of the german vessel. the young lieutenant of the inquisitive mind made another note in his little book as the life boat from the swedish ship bore the young men away. they were very cordially received on board the _signy_ but not allowed to stay a moment longer than was necessary. the ship steamed to within a few miles of the spanish port, all the time being followed up by the submarine, then the boats were lowered again and kent and jim rowed to shore. they were given a good meal in the interim, however, one that they were most pleased to get, too, as black bread and canned stew had begun to pall on these favored sons of kentucky. "where in the thunder is camariñas?" queried kent. "i know it is spain, but is it north, south, east or west?" "well, i reckon it isn't east and that's about all i know." it proved to be in the northwest corner and after some mix-ups, a person was found who could speak english. the american consul was tracked, cablegrams were sent to kentucky apprising their families of their safety, and at last our friends were on the train en route for paris. it was a long and circuitous journey, over and under and around mountains. they would have enjoyed it at any other time, but kent was too uneasy about judy to enjoy anything, and jim was too eager to get in line to swat the prussians, as he expressed it, to be interested in spanish scenery. they traveled third class as they had no intention of drawing too recklessly on their hoarded gold. after many hours of travel by day and night, they finally arrived in paris. it was eleven at night and our young men were weary, indeed. the hard benches of the third class coaches had made their impression and they longed for sheets and made-up beds. "a shave! a shave! my kingdom for a shave!" exclaimed kent, as they stretched their stiffened limbs after tumbling out of the coach in the gare de sud. "don't forget i am a stranger in a strange land, so put me wise," begged jim. "i know a terribly cheap little hotel on montparnasse and raspail where we can put up, without even the comforts of a bum home, but we can make out there and it is cheap. the _haute loire_ is its high sounding name, but it is not high, i can tell you." "well, let's do it. i hope there is some kind of a bath there." "i trust so, but if there isn't, we can go to a public bath." the kentuckians were a very much dishevelled pair. they had purchased the necessary toilet articles at camariñas, but sleeping for nights in suits in which they had already had quite a lengthy swim did not improve their appearance. the submariners had pressed their clothes after their ducking, but jim's trousers had shrunk lengthways until he said he felt like buster brown, and kent's had dried up the other way, so that in walking two splits had arrived across his knees. "we look like tramps, but the _haute loire_ is used to our type. i don't believe we could get into a good hotel." "are you going to look up your girl--excuse me, i mean miss kean, before you replenish your wardrobe?" "why, yes, i must not wait a minute. i would like to do it to-night." "to-night! man, you are crazy! get that alfalfa off your face first. one night can't get her into much trouble." "perhaps you are right. i am worn out, too, and a night's rest and a shave will do wonders for both of us." paris looked very changed to kent. the streets were so dark and everything looked so sad, very different from the gay city he had left only a few weeks before. the _haute loire_ had not changed, though. it was the same little hospitable fifth class joint. the madame received the exceedingly doubtful looking guests with as much cordiality as she would had they been the president of the republic and general joffre. there were no baths that night, but tumbling into bed, our kentuckians were lost to the world until the next day. what if the prussians did fly over the city, dropping bombs on helpless noncombatants? two young men who had been torpedoed; had floated around indefinitely in the atlantic ocean; had been finally picked up by the submarine that had done the damage; had remained in durance vile for several weeks on the submarine, resorting to tutno to have any private conversation at all; and at last been transferred to a swedish vessel and dumped by them on the northwest coast of spain--those young men cared little whether school kept or not. the bombs that dropped that night were nothing more than pop crackers to them. the excitement in the streets did not reach their tired ears. kent dreamed of chatsworth and of taking judy down to aunt mary's cabin so the old woman could see "that judy gal" once more. jim castleman dreamed he swatted ten thousand prussians, which was a sweet and peaceful dream to one who considered swatting the prussians a privilege. chapter xiv. the cablegram. "tingaling, aling, aling! phome a ringin' agin! i bet that's mr. paul," declared caroline, the present queen of the chatsworth kitchen. "i kin tell his ring ev'y time. i'm a goin' ter answer it, miss molly." molly, who was ironing the baby's cap strings and bibs (work she never trusted any one to do), smiled. it was one of caroline's notions that each person had a particular way of ringing the telephone. she was always on the alert to answer the "phome," and would stop anything she was doing and tear to be first to take down the receiver, although it always meant that some member of the family must come and receive the message which usually was perfectly unintelligible to the willing girl. the telephone was in the great old dining room, because, as mrs. brown said, every one would call up at meal time and if you were there, you were there. molly followed caroline to the dining room, knowing full well that she would be needed when once the preliminaries were over. she gathered the cap strings and bibs, now neatly ironed and ready for the trip to wellington that she would sooner or later have to take. still no news from the _hirondelle de mer_, that is, no news from kent. the last boat load of sailors and passengers had been taken up, but none of them could say for sure whether the two kentuckians had been saved or not. one man insisted he had seen the submarine stop and take something or some one on board, but when closely questioned he was quite hazy as to his announcement. jimmy lufton had kept the cables hot trying to find out something. the browns and jim castleman's sister had communicated with each other on the subject of the shipwrecked boys. "'low!" she heard caroline mutter with that peculiarly muffled tone that members of her race always seem to think they must assume when speaking through the telephone. "this here is mrs. brown's res-i-d-e-n-c-e! yessir! this here is ca'line at the phome. yessir! miss molly done made yo' maw eat her breakfus' in the baid. no, sir, not to say sick in the baid--yessir, kinder sick on the baid. yessir! miss molly is a launderin' of the cap ties fer the baby. we is all well, sir, yessir. i'll call miss molly." of course she hung up the receiver before molly could drop her cap strings and reach the telephone. "oh, caroline, why did you hang it up? was it mr. paul?" "yassum! it were him. i done tole you i could tell his ring. i hung up the reception cause i didn't know you was so handy, an' i thought if i kep it down, it might was'e the phome somehow, while i went out to fetch you." molly couldn't help laughing, although it was very irritating for caroline to be so intensely stupid about telephoning. paul, knowing caroline's ways, rang up again in a moment and molly was there ready to get the message herself. "molly, honey, are you well? is mother well? how is the baby?" "all well, paul! any news?" "good news, molly!" molly dropped all the freshly ironed finery and leaned against the wall for support. "a cablegram from spain! kent was landed there by the german submarine." "kent! are you sure?" "as sure as shootin'! let me read it to you--'safe--well, kent.' tell mother as soon as you can, molly, but go easy with it. good news might knock her out as much as bad news. i'll be out with john as fast as his tin lizzie can buzz us." "safe! kent alive and well!" molly's knees were trembling so she could hardly get to her mother's room, where that good lady had been pretending to eat her breakfast in bed. old shep, standing by her bedside, had a suspiciously greasy expression around his mouth and was very busy licking his lips, which imparted the information to the knowing molly that her mother's dainty breakfast had disappeared to a spot to which it was not destined by the two anxious cooks, molly and caroline. "molly, what is it? i heard the 'phone ring. was it paul?" "yes, mother! good news!" mrs. brown closed her eyes and lay back on her pillows, looking so pale that molly was scared. how fragile the good lady was! her profile was more cameo-like than ever. these few weeks of waiting, in spite of the brave front she had shown to the world, had told on her. could she stand good news any better than she could bad? "kent?" she murmured faintly. "yes, mother, a cablegram! 'safe, well, kent.'" "where?" "spain, i don't know what part." and then the long pent-up flood gates were opened and mrs. brown and molly had such a cry as was never seen or heard of. the cap strings that molly had dropped on the floor when she heard that there was news, she had gathered up in one wild swoop on the way to her mother's room, and these were first brought into requisition to weep on, and then the sheets and the napkin from the breakfast tray, and at last even old shep had to get damp. "i bus' stop ad gall up zue ad ad zarah. oh, bother, bother, how good god is!" "yes, darling, he is good whether our kent was spared to us or not," said mrs. brown, showing much more command of her consonants than poor molly. caroline appeared, one big grin, bearing little mildred in her arms. "she done woke up an' say ter me: 'ca'line, what all dis here rumpus 'bout?'" as mildred had as yet said nothing more than "goo! goo!" that brought the smiles to molly and mrs. brown. "lawd gawd a mussy! is mr. kent daid? is that what mr. paul done phomed? i mus' run tell aunt mary. i boun' ter be the fust one." "no, no, caroline! mr. kent is alive and well." "'live an' well! well, gawd be praised! when i come in an' foun' you all a actin' lak what the preacher says will be in the las' day er jedgment, a weepin' an' wailin' an' snatchin' er teeth, i say ter myse'f: 'ca'line, that there dream you had 'bout gittin' ma'id was sho' sign er death, drownin' referred.' well, miss molly, if'n you'll hol' the baby, i'll go tell aunt mary the good news, too. cose 'tain't quite so scrumptious to be the fust ter carry good news as 'tis bad, but then news is news." sue was telephoned to immediately and joined in the general rejoicing. aunt sarah clay was quite nonplussed for a moment because of the attitude she had taken about the family mourning, but her affection for her sister, which was really very sincere in spite of her successful manner of concealing it, came to the fore and she, too, rejoiced. of course she had to suggest, to keep in character, that kent might have communicated with his family sooner if he only would have exerted himself, but molly was too happy to get angry and only laughed. "aunt clay can no more help her ways than a chestnut can its burr." and then she remembered how as children they would take sticks and beat the chestnut burrs open and she wondered if a good beating administered on aunt clay might not help matters. she voiced this sentiment to her mother, who said: "my dear molly, life has administered the beating on your aunt clay long ago. it is being childless that makes her so bitter. i know that and that is the reason i am so patient, at least, i try to be patient with her. of course, she always asserts she is glad she has no children, that my children have been a never ending anxiety to me and she is glad she is spared a similar worry." "but, mother, we are not a never-ending anxiety, are we?" "yes, my darling, but an anxiety i would not be without for all the wealth of the indies. aren't you a little bit anxious all the time about your baby?" "why, yes, just a teensy weensy bit, but then i haven't got used to her yet." "well, when you get used to her, she will be just that much more precious." "but then i have just one, and you have seven." "do you think you love her seven times as much as i love you, or kent or milly or any of them?" "oh, mother, of course i don't. i know you love all of us just as much as i love my little mildred, only i just don't see how you can." "maybe you will have to have seven children to understand how i can, but when you realize what it means to have mildred, maybe you can understand what it has meant always to poor sister sarah never to have had any children." "i suppose it is hard on her but, mother dear, if she had had the seven and you had never had any, do you think for a minute you would have been as porcupinish and cactus-like in your attitude toward the world and especially toward aunt clay's seven as she is toward yours? never!" molly's statement was not to be combatted, although mrs. brown was not sure what she would have been like without her seven anxieties; but molly knew that she would have been the same lovely person, no matter how many or how few children she had had. "i'm going to try to feel differently toward aunt clay," she whispered into her baby's ear, as she cuddled her up to her after the great rite of bathing her was completed that morning. "just think what it must be never to hold your own baby like this! poor aunt clay! no wonder she is hard and cold--but goodness me, i'm glad i did not draw her for a parent." the baby looked up into her mother's eyes with a gurgle and crow, as though she, too, were pleased that her granny was as she was and not as aunt clay was. "we are going to see daddy soon, do you know that, honey baby?" and molly clasped her rosy infant to her breast with a heart full of thanksgiving that now there was no dire reason for her remaining in kentucky longer. a farewell visit must be paid to aunt mary. the baby was dressed in one of her very best slips and molly put on her new blue suit for the occasion, as she well knew how flattered the old woman was by such an attention. "well, bless gawd, if here ain't my molly baby and the little miss milly all dressed up in they best bibantucker! i been a lyin' here a dreamin' you was all back in the carstle, that there apple tree what you youngsters done built a house up'n an' miss milly done sent me to say you mus' come an wash yo' faceanhans fer dinner, jes' lak she done a millium times, an' who should be up in the tree with you an' that there kent but yo' teacher an' that there judy gal." molly laughed as she always did when aunt mary called professor edwin green, her teacher. "yes, chile, they was up there with you an' kent up'n had the imprence to tell me to go tell his maw that he warn't comin' ter no dinner, 'cause he an' that there judy gal was a keepin' house up the tree." the old woman chuckled with delight at kent's "imprence." "i shouldn't be astonished if they did go to housekeeping soon, aunt mary, but i don't fancy it will be up a tree." "an' what i done say all the time 'bout that there kent not being drownded? when the niggers came a whining 'roun' me a sayin' he was sho' daid 'cause they done had signs an' omens, i say ter them i done had mo' ter do with that there kent than all of 'em put together an' i lak ter know what they be havin' omens 'bout him when i ain't had none. if'n they was any omens a floatin' 'roun' they would a lit on me an' not on that triflin' buck jourdan. he say he dream er teeth an' 'twas sho sign er death. i tell him mebbeso but 'twas mo'n likely he done overworked his teeth a eatin' er my victuals, a settin' 'roun' here dayanight a strummin' on his gittah, an' what's mo' i done tole him he better git the blacksmith ter pull out one er his jaw teeth what ain't mo'n a snaggle. sukey low she goin' ter send him in ter lou'ville ter one er these here tooth dentists, but i say the blacksmith is jes' as good a han' at drawin' teeth as they is, an' he chawge the same as ter shoe a mule, an' that ain't much." "but aunt mary, i should think if there is anything serious the matter with buck's teeth he had better see a dentist. the blacksmith might break his tooth off." "who? this here blacksmith? lawsamussy, honey, why he's that strong an' survigorous that he would bust buck's jaw long befo' he break his tooth. he'll grab hol' the tooth and put his knee in buck's chist an' he gonter hol' on till either buck or the tooth comes." a groan from the next room, the lean-to kitchen, gave evidence that buck was in there, an unwilling eavesdropper since the method of the blacksmith on his suffering molar was the topic. "don't you think the baby has grown, aunt mary?" asked molly, mercifully changing the subject. "yes, she done growed some an' she done growed prettier. i seed all the time she were gonter be pretty, an' when that there paul came down here an' give it to me that the new baby looked lak a pink mummy--i done tol' him that i didn't know what a mummy were, but what ever it were, the new baby didn't look no mo' lak one than he did when he was born, 'cause of all the wrinkly, scarlet little injuns he would a fetched the cake. that done dried that there paul up an he ain't been so bombast since bout the looks er no new babies." the old woman chuckled with delight in remembrance of her repartee. "aunt mary, i think you are feeling better, aren't you? you seem much more lively than when i saw you last." "'cose i is feelin' better. ain't we done heard good news from that there kent?" "but i thought you knew all the time he was all right." "well now, so i did, so fur as i knew anything, but they was times when i doubted, an' those times pulled me back right smart. why, honey, i used ter pray the almighty if he lacked a soul ter jes' tak me. i is a no 'count ole nigger on the outside but mebbe my soul is some good yit. if i could give up my life fur one er miss milly's chillun, i'd be proud ter do it!" "oh, aunt mary, you have been so good to us always!" "lawsamussy, chile! what i here fur but ter be good ter my white folks? they's been good ter me--as good as gole. i ain't never wanted fur nothin' an' i ain't never had a hard word from carmichael or brown, savin', of cose, miss sary. she is spoke some hard words in her day, but she didn' never mean nothin' by them words. i don't bear no grudge against po' miss sary. the good lord done made her a leetle awry an' 'tain't fur me ter be the one ter try to straighten her out. sometimes whin i lies here a thinkin' it seems ter me mebbe some folks is made lak miss sary jes' so they kin be angels on earth like yo' maw. miss sary done sanctified yo' maw. she done tried her an' rubbed aginst her, burnt her in de fire of renunciation and drinched her in the waters of reproachment until yo maw is come out refimed gold." "maybe you are right, aunt mary. i am trying to be nicer about the way i feel about aunt clay myself. i think if i feel differently, maybe aunt clay would feel differently toward me. she does not like me, and why should she, since i don't really like her?" "i don't want ter take no christian thoughts from yo' min' an' heart, honey chile, but the good you'll git from thinkin' kin' things 'bout miss sary will be all yo' own good. miss sary ain't gonter be no diffrent. she done got too sot in her ways. the leper ain't gonter change his spots now no mo'n it did in the time er noah, certainly no ole tough leper lak miss sary." it was hard to tell the old woman good-by. every time molly left chatsworth she feared it would be the last farewell to poor old aunt mary. she had been bedridden now for many months, but she hung on to life with a tenacity that was astonishing. "cose, i is ready ter go whin the marster calls," she would say, "but i ain't a hurryin' of him. a creakin' do' hangs long on its hinges an' the white folks done iled up my hinges so, what with good victuals with plenty er suption in 'em an' a little dram now an' then 'cordin' ter the doctor's subscription, that sometimes i don't creak at all. i may git up out'n this here baid 'fo long an' be as spry as the nex'. i wouldn't min' goin' so much if i jes' had mo' idee what heaven is lak. i'm so feard it will be strange ter me. i don't want ter walk on no goldin' streets. gold ain't no better ter walk on than bricks. miss milly done read me the psalm what say: 'he maketh me to lay down in the green pastures.' now that there piece sounds mighty pretty--jes' lak singin', but i ain't never been no han' to set on the damp groun' an' heaven or no heaven, i low it would give me a misery ter be a doin' it now; an' as fer layin' on it, no'm! i wants a good rockin' cheer, an' i wants it in the house, an' when i wants ter res' myse'f, a baid is good enough fer me." the old woman's theology was a knotty problem for all of the brown family. they would read to her from the bible and reason with her, but her preconceived notion of heaven was too much for them. she believed firmly in the pearly gates and the golden streets, and freely announced she would rather have her own cabin duplicated on the other side than all the many mansions, and her own whitewashed gate with hinges made from the soles of old shoes than the pearly gates. "what i want with a mansion? the cabin whar i been a livin' all my life is plenty good enough for this old nigger. an' what's mo, blue grass a growin' on each side of a shady lane is better'n golden streets. i ain't a goin' ter be hard-headed bout heaven, but i hope the marster will let me settle in some cottage an' let it be in the country where i kin raise a few chickens an' mebbe keep a houndog." "i am sure the master will let you have whatever you want, dear aunt mary," molly would say. "but if'n he does that, i'll get too rotten spiled ter stay in heaven. he better limit me some, or i'll feel too proudified even fer a angel." chapter xv. wellington again. "oh, it is nice to be back home," sighed molly, settling herself luxuriously in the sleepy-hollow chair that was supposed to be set aside for the master of the house. with the girlish habit she had never outgrown, she slipped off her pumps and stretched out her slender feet to the wood fire, that felt very comfortable in the crisp autumn weather. "that's what you said when we arrived in kentucky in the spring," teased her husband. "well, so it was nice. the migratory birds have two homes and they are always glad to get to whichever one is seasonable. i reckon i am with my two homes as mother is with her seven children. i love them just the same. thank goodness, i haven't seven of them, homes, i mean." "yes, i think two are enough." "which home do you love best, wellington or the orchard home?" asked molly, smiling fondly at her husband, who was dandling little mildred on his knees with awkward eagerness. "why, neither one of them is home to me unless you are there, and whichever one you grace with your presence is for the time being the one i like the better." "and the baby, too, whichever one she is in makes it home!" "oh, certainly!" exclaimed edwin green with a whimsical expression on his face. "i see that when i make love now it is to be to two ladies and not to one." "don't you think mildred has grown a lot? and see, her eyes have really turned brown, just as mother said they would. don't you think she looks well?" "yes, honey, i think she looks very well, but i don't think you do." "me! nonsense! i am as well as can be, just a little tired from the trip." "yes, i know. of course that was fatiguing, but i think you are thinner than you have any right to be. i am afraid you have been doing too much." "oh, not at all. i have had simply nothing to do but take care of the baby, and that is just play, real play." "humph, no doubt! but maybe you have played too hard and that is what has tired you. i thought you were going to bring kizzie along to nurse." "oh, that was your and mother's plan! i never had any idea of doing it. 'deed and um's muvver is going to take care of 'ittle bits a baby herself," and molly reached out and snuggled the willing mildred down in the sleepy-hollow chair. daddy's knee was not the most comfortable spot in the world, and a back that has only been in the world about four months cannot stand for much dandling. "but, molly darling, kizzie is a good girl and it would help you ever so much to have her. you know we can well afford it now, so don't let the financial side of it worry you." "but, edwin, i can't give up taking care of the baby. i just love to do it." "all right, my dear, but please don't wear yourself out." the fact was that the long strain of waiting for news from kent had told on molly, and she was looking quite wan and tired. it was not just the trip from kentucky, which, of course, was no easy matter. twenty-four hours on the train with an infant that needed much attention and got much more than it really needed was no joke, but the long hours and days of waiting and uncertainty had taken molly's strength. she did feel tired and had no appetite, but she felt sure a night's rest would restore her. she rather attributed her lack of appetite to the poor food that the new irish maid, whom edwin had installed in her absence, was serving. "i'll take hold of her to-morrow and see what can be done," she said rather wearily to herself. "i wish mother could train her for me. i should much rather do the cooking myself than try to train some one who is as hopelessly green as this girl." that night little mildred decided was a good time to assert herself. the trip had not tired her at all; on the contrary, it had spurred her on to a state of hilarity, which was very amusing at first but as the night wore on, ceased to be funny. she had come to the delightful knowledge of the fact that she had feet and that each foot had five toes. the cover did not stay on these little pigs one moment. every time molly would settle her tired bones and begin to doze, there would be a crow from mildred, a gurgle, and straight in the air would go the bed clothes, tucked in for the millionth time by the patient young mother. then the pink tootsies would leap into sight and soon find their way to a determined little mouth. "darling, you must go to sleepsumby!" molly would remonstrate. "and you will catch your death if you don't keep covered up!" but the four months' old baby had been too busy in her short life learning other things to bother her head about a mere language. the business of the night was feet and feet alone. there was too much to do about those wonderful little feet for her to think of sleep. finally molly gave up. she closed the windows, as too much fresh air on bare feet and legs might not be best and already the little limbs were icy cold. then she kindled a fire in the grate, the furnace not yet having been started, and gave herself up to a night of sleeplessness. early in the action, edwin had been banished to the guest chamber, as he must get sleep no matter what happened, for he had a busy day ahead of him. toward morning little mildred mastered her pedagogy, as her father had called it, and then she dropped off into a deep and peaceful sleep. the weary molly slept, too. before he went to his lectures, edwin crept into the room to look at his sleeping treasures. the chubby baby still had a toe clasped in her hand but from very weariness had fallen over on her side and was covered up all but the pink foot, which was asserting itself in the remarkable position that only the young can take. molly looked very pale and tired but was sleeping peacefully. edwin smiled at them. he had given the green maid from the emerald isle strict orders not to awaken them. he devoutly hoped that molly would not know what a very mean breakfast he had endeavored to choke down; burnt bacon and underdone biscuit washed down with very weak coffee and flanked by eggs that had been cooked too long and not long enough, thereby undergoing that process that the chemist tells us is of all things the most indigestible: half hard and half soft. the burnt bacon had been cold and the underdone biscuit still cooking, seemingly, when the poor young husband and father had tried to nourish himself on them. he had rather hoped when molly once got back to wellington that his food would be better; no doubt it would as soon as she, poor girl, could get rested up. he was thankful, indeed, now that she was asleep and tiptoed out of the room and house without making a sound. she slept until late in the morning and then the business of the day began, getting little mildred fed and washed and dressed and fed again and then to sleep. the good-natured, if wholly incapable, katy hung around and waited on the pretty young mistress. katy had never been out in service in the "schtates," but had come from new york in answer to an advertisement in a newspaper inserted by the despairing professor when he had come back to wellington alone while his wife waited in kentucky for news of her brother. he had had kindly visions of getting a good irish cook and having the housekeeping all running beautifully before molly's return. immigrant katy proved rosy and willing but with no more conception of how to cook than she had how to clean. she was great on "scroobing," but walls and furniture and carpets were not supposed to be scrubbed. the kitchen floor and pantry shelves were alike beautiful after her administrations, but gold dust and a stiff brush had not improved the appearance of the piano legs. edwin had come home in the nick of time to stop her before she vented her energies on molly's own persian rug, the pride of her heart because of the wonderful blue in it. "what time is it, katy?" asked molly after the baby was absolutely finished and tucked in her carriage to stay on the porch. "'tis twilve of the clock, miss, and i haven't so much as turned a hand below schtairs." "oh, it can't be that late! lunch at one! what are we to have?" "and that i am not knowing, miss. sure and there is nothing in the house." "oh, katy, and i have been dawdling up here for hours! i forgot about keeping house, i was so taken up with the baby." "yes, and no doubt your man will be sour about it, too." molly, still in her kimono, flew to the regions below and began frantically to search for something to concoct into luncheon. a forlorn piece of roast veal was excavated and half a loaf of stale baker's bread. a can of asparagus, a leftover from the housekeeping of the spring, was unearthed. olive oil was in the refrigerator, also, butter, milk and eggs. the veal looked very hopeless, evidently having reposed for hours in a half cold oven before it had furnished forth a miserable dinner for the poor professor. "now i'll 'form a miracle on the vituals,' as dear aunt mary would say," declared molly to herself. "katy, get the dining room straight. don't scrub anything but just clear off the table and then set it again as well as you can. put on a fresh lunch cloth and clean napkins; then see that the fire in the library is all right." the veal, run through the meat chopper, came out better than was to be expected, and croquettes were formed and frying in deep fat before the dazed katy had cleared off the breakfast table. "katy, you must hurry or we won't have the master's luncheon ready when he gets in." "faith, and, mrs. green, you do be flying round so schwift like, that i can't get me breath. i feel like the wind from your schkirts was sinding me back. all i can do is schtand schtill and breast the wind." "well, i tell you what you do then," laughed molly: "you come fly with the wind," and she caught the irish girl by the hand and ran her around the dining room table just to show her how fast she could go if necessary. katy, having got wound up, kept on going at a rate of speed that was astonishing. to be sure, she broke a cup and a plate, but what was a little chaney to the master's luncheon being served on time? the faithful can of asparagus was opened and heated; toast was made from the half loaf of stale bread, and a cream sauce prepared to pour over the asparagus on toast. popovers were stirred up and in the oven before katy got the table set, although she was going with the wind instead of trying to breast it. a few rosy apples from the orchard at chatsworth, unearthed from the depths of the unpacked trunk, formed a salad with a mayonnaise made in such a hurry that molly trembled for its quality; but luck being with her that day, it turned out beautifully. "no lettuce, so we'll put the salad on those green majolica plates and maybe he won't notice," she called to katy, just as the professor opened the front door. "mol--ly!" he called. "here i am." the mistress of the house emerged from the kitchen in a state of mussiness but looking very pretty withal, her red-gold hair curling up in little ringlets from the steam and her cheeks as rosy as though she had joost come over wid katy. her blue kimono was very becoming but hardly what she would have chosen to appear in at luncheon. "i am so sorry not to be dressed, but i had to hustle so as to get lunch ready in time. the clock struck twelve when i thought it was about ten." "did you have to get luncheon? where was katy?" "she helped, but i wanted to have a finger in it. if you will wait a minute, i will get into a dress." "why, you look beautiful in that loose blue thing; besides, i have to eat and run. a faculty meeting is calling me." the luncheon was delicious, and edwin gave it all praise by devouring large quantities of it. molly could not eat much as she was too hot, and hurrying is not conducive to appetite. mildred, who was sleeping on the porch, awoke when the meal was half over and molly could not trust katy to take her up. "she might hold her upside down. i will bring her to the table and she can talk to you while you are finishing!" so molly flew to the porch and picked up her darling. she had intended to take her to the dining room but she remembered it was time for mildred to have her food and so the patient edwin had to finish his meal alone. he found his wife and baby on the upper back porch. the color had left molly's cheeks and she was quite pale, and there was a little wan, wistful look in her countenance that edwin did not like. "molly, honey, you are all tired out. you did not eat your luncheon and you got no sleep last night. what are we going to do about it?" "oh, i'm all right! please don't bother about me! did you like the apple salad? they were apples from kentucky." "fine! everything was delicious. but i don't want you to wear yourself out cooking. if katy can't cook, we must get some one who can. if she can't cook and you won't let her nurse, why what is the use of her?" molly, worn out with the sleepless night and the record breaking getting of a meal out of nothing, felt as though she would disgrace herself in a minute and burst into tears. she could not discuss the matter with edwin for fear of breaking down. edwin kissed her good-by and tactfully withdrew. "you goose, molly brown!" she scolded herself. "and what on earth are you so full of tears over? i know edwin thinks i ought to have a nurse and i just can't trust mildred to any one. i am going to try so hard to have everything so nice that he won't think about it any more." a grand telephoning for provisions ensued, and a dinner was planned for six-thirty that would have taxed the culinary powers of a real chef and before which katy bowed her head in defeat. it meant that by four molly must be back in the kitchen to start things. chapter xvi. irishman's curtains. callers came in through the afternoon to welcome back to wellington the popular wife of the popular professor and to glimpse the new baby. kind mrs. mclean, the wife of the doctor, a little older than when last we saw her but showing it only in her whitening hair and not at all in her upright carriage and british complexion, stopped in "just for a moment" to be picked up later by the doctor on his way to a country patient. miss walker herself, the busy president of wellington, ran in from the meeting of the faculty to greet her one time pupil and to give one kiss to the college baby. several of the seniors, who were freshmen when molly was still at college as post graduate and who had the delight of calling her molly while most of the others had to say mrs. green, came in fresh from a game of basketball, glowing with health and enthusiasm. while these friends were all gathered about molly and the baby, alice fern, edwin green's cousin, driving in to wellington in a very stylish new electric car, stopped to make a fashionable call on her law kin. she had never forgiven molly for stealing (as she expressed it) edwin's affections. she was still miss fern, and although she was possessed of beauty and intelligence, it was likely that she would remain miss fern. molly was never very much at her ease with alice. she was particularly sensitive to any feeling of dislike entertained toward her, and edwin's cousin always made her feel that she disapproved of her in some way. the living room in the broad old red brick house on the campus, occupied by the professor of english, was a pleasant room, breathing of the tastes and pursuits of the owners. low bookshelves were in every nook and cranny, filled with books, the shelves actually sagging with them. botticelli's primavera, a present from mary stewart, adorned one wall; mathew jouette's portrait of molly's great grandmother, a wedding present from aunt clay, another. this was the portrait that looked so much like molly and also like the marquise d'ochtè, between whom and aunt sarah clay there was no love lost; indeed, it was this likeness that had induced aunt clay to part with such a valuable work of art. the other pictures were some dashing, clever sketches by judy kean, and pierce kinsella's very lovely portrait of mrs. brown, that had won honorable mention at the salon and then had been sent by the young artist to adorn molly's home. on the whole, it was a very satisfactory and tastefully furnished room and molly and edwin always declared they could talk better and think better in that room than in any they had ever seen. on that first day home, molly was a little conscious of the fact that the room needed a thorough cleaning, not the scrubbing that katy was so desirous of administering, but just a good thorough cleaning. however, she was so glad to see her friends again and so proud of showing her wonderful baby to them that the cleaning seemed of small importance. "i'll dust all the books to-morrow," she said to herself, "and have katy wipe down the walls, polish the glass on the pictures, and above all, wash the windows." she well knew that miss walker and dear mrs. mclean were not noticing such things, or, if they did, they would make all excuses. as for the college girls--dirt was not what they came to see. they came to see the lovely molly and her adorable baby. if the walls were festooned with cobwebs, why that was the way walls should be in the home of a learned professor of english, who had written several books, besides the libretto to a successful opera, and who was married to a beautiful titian-haired girl who was also a genius in her way, having been accepted in magazines when she was not even out of college. what did they care for dust on the books and smeary window panes? molly was so popular with the college girls that in their eyes she was perfection itself. alice fern's entrance broke up the cheerful group gathered around molly and the rosy mildred. miss walker suddenly remembered that she had an important engagement and hurried off, and mrs. mclean, who made no endeavor to hide her impatience at miss fern's exceeding smugness, went outside to wait for the doctor. the girls stayed, however, hoping to sit out the unwelcome interrupter. these girls were favorites of molly's. the harum scarum billie mckym from new york reminded her in a way of her own judy, although no one else could see it. josephine crittenden, tom boy of college and leader in all sports, hailed from kentucky, and being a distant relative of crittenden rutledge, mildred brown's husband, was of course taken immediately under the wing of the loyal molly. she had what she called a crush on molly, and not a little did she amuse that young matron, as well as annoy her, by her gifts of flowers and candy. the third girl was from the west. thelma olsen was her name, and although her family had been in america for three generations, thelma had inherited the characteristics of a viking maiden along with the name. she was very tall, with an excellent figure and the strength of a man. her hair was as yellow as gold and her eyes as blue as corn flowers. she moved with dignity, holding her head up like a queen. her expression was calm and kindly. she had, in very truth, worked her way through college, which of course appealed to molly, remembering well her own boot blacking days and her many schemes for making a few pennies. but what most touched our molly was the fact that thelma had a writing bee in her bonnet. the girl had an instinct for literature and a longing for expression that must come out. professor green thought very highly of her gift for prose and did much to encourage her. these three girls formed a strange trio, but they were inseparable, having roomed together since their freshman year. billie was very rich in her own name, since she was an orphan with nothing closer than a guardian and an aunt-in-law. money meant no more to her than black-eyed peas. she was intensely affectionate and where she loved, she loved so fiercely that it positively hurt, she used to say. she was witty and clever but not much of a student, as is often the case where learning comes too easily. she was so generous it was embarrassing to her friends. her talent lay in clothes. she knew more about clothes than paquin and doucet and all the others. it positively hurt her when her friends did not wear becoming clothes, just as it hurt her when she loved them so hard. the object of her life was to clothe her dear friend thelma in dark blue velvet. thelma was too proud to be clothed in anything that she had not paid for herself, and the consequence was that coarse blue serge was as near as she came to poor billie's dream. alice fern seated herself on the front of a chair with very much of a lady-come-to-see expression and then formally entered into a conversation, going through the usual questions about when molly had arrived and how old the baby was, polite inquiries regarding the relatives in kentucky, etc. molly was eager to get into the kitchen just for a moment to start katy on the right track, well knowing that nothing would be doing until she did, but alice fern's arrival made that impossible. she would not in the least have minded excusing herself for a moment to the girls, but if edwin green had to wait until midnight for his dinner, she could not be guilty of such a breach of etiquette with the cousin-in-law, whose disapproval she felt was ever on the alert for a _raison d'être_. a leg of lamb, and well grown lamb at that, must have plenty of time and the oven must be hot (something katy knew nothing about), but the wife of professor green must not let his relatives know that she was such a poor manager as to have to leave the parlor to attend to cooking at a time in the afternoon when callers were supposed to be doing their calling. alice fern was really a very pretty young woman, and since she had nothing to do but attend to her person, she was always excellently well groomed. no blemish was allowed on her faultless complexion from sun or wind. an hour a day was religiously given up to massage and manicure. her hair was always coiffed in the latest mode, and not one lock was ever known to be out of place. her costume was ever of the richest and most stylish. on that afternoon, as she rode up in her closed electric car, dressed in a fawn-colored suit with spotless white gloves and spats, she really looked like a beautiful wax figure in a showcase. beside her, poor molly looked like a rumpled madonna. she had on a very becoming blue linen house dress that she had donned as not only suitable for possible callers but also not too pure or good in which to cook her husband's food. the baby had delighted the admiring audience, before the arrival of miss fern, by clutching a handful of her mother's pretty hair and having to have her little pink fingers opened one by one to disengage them. no doubt it was a highly intelligent and charming performance, but it had played sad havoc with molly's hair. "we are so glad you are back, molly, for more reasons than one," exclaimed jo crittenden, hoping to loosen the tension a little, when alice had completed her perfunctory catechism. "when are you going to begin the would-be authors' club?" "oh, do begin soon!" begged billie. "thelma has turned out some scrumptious bits during vacation, and even i have busted loose on paper." "yes, i have written a lot this summer," said thelma, as molly smiled on her. "have you done anything, or has the baby kept you too busy?" "oh, i had plenty of time while i was in kentucky. you see, out there i have a very good servant and then my mother helps me with mildred. i have finished a short story and sent it off. of course, i am expecting it back by every mail." "i should think your household cares would prevent your giving much time to scribbling," sniffed alice, if one could call the utterances of such an elegant dame sniffing. "scribbling! why, mrs. green has written real things and been in real magazines," stormed billie. "ah, indeed!" "yes, and if we had not limited the would-be authors to twenty, we would have the whole of wellington clamoring to join," declared jo, who considered it was high time for a perfect gentleman to step in and let miss alice fern know how wellington felt toward mrs. edwin green. miss fern said nothing but stared at the corner of the room that edwin and molly called: "the poet's corner." it was where all the poetry, ancient, medieval and modern, found shelf room. over it hung shakespeare's epitaph, a framed rubbing from the tomb, the same that edwin had always kept over his desk in his bachelor days to scare his housekeeper, mrs. brady, into sparing his precious papers. "good frend for isus sake forbeare to digg ye dust encloased heare bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones and curst be he yt moves my bones." she kept her eyes so glued to the spot over the book shelves that finally all turned involuntarily to see what she was gazing on so intently. there it hung! there was no denying it or overlooking it: a great black cobweb that must have been there for several generations of spiders. no doubt it had taken all summer to weave such a mighty web and catch and hold so much grime. molly blushed furiously. for a moment, she almost hated katy and she wholly hated alice fern. that elegant damsel had a supercilious expression on her aristocratic countenance that said as plainly as though she had given utterance to her thoughts: "author's club, indeed! she had much better clean her house." molly was suddenly conscious that every corner was festooned with similar webs. the late afternoon sun was slanting in the windows and its searching rays had found and were showing up every grain of dust. the panes of glass were, to say the least, grimy. "oh!" she faltered, "i didn't know it was so--so--dusty in here. katy, the new maid, was supposed to have cleaned it before i came." "what do you care for a few irishman's curtains?" said the hero-worshipping billie. "no one noticed them until--ahem--until the sun came in the window." she _said_ sun came in the window but she plainly _meant_ fern came in the door. "i haven't had time to do much housekeeping since i got back," continued molly, lamely. "the new maid, katy, that edwin got from new york, is most inefficient but so good-natured that i am hoping to train her. the truth of the matter is that she and i spent the whole morning doing things for mildred and we let the house go. i am going to have a big cleaning to-morrow." molly felt like weeping with mortification and she began to hate herself for making explanations and excuses to alice fern. even if she kept professor green's house festooned in cobwebs from attic to cellar and had dust over everything thick enough to write your name, what business was it of this perfect person? she suddenly realized, too, that that perfect person had never uttered a word although she had looked volumes. miss fern arose from her prim seat and made a rather hasty retreat. the relieved molly excused herself to the girls and rushed to the kitchen to start katy on the dinner that should have been on half an hour before. what was her chagrin to find the fire only just kindled, as katy had let it go out so that she might polish the stove. the irish girl was on her knees "scroobing," happy in a sea of soap suds. molly almost had hysterics. how could she ever get things done? edwin would be home any moment now and she could not stand having a miserable underdone dinner for him, nor could she stand having his dinner hours late. she realized that there was no use in reprimanding katy,--the girl was simply ignorant. she asked her gently to postpone her "scroobing" until later and to wash her hands and prepare the vegetables. then she piled kindling wood in the range until the chimney roared so that katy said it sounded like a banshee. the oven must be hot for the roast. "i tell you what to do, katy: make some tea immediately and slice some bread quite thin, open this box of peanut cookies, and we will have such a grand tea that the master won't be hungry until the roast is done." "and phwat a schmart trick!" laughed the girl. when miss fern made her adieux, molly had flown so quickly to the kitchen that she had not seen her husband crossing the campus. alice fern had seen him, however, and her greeting of him was so warm and friendly, her smile so charming and her manner so cordial that she hardly seemed the same person who had just left poor molly stuttering and stammering apologies over her irishman's curtains. "look at the pill!" exclaimed jo. "she is about to eat up epiménides antinous green." that was the name professor green was known by at wellington. "did you ever see any one cast such a damper over a crowd without saying a single word? i thought molly was going to cry," declared billie. "i think our friend is looking very tired," said thelma. "i wish we could do something for her. she says this new maid is almost worse than none at all." "i've got a scheme!" squealed billie. "i know of a way to help. gather 'round me, girls!" and then such another whispering as went on in the house--while molly behaved like triplets in the kitchen, being in at least three places at one time in her determination to get dinner on the stove. mildred lay on the divan, happy with her newly found toes, and edwin helped alice fern into her glass show case. "i appreciate your coming to see my wife so soon, alice. i should so like to have you and molly be close friends." "thank you, edwin, i am sure nothing would please me more. you must bring molly out to see us." could this be the same person who had made the living room look so dusty and ill kempt only a few minutes before, this gracious, charming, sweet, friendly creature, who doted on babies? she had paid no attention to mildred except to give her a tentative poke with her daintily gloved finger, but to hear her conversation with edwin, one would have gathered that she was a supreme lover of children. the girls would not stay to tea, although molly pressed them, but full of some scheme, they hurried off. dinner was not so very late, after all, and the tea and bread and peanut cookies saw to it that the professor was not too hungry before the leg of lamb had reached the proper stage of serving. molly was too much of a culinary artist not to feel elated when things turned out right, which they usually did if she could get her finger in the pie. the day had been a very trying one for her. the sleepless night had left her little strength to grapple with it and the slow stupidity of katy was very irritating. it was over at last, however, and dear little mildred had decided to let her pigs rest and had gone quietly to sleep at the proper time that a well-trained infant should. edwin was smoking his after-dinner pipe and everything was very peaceful and pleasant. molly was trying to keep her eyes open, ashamed to confess that she was so sleepy she could hardly see. she lay back in the easy chair while edwin read aloud from his scrap book of fugitive verse. this scrap book professor green had started when he was in college, putting in only the rare, fine things he found in magazine reading. molly had helped him in his collecting and now the volume was assuming vast proportions. suddenly molly's upturned eyes rested on the terrible cobweb that had been her waterloo of the afternoon. how black and threatening it looked! she hoped edwin would not see it. and the books! actually you had to open one and beat it and blow it before you dared begin to read. all this must be cleaned to-morrow and oh, how tired she was! "did not alice look lovely this afternoon?" said edwin, stopping his reading for a moment. "i hope you and she are going to be great friends. i think it was very nice for her to come so soon to call on you. she spoke so sweetly of the baby, too." molly said nothing but gazed at the cobweb. she said nothing but she did some thinking: "molly brown, what right have you, just because you are tired and alice fern came to call on you, looking very pretty and very beautifully dressed, and found you all frumpy and your living room looking like a pig sty, what right have you, i say, to sulk? now you answer your husband and tell him alice was pretty and don't tell him anything else." accordingly, after giving herself the mental chastisement, molly emitted a faint: "yes, very pretty!" but it was so faint and so far away that edwin looked at her in alarm, and then it was that she could stand nothing more and broke down and shed a few tears. "why, molly, my dearest girl, what is the matter?" "nothing, but i am tired and everything is so dirty. look at the cobwebs! look at the dust on the books! look at me! i am an old frowsy, untidy frump." "you! why, honey, you are always lovely. as for dust--don't bother about that. let me read you this wonderful little poem by gertrude hall. i clipped it years ago." professor green saw that molly was tired and unstrung and he well knew that nothing soothed her more than poetry. of course, man-like, he had no idea that what he had said about alice fern's looking so sweet had been too much for her, as she had contrasted herself all the afternoon with her husband's immaculate cousin. molly wiped away the foolish tears as edwin read the poem. "the dust. by gertrude hall. it settles softly on your things, impalpable, fine, light, dull, gray; the dingy dust-clout betty brings, and, singing, brushes it away: and it's a queen's robe, once so proud, and it's the moths fed in its fold, it's leaves, and roses, and the shroud, wherein an ancient saint was rolled. and it is beauty's golden hair, and it is genius' wreath of bay, and it is lips once red and fair that kissed in some forgotten may." "it is lovely, exquisite!" breathed molly. "i don't feel nearly so bad about it as i did." but she did wish that alice fern had not seen that black, black cobweb. chapter xvii. heroes and hero worshipers. the next morning poor molly slept late again. with all good intentions of waking early and going down stairs in time to see about her husband's neglected breakfast, when morning came she did not stir. mildred had given her another wakeful night after all, finding out more things about her little pigs. finally the little monkey had given up and dropped off to sleep, and she and her doting mother were both dead to the world when the time came for professor green to go to lectures. again he gave instructions to katy not to disturb the mistress and crept out of the house as still as a mouse. breakfast had been a little better. molly was rubbing off on katy evidently. just to associate with such a culinary genius as molly must have its effect even on the worst cook in the world, which katy surely seemed to be. coming across the campus, he ran into billie mckym, josephine crittenden and thelma olsen. they looked very bright and rosy as they gave him a cheery good morning. each carried a bundle. he wondered that they were going away from lecture halls instead of toward them. but after all, it was not his business to be the whipper-in for lectures. wellington was a college and not a boarding school. if students chose to cut lectures, it was their own affair until the final reckoning. "just our luck to meet epiménides antinous!" cried billie. "he should have been out of the house five minutes ago, at least." "his legs are so long he doesn't have to start early," declared jo. "just see him sprint!" "i am certainly sorry to cut his lecture to-day," sighed thelma, "but this thing must be done." the greens' front door was never locked except at night, so the girls crept quietly in. billie peeped into the kitchen, where she discovered katy on her knees "scroobing" the part of the kitchen she could not finish the evening before, when molly was so hard-hearted as to make her stop and prepare vegetables. such a sea of suds! "katy," whispered billie. "merciful mither! and phwat is it? ye scart me," and the girl sat back on her heels and looked at billie with round, wide eyes. "we are great friends of mrs. green and we have come to dust her books and--ahem--do a few little things. is she still asleep?" "yis, and the master was after saying she must not be distoorbed, not on no account." "of course she must not be! that is why we have come to dust the things. we think she looks so tired." "and so she is, the scwate lamb; but she do fly around so, and she do cook up so mooch. i tell her that she thinks more of her man's insides thin she do of her own outsides." "well, katy, we want you to let us have a broom and a wall brush. we brought our own aprons and rags," and billie pressed a round, hard something into katy's hand. it was not so large as a church door nor so deep as a well, but it served to get the irish girl up off of her run-down heels; and in a trice the coveted broom and wall brush were in possession of the three conspirators, as well as a stepladder, which they decided would be needful. "don't say a word to mrs. green, katy,--now remember. we are going to work very quietly and hope to finish before she gets downstairs. we don't want her to know who did it, but we mean to get it all done before noon," said jo, rolling up her sport shirtsleeves and disclosing muscular arms, that showed what athletics had done for her and what she could do for athletics. "where must we begin, thelma?" asked billie, who was as willing as could be but knew no more about cleaning than a hog does about holidays, jo declared. "begin at the top," laughed thelma, tying up her yellow head in a great towel and rolling up her sleeves. "gee, your arms are beautiful!" exclaimed billie. "i'd give my head for such arms. i'd like to drape them in a silver scarf. think how they would gleam through." the arms were snow white and while thelma's strength was much greater than jo's, her muscles did not show as they did on that athletic young person. thelma blushed and laughed as she balanced herself on a stepladder and began taking down pictures. a cloud of dust floated down and enveloped her. "look, look! she looks like the 'white armed gudrun'! don't you remember in william morris's 'fall of the neiblungs'? the battle in atli's hall? "'lo, lo, in the hall of the murder where the white-armed gudrun stands, aloft by the kingly high-seat, and nought empty are her hands; for the litten brand she beareth, and the grinded war-sword bare: still she stands for a little season till day groweth white and fair. without the garth of king atli, but within, a wavering cloud rolls, hiding the roof and the roof-sun; then she stirrith and crieth aloud.'" "cut it out! cut it out!" cried jo, "and come lend a hand." "mustn't we dust before we sweep?" innocently asked billie. "if you want to, but you'll have to dust again afterwards," said the white-armed gudrun from her ladder. "the books are really so dirty that i don't think it would hurt to wipe down the walls without covering them, but that is a mighty poor cleaning method. poor molly! didn't she look tired yesterday? i hope she won't think we are cheeky to take a hand in her affairs." "cheeky! she will think we are her good friends, not like that snippy miss fern who stared so at the cobwebs and then went out and palavered over epiménides antinous. she used to claim him, so i am told. one of the nurses at the infirmary told me that when epi anti had typhoid there, years ago, miss fern came and dressed herself up like a nurse and almost bored the staff to death taking care of her sick cousin," said billie, delighted with the job that had been given her of wiping down walls. "isn't this splendid? just look at all the dirt i got on my rag!" "well, don't rub it back on the wall," admonished jo. "no. well, what must i do with it?" "can't say, but don't put it back on the walls." "jo, you and billie dust the books and i will finish up the pictures. i can't trust myself to dust professor green's books. i am afraid of breaking the tenth commandment all the time," sighed thelma. "i'll wash the windows, too." "oh, thelma! the white-armed gudrun sitting in windows washing them! that's not occupation meet for a queen. let me do it." "you, billie mckym, wash a window! did you ever wash one in your life?" "well, no, not exactly, but i bet i could. what's the use of a college education if one can't wash windows when she gets to be a full grown senior?" but since the object of the girls was to get the room clean, it was decided that thelma was to wash the windows. my, how they worked! jo found she had muscles that her athletics had never revealed. she found them because they began to ache. "why, to dust all these books and books is as bad as building a house," she said, straightening up and stretching when she had finished the poet's corner. "exactly like laying brick," declared billie. "i'm going to join the hod-carriers' union. i'll be no scab." katy had occasionally poked her head in at the door, entreating "whin they coom to the scroobing" to call her. the cleaners made very little noise, so little that the sleeping molly and mildred were not at all disturbed. "i wish she knew it was almost done," said thelma, perched in the window sill and rubbing vigorously on a shining pane. "she would be so glad. i know she is worrying about it in her sleep. hark! there is the baby!" then began the business of the day upstairs. katy was called, for water must be heated as katy, according to her habit, had let the fire go out before the boiler was hot. "katy, we must hurry up with mildred this morning and get to the library. it is filthy," said molly, as she slipped the little french flannel petticoat over mildred's bald head. "yes, mum!" grinned katy. "we have luncheon almost ready, with the cold lamb to start with." "yes, mum." "don't you think you could get the dining room cleaned while i am attending to the baby?" "yes, mum, if yez can schpare me." "oh, i think i can. but, katy, before you go hand me that basket. and, katy, perhaps you had better wash out this flannel skirt. i am so afraid she might run short of them. you can empty the water now--and, katy, please hold the baby's hand while i tie this ribbon, she is such a wiggler--and, katy--a little boiled water now for her morning tipple. she must drink lots of water to keep in good health." "yes, mum, and how aboot breakfast for yez, mum?" "oh, i forgot my breakfast! of course i must eat some breakfast. i'll come down to it." "oh, no, mum! and let me be after bringing it oop to yez, mum," insisted the wily katy, who was anxious for the youthful house cleaners to accomplish their dark and secret mission without interruption. not only was it great fun, a huge joke, in fact, for her to be paid fifty cents to let others do her work, but it meant that since others were doing it, she would not have to, and she could have just that much more time for "scroobing" and resting. a tray was accordingly got ready and molly found she had a little more appetite than the morning before; also, that katy's food was really a little better. "your coffee is better this morning, katy," she said, believing that praise for feats accomplished but egged on the servitor to other and greater effort. "yes, mum, so the master said." "poor edwin," thought molly, "how i have neglected him. i must do better. but if i don't wake up, i don't wake up. if i could only get a little nap in the day time. mother always wanted me to take one, but how can i? the living room must be cleaned to-day." she felt weary at the thought. accustomed as she was to being out of doors a great deal, she really needed the fresh air. "as soon as luncheon is over, we must get busy with the cleaning. i wish we might have done it in the forenoon, but i am afraid it is too late." "yes, mum, it's too late!" and katy indulged in such a hearty giggle that her mistress began to think perhaps she was feeble-minded as well as inefficient. "is the table in the dining room cleared off, katy, so you can set it for luncheon?" "no, mum, it is not!" "oh, katy! what have you been doing all morning?" "well, mum, i scroobed my kitchen, and--and----" "and what?" demanded molly. "and i did a little head work in the liberry, that is, i----" "oh, katy, did you clean the living room, clean it well?" "well, mum, yez can wait and see if it schoots yez," and katy beat a hasty retreat to warn the cleaners that the mistress was about to descend. the room presented a very different appearance to what it had before the girls rolled up their sleeves. the slanting afternoon sun would seek out no dusty corners now; everything was spick and span. the books no longer had to be beaten and blown before you dared open them, and they stood in neat and orderly rows; the walls held no decorations in the shape of irishman's curtains now; the picture glass shone, as did the window panes; the rugs were out in the back yard sunning after a vigorous beating and brushing from thelma, whom billie called "the powerful katrinka." the floor, being the one part of the room that katy had put some licks on, did not need anything more serious than a dusting after everything else was done. "katy, you might bring in the rugs now as we have done everything else," suggested billie. katy went out into the back yard and bundled up the rugs. molly, seeing her from an upper window, smiled her approval. "i believe she is going to do very well," she said to herself. "she seems to be trying, and she is so fond of mildred." "come on, girls, we must hurry and get off! molly will be down stairs any minute now and she must not see us," and thelma unwound the towel from her head and took off her apron. "well, surely the white-armed gudrun is not going across the campus with a black face," objected billie. "why, both of you look like negro minstrels----" "and you!" interrupted jo. "you should see yourself before you talk about kettles. you'd have not a leg to stand on and not a handle to your name. i told you to tie up your head. i believe nothing short of a shampoo and a turkish bath will get the grime off you." "let's hide behind the sofa and after molly goes on the porch with the baby, we can sneak up to the bath room," suggested thelma. the girls then crouched on the floor behind a sofa that stood near the poet's corner. in a minute molly came down the stairs, little mildred in her arms and on her face a contented and rested expression. she stood in the doorway of the living room and exclaimed with delight over its polished cleanliness. "oh, katy, how splendid it is! did you do it all by yourself and in such a short time? i don't see how you managed it. why, you have even dusted the books. that is almost a day's work in itself. i was dreading it so,--it is such a back breaking job." jo rubbed her aching back, with a grim smile, and nudged billie. "and you have kept yourself so clean, too!" molly began to feel that she had the prize servant of the east: one who could clean such an augean stable as that room had looked, dust all the books, wash the windows and wipe down walls, beat rugs, polish picture glass, etc., etc., and still be neat and tidy. "why, i would have been black all over if i had done such a great work." katy stood by, quite delighted with the undeserved praise. the young ladies had told her not to tell and far be it from her to refuse to accept the unaccustomed praise from any one. she had never been very apt in any work she had undertaken and no one had ever taken any great pains to teach her, and now if this pretty lady wanted to praise her, why she was more than willing. she felt in her pocket for her fifty cent piece, that still seemed a great joke to her. the sweet taste of the praise did one great thing in her kindly irish soul: it was so pleasant, she determined to have more of it, and through her slow intelligence there filtered the fact that to get more praise, she must deserve more praise, and to deserve it she must work for it. she beat a hasty retreat to the dining room and actually cleared off the table, where the master had eaten his solitary breakfast, in a full run. she broke no dishes that morning, either, which was a great step forward. molly could not tear herself away from the wonder room. she moved around, busying herself changing ornaments a bit and placing chairs at a slightly different angle, doing those little things that make a room partake of a certain personality. "here, baby, lie on the sofa, honey. muddy is going to give you a little ride. do you know, darling, that katy knows how to put things in place just like a lady? she must have an artistic soul. look how she has arranged the mantel-piece! servants usually make things look so stiff. actually there is nothing for me to do in the room, she has done it so beautifully." billy here dug an elbow into jo's lame back that almost made her squeal, but she held on to her emotions and in turn gave her chum a fourth degree pinch. "now, muddy is going to ride her baby--this sofa must go closer to the wall," and molly put mildred on the sofa and gave it a vigorous push. the law of impenetrability, that two things cannot be in the same place at the same time, prevented the baby from having much of a ride. molly gave a harder push. "i must be very feeble if i can't budge this sofa." then came a smothered groan from the huddled girls, and one by one they emerged from their corner, clutching their bundles of dust rags and aprons and exposing to molly's amazed eyes three of the very blackest, dirtiest faces that ever wellington had boasted in her senior class. they sat on the floor and laughed and giggled, and molly sat down beside them and would have felt like a college girl again herself if it had not been for little mildred, who took all the laughter as an entertainment, got up for her express amusement, and gurgled accordingly. "now you must all stay to luncheon!" cried the hospitable molly. "oh, indeed we mustn't," said billie, who never could quite get used to molly's wholesale hospitality, having been brought up in the lap of luxury but with no privileges of inviting persons off hand to meals. "but you must. i won't do a thing for you but just put on more plates. i was going to have the very simplest meal and i'll still have it." the girls stayed, after giving themselves a vigorous scrubbing, and molly's luncheon was ready when professor green arrived. the cold leg of lamb played a noble part at the impromptu party, flanked by a lettuce salad that billie insisted upon dressing, reminding molly more than ever of her darling judy. a barrel of preserves had just arrived, some that molly and kizzie had put up during the summer. on opening it, a jar of blackberry jam, being on top, was chosen to grace the occasion. molly made some of the tiny biscuit that her husband loved and that seemed such a joke to katy. when she came in bearing a plate of hot ones, she spread her mouth in a grin so broad that professor green declared she could easily have disposed of six at one mouthful. "i always call them gulliver biscuit," he said, helping himself to three at a time, "because in the old gulliver's travels i used to read when i was a kid there was a picture of gulliver being fed by the lilliputians. he was represented by a great head, and the lilliputians were climbing up his face by ladders and pouring down his throat barrels of little biscuit that were just about the size of these." they had a merry time at that meal. molly told her husband why his prize pupils had cut his lectures and all others that morning, and how she had almost passed a steam roller over them in form of the library sofa. "we were terribly afraid we would offend her," explained thelma, "but she was dear to us." "offend me! why, i can't think of anything in all my life that has ever happened to me that has touched me more. i don't see how you ever thought of doing anything so nice." "'twas billie," from thelma. "thelma and jo did all the dirty work," declared billie. "dirty work, indeed! you looked as though you had used yourself to wipe down the walls with," laughed jo. "well, anyhow, when that snippy miss fern comes again, giving her perfunctory pokes at the baby and looking at the cobwebs until nobody can help seeing them, i bet she won't find anything to turn up her nose at. i'd like to use her to clean the walls with. if there is anything i hate it is any one who is the pink of perfection in her own eyes. we were having such a cozy time until she lit on us with her dove-colored effects. who cared whether there were cobwebs or not?" "did miss fern speak of the cobwebs?" asked edwin, while the others sat around in frozen horror, remembering that she was his cousin and that he was evidently very fond of her. "oh, no, she didn't open her lips; she just pursed them up and stared at the corner. of course, she had already given her dig about molly's surely not having time to write and attend to her house, too; and then when she fixed her eyes on that irishman's curtain we all knew what she was thinking, and that she wanted us to know it, just as well as though she had spoken it and then written it and then had it put on the minutes.... what's the matter?... oh, heavens! what have i done?... oh, professor green! she is your cousin! please, please forgive me," and billie clasped her hands in entreaty. "oh, don't mind me," said the professor with a twinkle. "go as far as you like. if the ladies have such open minds that he who runs may read, and they think disagreeable things about my wife, why, they deserve to be used for house cleaning purposes, have the floor wiped up with them and what not." the luncheon broke up in a laugh and evidently there were no hard feelings on the part of the host for the criticism of miss fern that had so ingenuously fallen from the lips of the irrepressible billie. "billie! what a break!" screamed jo, when they got outside after molly had given them all an extra hug for the undying proof of friendship they had given her. "break, indeed! i never forgot for an instant that epi anti was a near cousin to that maidenhair fern. i just thought i'd let him know how she had acted and how uncomfortable she had made our molly feel. i knew molly would never let him know, and i could do it and make out it was a break." "well, if you aren't like bret harte's heathen chinee, i never saw one," laughed thelma. "'which i wish to remark, and my language is plain, that for ways that are dark and for tricks that are vain, the heathen chinee is peculiar.'" "all the same, i bet old epi anti doesn't tell molly any more what a sweet thing alice fern is." "how do you know he did?" "insight into human nature," and billie made a saucy moue. "gee, my back aches!" said jo. "i think i'll do housework often. it certainly does reach muscles we don't know about. but didn't it pay just to see dear old molly's face when we rolled out from behind the sofa?" and all of them agreed it had. "edwin," said molly, after the girls had gone, "i think i'll send for kizzie to come help me. i may put her in the kitchen and take katy for a nurse." "good! i am certainly glad you have come to that decision. what changed you?" "well, it seems to me that when it comes to the pass that my college girls feel so sorry for me they cut such lectures as yours to give the whole morning to cleaning up for me i must do something, and the only thing i can think of doing is to send for kizzie." "can you mix the black and white without coming to grief?" "remember, katy is more green than white, and she is so good-natured, she could get along with anything." "i can't tell you how relieved i am, honey. i wanted you to do what pleased you, but i could not see how i was coming in on this. i felt very lonesome, and while i wasn't jealous of the baby, i was certainly envious of her. if kizzie comes, you can be with me more and nurse me some." "yes, dearie, i missed it, too, but somehow i couldn't get through. if katy had been more competent----" "but she wasn't and isn't." "no, she certainly isn't, but she adores mildred already and mildred actually cries for her. i believe she would make a fine nurse. if only she doesn't feel called upon to scrub the baby." edwin laughed and, settling himself for a pleasant smoke, opened the morning paper, which neither he nor molly had found time to read. "oh, what a shame!" he exclaimed. "the germans dropping bombs on paris! infamous!" "paris! how can they? oh, edwin, judy and kent both there!" chapter xviii. circumstantial evidence. when the teller of a tale has to fly from one side of the ocean to the other in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, at any rate between chapters, and the persons in the tale have no communication with one another except by letters that are more than likely to be tampered with on the high seas, it is a great comfort to find that all the characters have at last arrived at the same date. on that morning after the dropping of bombs when judy, dressed in her sad mourning garb, was selling spinach and tarts to the hungry occupants of the montparnasse quarter, molly, allowing for the difference in time, was oversleeping herself after a wakeful night and the college girls were quietly cleaning her living room. kent and jim castleman were stretching themselves luxuriously in the not too comfortable beds of the _haute loire_ preparatory to making themselves presentable, first to find judy, and then to find the general who, no doubt, would be glad to have the kentucky giant enlist in the ranks, even though his letter of introduction and credentials had gone to the bottom with the _hirondelle de mer_. jim castleman's appearance was certainly credential enough that he would make a good fighter. a bath and a shave did much towards making our young men presentable. kent with a needle and thread, borrowed from the chambermaid, darned the knees of his trousers so that they did very well just so long as he did not try to sit down; then the strain would have been too much. jim's were hopelessly short. "nothing but a flounce would save me, so i'll have to go around at high water mark; but i'll soon be in a uniform, i hope." they had breakfast in a little café where kent had often gone while he was a student at the beaux arts, and there jim castleman astonished the madame by ordering four eggs. she couldn't believe it possible that any one could eat that much _déjeuner_ and so cooked his eggs four minutes. his french was quite sketchy but he plunged manfully in with what he had and finally came out with breakfast enough to last until luncheon. kent was willing to do the talking for him but he would none of it. "let me do it myself! i'll learn how to get something to eat if i starve in the attempt." and now for judy! kent could hardly wait for his famished friend to eat his two orders of rolls and coffee and his four eggs, but at last he was through. first to the bank! no, they did not know where mlle. kean was. she had been in once to get money but they were sorry they could not honour her letter of credit. she had left no address. then to the american club! judy had been in the day before for mail, and had had quite a budget. she had left no address, but came for letters always when the american mail was reported in. where could she be? next, to his cousin, the marquise d'ochtè, on the faubourg! the venerable porter, at the porte-cochère, who came in answer to the vigorous ring that the now very uneasy kent gave the bell, said that none of the family was within and they had no visitor. madame the marquise had gone to the front only the day before, but was coming home soon to open a hospital in her own home. even then the workmen were busy carrying out her orders, packing away books, pictures, ornaments, rugs and what not so that the house would be the more suitable to care for the wounded. the marquis and philippe were both with their regiments. the old porter was sad and miserable. jules, the butler, was gone; also gaston, the chef whose sauces were beyond compare. madame had taken great hampers of food with her, even going to montparnasse for tarts from tricots'. kent turned sadly away. judy was somewhere, but where? her letter to molly telling of her being in the bents' studio had come after kent left kentucky and he had no way of knowing that she was there. polly perkins and his wife, he knew were in the thick of the battle from the first letter he had seen from judy. where was pierce kinsella? he had not heard from his studio mate and friend but he rather thought there was little chance of finding him. at any rate, he determined to go to the rue brea and see if the concierge there knew anything of the lost damsel. they found a crowd at the entrance to the court on which the studios fronted. the concierge in the midst of them was waving her arms and talking excitedly. "yes, and the first i heard was a click! click! click! and that, it seems, was the terrible thing flying over us and then an explosion that deafened me. they say it was meant for the luxembourg and they missed their mark. that i know nothing about----" "what is it? tell me quick!" demanded kent, elbowing his way through the crowd with the help of jim, that renowned center rush. "ah, monsieur brune!" she exclaimed, grasping his hand. "did you know that a dirty prussian had sent a bomb right down through the skylight of the good bents' and now all their things are wrecked?" "the bents'!" gasped kent. "was any one hurt?" "and that we can't say. the young lady has not been sleeping there lately but yesterday she came and got the key and did not return it, so i thought she must have slept there last night! this morning we can find no trace of her. the bomb did much damage, but surely it could not have destroyed her completely." "destroyed her! what young lady?" "why, mademoiselle kean, of course." kent was glad of the strong arm of jim castleman. he certainly needed a support but only for a moment. he pushed through the crowd and made his way to the shattered wall of the studio. the bomb had not done so much damage as might have been expected. the front wall was fallen and the skylight was broken all over the floor. the chairs and easels were piled up like jackstraws at the beginning of a game. the bedrooms were uninjured but the balcony where judy and molly had slept that happy winter in paris had fallen. would judy have slept up on the roost just for auld lang syne or would she have occupied a more comfortable bedroom? if she had been blown into such small bits that there was nothing to tell the tale, why should these other things have escaped? there were the blue tea cups in the china closet uninjured, although most of them were turned over, showing that the shock had reached them, too. what was that blue thing lying on the divan in the corner under untold débris? kent pulled off the timbers and broken glass and unearthed judy's blue serge dress, which was waiting to be dyed a dismal black. he clasped it in his arms in an agony of apprehension. letters fell out of the pocket. he recognized his mother's handwriting, also molly's. so, judy had heard from kentucky! he stuffed them back in the jacket. "jim, i simply don't believe she was here. i couldn't have slept all night like such a lummux if she--if she----" "yes, old fellow! i know! i don't believe she was here, either." "i just know i would have had some premonition of it! i would have been conscious of it if anything had been happening to judy," which showed that kent brown was his mother's own son. he was not going to mourn the loss of a loved one until he was sure the loved one was gone, and he had her own unfailing faith that something could not have happened to one he cared for without his being aware of it. "sure you would!" declared jim, not at all sure but relieved that his friend was taking that view of the matter. "i know something that will be a positive proof whether she was here or not last night." kent walked firmly to the bath room, which was behind the bed rooms and out of the path of the bomb. he threw open the door and looked eagerly on the little glass shelf for a tooth brush. "not a sign of one. i know and you know that if judy had been here last night her tooth brush would have been here, too. i am sure now! come on, and let's look somewhere else." kent went out with judy's serge dress over his arm. the concierge looked sadly after him: "her dress is all he has to cherish now. the poor young man! i used to see he was in love with her when mrs. brune was in the bents' studio and her son occupied the one to the right with mr. kinsella. oh, la la! _mais la vie est amer!_" the crowd dispersed, since there was nothing more to see and the hour for _déjeuner a la fourchette_ was approaching. the concierge went off to visit her daughter who was ill. the studios were all empty now and her duties were light. her husband was to see that no one entered the court to carry off the bents' things, which were exposed pitifully to the gaze of the public until the authorities could do something. he, good man, waited a little while and then made his way to a neighbouring _brasserie_ to get his tumbler of absinthe, and one tumbler led to another and forgetfulness followed soon, and the bents' studio properties were but dreams to his befuddled brain. judy had spent a busy morning. marie had gone to carry tarts to "the regiment" and all of the waiting in the shop fell on her. she did it gladly, thankful that she was so busy she could not think. she measured soup and weighed spinach and potato salad and wrapped up tarts until her back ached. finally mère tricot came in from the baking of more tarts. "my child, go out for a while. you need the air. i am here now to feed these gourmands." "all right, mother! i want to get my dress at the studio. marie says she will dye it for me." "certainly! certainly! we can save many a sou by doing it ourselves. go, child!" judy put on her little mourning bonnet and sadly found her way to the rue brea. "i wonder where the bomb hit last night. père tricot said near the luxembourg." what was her amazement to find the poor studio in ruins. no concierge to tell her a thing about it, for her lodge was locked tight and no one near. judy picked her way sadly over the fallen front wall. "i'll get my dress, anyhow." but although she was sure it had been on the divan in the studio, no dress was to be found. "well, i'll have to have something to wear besides this thin waist. i am cold now, and what will i do when winter, real winter comes? i shall have to send to giverny for my trunk, and no telling what it will cost to get it here. oh, oh, how am i to go on? i wish to god i had been sleeping on that balcony when the bomb struck. then i would have been at peace." judy gave herself up to the despair that was in her heart. she made a thorough search for the suit through the poor wrecked apartment but no sign of it could she see. she went sadly back to the delicatessen shop and stepped behind the counter, her hat still on, to assist the good mother tricot, who was being besieged with customers. "take off your hat, child. here is a fresh cap of marie's and an apron. did you get your dress?" judy told her kind friend of the bomb-wrecked studio and her lost suit. "oh, the vandals! the wretches! there must be a prussian in our midst who would be so low as to steal your suit. no frenchman would have done it. before the war,--yes, but now there is not one who would do such a dastardly trick. we are all of one family now, high and low, rich and poor,--and we do not prey on one another." "well, it makes very little difference," said judy resignedly. "i'll send for my trunk. i have other suits in it." "other suits! oh, what riches!" but then the old woman considered that the friend of the marquise d'ochtè perhaps had many other suits. judy donned the cap and apron and went on with the shop keeping. no one could have told her from a poor little bereaved french girl. the cap was becoming, as was also the organdy collar. her face was pale and her eyes full of unshed tears, but the sorrow had given to judy's face something that her enemies might have said it had lacked: a softness and depth of feeling. her friends knew that her heart was warm and true and that the feeling was there, but her life had been care free with no troubles except the scrapes that she had been as clever getting out of as she had been adroit getting in. she had many times considered herself miserable before but now she realized that all other troubles had been nothing--this was something she had had no conception of--this tightening of the heart strings, this hopeless feeling of the bottom having dropped out of the universe. she felt absolutely friendless, except for her dear tricots. the browns could never see her again. they must blame her, as it was all her fault that kent had come for her. if she had not been so full of her own conceit, she would certainly have sailed for america when all the others did at the breaking out of the war. her mother and father seemed as remote as though they were on another planet. the war might last for years and there seemed no chance of their leaving berlin. "i'll just stay on here and earn my board and keep," she sighed. "the tricots find me useful and they want me." in the meantime, kent and jim castleman went and sat down in the garden of the luxembourg to smoke and talk it over, kent still fondly clasping the serge dress. "i'll find her all right before night," declared kent. "she'll be sure to go to the bents' studio sometime to-day. i'll write a note and leave it with the concierge. i'll also leave a note at the american club. she must go there twice a week at least. i'd like to know where the poor little thing is," and kent heaved a sigh. "i bet she is all right, wherever she is," comforted jim. "say, brown, i don't like to mention it, but i am starved to death." "not mention it! why not?" "well, you see when a pal is in trouble it seems so low to go get hungry." "but i'm not in trouble. now if i thought that judy had been in that place last night there would be something to be troubled about, but as it is, i just can't find her for a few hours, or maybe minutes. where shall we eat?" "that's up to you. i'm getting mighty low in funds, so let's do it cheap but do it a plenty," and jim looked rather ruefully at his few remaining francs. "i am still in funds but i shall have to go it mighty easy, too, to get judy and me home. i tell you what we might do. let's go to a shop where they have ready cooked food and bring it out here and eat it. they say you can live on half what it costs to eat in a restaurant. when i was studying over here i knew lots of fellows who lived that way. of course, they had studios where they could take the stuff and eat it, but the luxembourg garden is good enough. i know a place where the perkinses used to deal. they are the funny lot i told you about, the long-haired man and the short-haired woman. he is driving an ambulance now and goodness knows where she is." "well, let's go to it. i am so hungry i can hardly waddle. these continental breakfasts with nothing but bread and coffee don't fill me up half way." kent smiled, remembering the two full orders and the four eggs his friend had tucked away, but he said nothing. having a good appetite of his own, he had naught but sympathy for his famished friend. they left the garden and made for the shop where jo and polly perkins had bought their ready cooked provisions. "these people make some little pies that are mighty good, too. we might get half a dozen or so of them as a top off," suggested kent. "fine! i've got a mouth for pie, all right." judy had gone to the kitchen for a moment to bring to the fore the smoked tongue that père tricot had been slicing in those paper-thin slices that he alone knew how to accomplish. she bore aloft a great platter of the viand, the even slices arranged like a wreath of autumn leaves. while she was still in the living room behind the shop, two strangers entered. their backs being to the light, judy only saw their silhouettes as they bent over the show cases eagerly discussing what selection of meats and vegetables they should make, while mère tricot, accustomed to slim-pocketed customers, patiently waited. suddenly she leaned over the counter and touched something which one of the young men had thrown over his arm. "what is this?" she demanded with the manner she could so well assume, that of a woman of the commune who meant to right her wrongs. the purchaser of sauce and potato salad, the two cheapest and most filling of the wares, held up rather sheepishly a blue serge suit. "mademoiselle! mademoiselle! come quick! it is your suit--and no frenchman, as i said, but a prussian, no doubt." the grenadier slid quickly from behind the counter and putting her brawny arm out, held the door firmly, so that no escape could be possible. chapter xix. wasted dye. judy emerged from behind the curtains which divided the family living room from the little shop, the platter of tongue held high. in her cap and apron, she reminded one of a howard pyle illustration for some holiday number of a magazine. "gee, what a beaut!" exclaimed the taller of the two strangers. the one with the serge suit dropped it and made a rush for the girl. he had her in his arms, platter of tongue and all, before mère tricot could rescue it. but that dame managed to extricate the big dish before any greater damage was done than disarranging the effect of a wreath of autumn leaves. hearts that were broken may be mended but platters of smoked tongue must not be dropped on the floor and smashed. "oh, judy gal, judy gal! tell me all about it!" "kent! kent! i thought you were drowned and have gone into mourning for you," sobbed judy. as for jim castleman, in the most execrable and impossible french, he was explaining to good mother tricot how it all happened, and father tricot hastened to the shop from his carving to find out what it was all about, and then such a handshaking and hugging as ensued was never seen! "we were all about to sit down to _déjeuner a la fourchette_," said the ever hospitable old man, "and if the young gentlemen would come with us, we should be much honoured." the grenadier was equally pleased to have them and, indeed, jim castleman was so hungry by that time that he would have eaten cold spinach with his fingers. how that old couple plied the young americans with their delightful food and how they listened to their tale of shipwreck and rescue! when kent told of their fooling the prussians with tutno, the childish language they had known in their youth, the tricots laughed with such glee that a gendarme put his head in the door to see what it was all about. when jim castleman in a speech that sounded more like tutno than parisian french, informed his hosts that he was there to join the army of joffre, old mère tricot helped him to two more tarts, although he had already eaten enough of them to furnish dessert for any ordinary french family of four. "and now, madame," said kent to his hostess, "i want you to do another thing for me. you have done so many things already that maybe i should not ask you." "what is it, mon brave?" and the old woman smiled very kindly on the young american, whom she had not half an hour before called a prussian and accused of stealing judy's serge suit. "i am to be married very soon and i want you to help me out in it." "married!" judy gasped. "yes, miss judy kean, i am to be married and so are you. what's more, it is to be just as soon as the french law will tie the knot." "well, of all----" "yes, of all the slippery parties, i know you are the slipperiest and i have no idea of letting you get away. am i right, jim?" jim was too busy with a tart to be coherent. he nodded his head, however, and when kent put the same question to mère tricot in french, she upheld him. "it would be much more convenable if you were married. it is very easy to get married in war time. the authorities are not near so difficult to approach on the subject. i will see what can be done by the magistrate who married jean and marie, and no doubt if you interview your american ambassador, much can be attended to in a short time." "kent brown, if you think----" sputtered judy. "i don't think a thing, i just know," said kent very calmly. "put on your hat, honey, and let's take a little walk." "well, all right--but----" was this the judy kean who prided herself on so well knowing her own mind, calmly consenting to be married against her will? was it against her will? she suddenly remembered the communings she had had with herself, in which she had cried out to kent: "why, why, did you not make me go with you?" "i shall have to rip the lining out of my hat before i can go out," she said quite meekly. "the lining out of your hat?" questioned kent. "yes, you see i went into mourning when--when----" and judy, now that it was all over, still could not voice the terrible thing she thought had happened to kent. "please don't rip it out until i see you in it. not many men live to see how their widows look mourning for them." "widows, indeed! kent brown, you presume too much!" exclaimed judy, but she could not help laughing. the hat was very becoming and she was not loathe to wear it, just once. first mère tricot must be assisted with the dishes, however; but then judy got ready to go walking with kent. père tricot undertook to be guide to jim castleman, offering to lead him to the proper place to enlist. "i'll only look into it to-day," said jim, grasping kent's hand. "i shan't join for keeps until i have officiated as best man." judy, who had gone into marie's tiny bedroom to get into her rescued serge suit, overheard this remark and blushed to the roots of her fluffy hair. as she put on her white lined hat, she peeped again into the mirror: "judy kean, you are much too rosy for a widow," she admonished her image. mère tricot saw them off, her good man and jim to the recruiting station, and kent and judy to the luxembourg gardens, a spot hallowed by lovers. "well, well!" she said to herself. "the good god has brought the poor lamb her lover from the grave. i am glad, very glad,--but it is certainly a pity to waste all that good dye the butcher's wife saved for us. it is not good when kept too long, either. i won't throw it out yet a while, though,--some one will be wanting it, perhaps." chapter xx. a war bride. marrying in paris was certainly a much easier matter than it had been almost two years before when molly brown and edwin green had struggled to have the nuptial knot tied. judy's baptismal certificate was not demanded as had been molly's, and the long waiting for research work, as kent expressed it, was not required. mère tricot undertook to engineer the affair and did it with such expedition that it could have been accomplished even before judy got her trunk from giverny. it was very nice to have one's trunk again, although it really was embarrassing to take up so much of the tricots' living room with the huge american affair. "it seems funny to be married without any trousseau," judy confided to mère tricot. "no trousseau! and what is in that great box if not trousseau?" "i am sure i don't know. i really haven't any clothes to speak of that i can remember," declared judy. "well, let us see them!" begged marie and her belle mère. they were dying of curiosity to peep into the great box, so judy unpacked for their benefit, and their eyes opened wide at her stack of shirt waists and lingerie and her many shoes. "two more suits and a great coat, silk dresses--at least three of them--and skirts and shirts of duck and linen!" exclaimed marie. "and hats and gloves--and blouses enough for three! not many war brides will boast such a trousseau." so our bride began to feel that in comparison to the little marie, she had so much that she must not worry about wedding clothes. instead, she divided her store of riches, and making up a bundle with a silk dress and some blouses and lingerie, a suit and a hat, she hid it in mère tricot's linen press for marie to find when she, judy, was married and gone over the seas. she well knew that the french girl would not accept the present unless it were given to her in a very tactful way, and just to find it in the linen press with her name on it and the donor out of reach seemed to judy the most diplomatic method. madame le marquise d'ochtè must be looked up again. not only were kent and judy very fond of her, but they knew they could not show their faces to mrs. brown unless they had seen her dear sally bolling. this time they found her in the old home in the faubourg. she had been to the front and come back to get her house in readiness for the wounded. could this be the gay and volatile marquise, this sad looking, middle-aged woman? she had grown almost thin during those few months of the war. her beautiful titian hair was now streaked with grey. judy remembered with a choking feeling the first time she had come to the ochtè home on that night soon after molly and her mother had arrived in paris, when they had dined in the faubourg and then gone to hear _louise_ at the opera. the marquise had been radiant in black velvet and diamonds, a beautiful, gay woman that one could hardly believe to be the mother of philippe. she had looked so young, so sparkling. she had said at one time that she allowed no grey hairs to stay in her head, but had her maid pull them out no matter how it hurt. now it would take all a maid's time to keep down the grey hairs in that head, and would leave but a scant supply for a coiffure could they be extracted. kent thought she looked more like his mother and loved her for it. her greeting was very warm and her interest great in what judy and kent had been doing and what they meant to do. she received them in the great salon that had been converted into a hospital ward. all of the louis quinze furniture had been stored away in an upper chamber and now in its place were long rows of cots. the floor was bare of the handsome rugs which had been the delight and envy of judy on former visits, and now the parquetted boards were frotted to a point of cleanliness that no germ would have dared to violate. "i left the pictures for the poor fellows to look at--that is, those who are spared their eyesight," she said sadly. "my hospital opens to-morrow, but i want the privilege of giving a wedding breakfast to you young people. i can well manage it in the small _salle à manger_. that is left as it was." "oh, you are so kind, but dear old mère tricot is making a great cake for us and she would be sad indeed if she could not give the breakfast," explained judy. "that is as it should be," said the marquise kindly, "but am i invited?" "invited! of course you are invited, and the marquis and philippe if they can be got hold of." "they are still in camp and have not gone to the fore, so i will manage to reach them. jean is very busy, drilling all the time, but a family wedding must be attended. philippe is learning to fly," and she closed her eyes a moment as though to shut out the remembrance of accidents that happen all the time to the daring aviators. judy wondered if he had come in contact with josephine perkins, but said nothing as it was a deep secret that jo was passing off as a man and a word might give her away. "there are many americans in the aviation camp, and very clever and apt they are, philippe says. i am proud of my countrymen for coming forward as they are." "yes, i think it is great for them to. i--i--think i ought not to marry kent and go off and leave so much work to be done. i ought to help. don't you think so, cousin sally?" asked judy. the marquise smiled at judy's calling her cousin, smiled and liked it. kent looked uneasy and a little sullen. suppose his judy should balk at the last minute and refuse to leave the stirring scenes of war! what then? he had sworn not to return to united states without her, and unless he did return in a very short time, the very good job he had picked up in new york would be filled by some more fortunate and less in love young architect. "why, my dear, it is not the duty of all american girls to stay on this side and nurse any more than it is the duty of all american men to stay here and fight. only those must do it who are called, as it were, by the spirit. you must marry my young cousin and go back to united states, and there your duty will begin, not only to make him the brave, fine wife that i know it is in you to make, but also to remember suffering france and belgium. there is much work waiting for you. this war will last for years, thanks to that same belgium who threw herself in the breach and stopped the tide of prussians flowing into france. if it had not been for belgium, the war would have been over now--yes, over--but france would have been under the heel of the tyrant and belgium off of the map. thank god for that brave little country!" and judy and kent bowed their heads as at a benediction. kent kissed the marquise for her sensible advice. he very well knew that judy would have been a great acquisition to his cousin's hospital, and that workers were not numerous (not so plentiful at the beginning of the war as they were later). her advice was certainly unselfish. he thanked her, also, for realizing that it was not up to all american men to stay and fight. he had no desire to fight any one unless his own country was at war, and then he felt he would do his duty as his ancestors had done before him. "i tell you what we'll do, you children and i: i'll order out the car--i still keep one and a chauffeur so that with it i can bring the wounded back to paris--and we will go out to the aviation camp and see philippe and ask him to the wedding. you would like to see the camp, eh?" "above all things!" exclaimed kent and judy in chorus. the broad grassy field, bordered by houses, sheds and workshops, presented a busy scene as the ochtè car drove up. biplanes were parked to one side like so many automobiles at a reception in a city, or buggies at a county seat on court day in an american town. the field was swarming with men, all eagerly watching a tiny speck off in the blue sky in the direction of the trenches where the french had called a halt on the germans' insolent and triumphant march to paris. no more attempt was made to stop the car of madame the marquise from coming into the aviation camp than there would have been had she been joffre himself. "they know me very well," she said in answer to kent's inquiry as to this phenomenon, as he well knew they were very strict about visitors in camp. "i am ever a welcome guest here, not only because they know i love them, but because of something i bring." she pointed to a great hamper of goodies packed in by the chauffeur. the car was surrounded by eager and courteous young aviators and soldiers, and kent and judy well knew it was not all for the _gateaux_ that the marquise was so beloved. philippe was summoned and clasped in his mother's arms. her heart cried out that every time might be the last. the marquise was changed but her son even more so. his dilettantish manner was gone for good, as was also his foppish beard. his face, clean shaven except for a small moustache, was brown and lean; his mouth had taken on purpose; his eyes were no longer merely beautiful but now had depth of expression and a look of pity, as though he had seen much sorrow. he was greatly pleased to see his cousin kent and also miss kean, who, of course, he thought had gone back to america long ago. he remembered judy always as the young lady he came so near loving. indeed, he would have addressed her when molly brown had refused him, had he not been made to understand by his fair cousin how important it was to love with one's whole soul if married happiness was to be expected. he had, after that, gone very slowly in possible courtships. molly's friend, frances andrews, had almost been his choice, but there was something of fineness lacking in her that deterred him in time, and he was in a measure relieved when that dashing young woman proceeded to marry an impoverished italian prince. his mother was relieved beyond measure at what she could not but look on as her philippe's escape. in fact, she had never seen but one girl she thought would be just right for her beloved son and that was molly brown. philippe was told of kent's being shipwrecked and of judy's having taken up her abode with the tricots. this last bit of information amused him greatly. judy told with much sprightliness of her serving in the shop and of her learning to make tarts. philippe began to look upon his cousin kent as a very lucky dog. he sighed when he promised to come to the wedding breakfast, that is, if he could get leave. why did all of the charming american girls pass him by? "_j'ai la france et ma mère_," he muttered, as his arm crept around the waist of that beloved mother. "what are they all looking at so intently?" asked judy. "why, that is a daring young american aviator who has gone to seek some information concerning the trenches of our friends the enemy. he is a strange, quiet little fellow. no one ever gets a word out of him but he has learned to manage his machine quicker than any of the nouveaux, and now is intrusted to carry out all kinds of dangerous orders. he looks like a boy sometimes and sometimes when he is tired, like a strange little old man. he is not very friendly but is quick at repartee and so the fellows let him alone. speaks french like a parisian. i have seen him before somewhere, but can't place him. i asked him once and he was quite stiff and said i had the advantage of him. of course i didn't like to force myself on him after that, but i'd really like to be friendly if he would let me. see, here he comes! look!" they watched in silence the aeroplane sinking in a lovely spiral glide. as it sank to rest on the greensward, many hands were outstretched to assist the grotesque little figure to alight. judy recognized in an instant the person she had thought all the time philippe was describing. it was, of course, jo bill perkins. she was swathed in a dark leather coat and breeches, with a strange shaped cap coming down over her ears. the great goggles she wore could not deceive judy. "what is his name?" she asked philippe. "williams is all i know, j. williams." "i believe i know him. would you mind taking him my card and asking him to come speak to me?" "not a bit, but i don't believe he will come. let him make his report first, and then i will tell him you are here. you are very charming and fetching, mademoiselle, but i doubt your being able to bring williams to your feet." chapter xxi. the flight. judy felt that perhaps she was not quite fair to jo to test her by this interview, but she did long to speak to her. if kent and cousin sally recognized her, she knew full well she could trust them to keep silent. philippe crossed the field and stopped the daring little aviator just after he had made his report to the commander. "a young lady is asking for you." "a young lady for me? absurd!" "yes, she has heard of your wonderful feats and longs to meet you," teased philippe; and then added: "really, williams, you are superb." "not at all! well, i am tired and don't want to meet any young ladies." "but this one already knows you," and philippe produced judy's card. "miss julia kean," jo read in amazement. "how did she get out here, anyhow? where is she?" "over here with my mother," and philippe looked with some amusement at the evident blush that spread over jo's freckled cheeks. she still had on the grotesque cap and goggles which would have made recognition of her difficult. she wanted very much to see judy. she wanted to hear something of her polly, too, and she intended to have judy look him up if possible, and report to her. "will you see her?" "sure!" "miss kean is a charming girl, williams, isn't she?" said the quizzing philippe, looking searchingly at his companion as they made their way across the field. "you bet!" said jo. "have you known her long?" "quite a while," and jo's cheeks again were suffused with a dark flush. "poor little fellow!" thought philippe. "i can't bear to tell him she is to be married. he is such a dare devil the chances are he will be killed before long and he may never have to know that his inamorata has chosen a better looking man, not a better man--they don't make them to beat little williams." as they approached the car, impulsive judy jumped out and ran to meet her friend. jo ran, too, and they embraced with such ardor that philippe stood back amazed. maybe kent brown was not to be so envied, after all. if the girl who was to marry him in a day was so lavish with her embraces for other men, what kind of wife would she make? of course, williams was a rather dried up person, but then a man's a man for a' that. kent, too, was rather astonished when his fiancée left him with such precipitation and before all the aviation camp hugged and kissed the strange bunchy little figure. ardor for the heroes of france was all well enough, but a fellow's sweetheart need not be quite so warm in her manner of showing her appreciation, especially when the fellow happens not to be one himself in the habit of making daily daring flights to spy out the weakness in the trenches of the enemy. the marquise laughed as she had not done since the first week in august of that terrible year. kent looked at her in astonishment. she was not so very much like his mother, after all. his mother would not have been so much amused over the discomfiture of a young lover. that matron was saying to herself: "how stupid men are!" she had recognized jo from the beginning. kent had known in some far off corner of his brain that mrs. polly perkins was doing something or other about the war, but his mind had been so taken up with his own affairs and judy's possible danger that that knowledge had stayed in the corner of his brain while the more important matter of getting married was uppermost. suddenly the truth flashed over him and he was overcome with laughter, too. "caught on, eh?" asked his cousin. he nodded. "we must keep mum," she admonished. "there is no reason why a woman should not do her part this way if she can. i'd fly in a minute if that would help any. of course these stupid men would raise a hue and cry if they knew a woman was carrying off the honours." "i am as quiet as the grave," declared kent. judy came to the car with her friend and with the utmost audacity introduced jo as mr. williams. the marquise greeted the supposed young man graciously. kent sprang out and shook jo warmly by the hand, much to the astonishment of his cousin philippe. "can't i see you a moment alone?" whispered jo in judy's ear. the marquise, as though she divined what was in the heart of mrs. polly perkins, asked her to come sit in the car; and then she suggested that philippe show the camp to kent and on second thought decided to go with them. the chauffeur had been sent with the hamper to the mess hall, so judy and jo had a few minutes alone. "i must find out something about polly. i feel as though i could wait no longer for news of him. can't you help me?" "well, you know i am to be married to-morrow and sail for united states, but i am going to see that news is got to you somehow. cousin sally will do it, of course. she is the very person." "oh, but that philippe must not know. he has already been very curious about where he has seen me before, and i have had to be insufferably rude to him to keep him from prying into my past. i have made good as a man, but still they would not like it, i know." "how on earth did you ever get in? i am dying to hear all about it." "well, naturally the examination for physical fitness was worrying me some. i got that little dried up art student named joel williams, the one who was always trying to claim kin with me, to take the examination and then let me slip in in his place. i bought his ticket to america to pay him for his trouble. he was broke, as usual, and scared to death when the war started, and willing to do anything to get home. it was really very simple to manage it. i am the same type, in a way, although i hope i am not so dried up as my would-be cousin. same initials, too, which made the entering rather more regular." "oh, jo, what a girl you are!" "shh! don't call me a girl even to yourself. do you think the marquise d'ochtè recognized me?" "of course she did and kent, too! do you think they would have left us alone if they had not thought you were safe? kent wouldn't have left me with such a bird if he had not known who the bird was. he would be afraid i might fly away with you. oh, jo, i do so want to fly!" "well, why not?" "oh, could i really?" "i think so. i have brought in information to our commander that is valuable enough for me to ask one small favor of him. come on, let's ask!" the two girls were across the field and knocking for admittance at the commander's tent before the marquise and the two young men had begun their tour of inspection. "a favor to ask!" exclaimed the grizzled old warrior who sat poring over a map where jo had only a few moments before added some crosses that meant much to the tactics of the french army. "i want to take a friend up in a machine." "a friend! i am sorry, my son, but it is hard to tell friends in this day of war. i can't let you. he might be no friend, after all, to france." "he! it is not a man but an american girl. she is just outside your tent," and jo raised the flap and motioned judy to enter. judy was introduced. the old warrior looked at her searchingly. "tell me, are you related to robert kean?" "his daughter, sir." "robert kean's daughter! why, my child, your father and i have been close friends for years. tell me where he is and what he is doing." so judy told of her father's letter and his being held in berlin because of the knowledge he had of turkey's topography. she made him laugh long and loud when she told of the ridiculous limericks he had written on the paper boats. "and you, robert kean's daughter, want to fly, and to fly with our bravest and most daring aviator! well, don't fly off to america with him,--and god bless you, my children," and he gave judy a fatherly embrace and went back to his map. when kent got back to the car with his cousin, there was no judy. "where can she have gone and where is williams?" philippe looked rather mysterious. young girls who rushed up and embraced bird men with such ardor should not be allowed too much rope. "no doubt she will be back soon. williams is perhaps showing her the camp. look, there goes another machine up! two in it! by jove, it is williams! i can tell by his way of starting. he has such a smooth getaway always. could the passenger be miss kean?" "more than likely," said kent composedly. "she has always been crazy to fly. i reckon williams will take good care of her and not go too high or try any stunts." "oh, certainly not!" said philippe wonderingly. americans were a riddle to him. he never quite understood his own mother, who had rather a casual idea of proprieties herself at times. that good lady, coming up just then, expressed no concern over the impropriety of judy's flying with a man when she was to be married on the morrow to some one else. kent sat in the car with his cousin sally and together they enjoyed judy's flight. jo took her as close to the fighting line as she dared, but she had no idea of endangering the life of her passenger. they dipped and curved, for the most part confining their maneuvers to the vicinity of the camp. judy never spoke one word, but held her breath and wept for sheer joy. "to be flying! to be flying! oh, judy kean, you lucky dog!" she said to herself. "all my life i've been dreaming i could fly and now i am doing it." "dizzy?" asked jo. "no, but happy enough to die," gasped judy. "if i wasn't going to be married, i'd be a bird man." when the landing was finally made and judy stepped out, the world seemed very stale, flat and unprofitable. she was glad kent was there waiting for her. if she could not be a bird man, she could at least be a very happy war bride. the great leather coat she had worn in her flight was very ugly and unbecoming, and she was thankful for one thing that she did not have to wear such frightful looking clothes all the time. on the way back to paris she asked cousin sally how she had recognized jo williams so readily. "by her feet, of course! why, no man on earth ever had such eternally feminine feet." that good lady promised to find out immediately something about polly and let his spunky wife know where and how he was. "she will have the cross of honour before she gets through, philippe says." "you don't feel as though it were your duty to tell she is a woman, do you?" asked judy. "duty to tell! heavens, child! i feel it is my duty to help france in every way i can, and surely to get that girl out of the aviation corps would be a hindrance to _la patrie_. i doubt even philippe's thinking it his duty to tell, and," with a twinkle in her eye that the horrors of war could not altogether dim, "philippe has a very stern idea of his duty. he felt maybe it was his duty to get in a flying machine and go after you and mr. williams so he could chaperone you. he felt that the dignity of the family was at stake,--so soon to be the bride of his cousin and flying with another man! terrible!" "why, of course! i never thought of how it looked. there i went and hugged and kissed jo right before everybody. i bet you a sou this minute philippe and all the rest of them are feeling sorry for you, kent." "well, they needn't be," declared that young man as he found judy's hand under the robe. "i'm satisfied--but i did feel a little funny for half a minute when you went and kissed jo so warmly. it took me a moment longer to recognize her. why didn't you put me on?" "put you on? how could i, with all the people around?" "you promised me once you wouldn't fly with anybody until you could fly with me. don't you remember?" "of course i did, you goose! but i didn't say anybody--i said any man; so you see i didn't break my promise when i flew with mrs. polly perkins!" chapter xxii. the wedding breakfast. when the marquise d'ochtè said she would do something, she always did it and did it as well as it could be done. when she undertook to find out where and how polly perkins was for the benefit of his spunky wife, she did it and did it immediately. and not only did she find him, but she got a little respite from duty for him and bore him back to paris where she had already spirited jo to be present at the wedding breakfast. she had asked a holiday for jo, too, although the grizzled commander was loathe to let his best aviator off even for a day. jo was taken to the converted d'ochtè mansion and there dressed like a nice, feminine little woman, her hair curled by madame's maid. a tight velvet toque and a dotted veil completed the transformation and the commander himself would not have recognized his one time prize aviator. all of this masquerade was for the sole purpose of fooling philippe, who, also, was to be one of the guests at the tricots'. polly was so happy to see his jo again that it was pathetic to behold, and her pride in him and his bravery was beautiful. polly was vastly improved. kent, who had always liked the little man and had insisted that there was much more to him than the other members of the colony could see, was delighted to have his opinion of his friend verified. the ceremony was a very simple one, performed, not by the magistrate as mère tricot had suggested, but at the protestant episcopal church. polly perkins gave away the bride, and jo looked as though she would burst with pride at this honour done her husband. jim castleman was best man, and cousin sally fell in love with him on the spot. "he is like the young men of my youth," she declared, "the young men of kentucky, i am not saying how many years ago." the little living room at the tricots' soon after the ceremony was full to overflowing, but every one squeezed in somehow. the old couple were very happy in dispensing hospitality. their jean came home for a few hours and their hearts were thankful for this glimpse of their son. marie beamed with joy and the rosy baby delighted them all by saying, "pa-pa!" the first word it had ever uttered. philippe, looking so handsome that judy, too, wondered that all the american girls passed him by, fraternized with jean, the peasant's son, with that simplicity which characterizes the military of france. the party was very gay, so gay that it seemed impossible that the germans were really not more than thirty miles from them. of course they talked politics, men and women. old mère tricot had her opinions and expressed them, and they listened with respect when she pooh-poohed and bah-bahed the notion that the nations had gone to war from altruistic motives. "belgium might as well die fighting as die not fighting. the germans had her any way she jumped. france had to fight, too, fight or be enslaved. as for great britain--she couldn't well stay out of it! when the germans got antwerp, why, where was england? let us fight, i say--fight to a finish; but let's be honest about it and each country say she is fighting for herself." "do you think united states should come over and help?" asked kent, much interested in the old woman's wisdom. "not unless she has wrongs of her own to right!" spoke the grenadier. "but think how france helped us out in ' !" exclaimed judy. "yes, and helped herself, no doubt. i am not very educated in history, but i'll be bound she had a crow of her own to pick with england." "to be sure," laughed philippe, "france did want to destroy the naval supremacy of great britain. her alliance with spain meant more to france than her alliance with america. she was not wholly disinterested when she helped the struggling states." "oh, heavens, philippe, please don't take from me the romantic passion i have always had for lafayette!" begged his mother. "i used to thrill with joy when tales were told of my great grandmother's dancing with him." "keep your passion for lafayette. he was at least brave and disinterested, but don't waste much feeling on the government that backed him. vergennes, the minister of france at that time, prepared a map in which the united states figured as the same old colonial strip between the alleghenies and the sea. they had no idea of helping united states to become a great nation." "yes, i remember reading a letter from jay in which he said: 'this court is interested in separating us from great britain, but it is not their interest that we should become a great and formidable people.' but i feel deeply grateful to france for all she did," said kent. "me, too!" cried jim castleman. "and i mean to do all i can to pay it back." "ah! my american lafayette!" cried the marquise. "a toast, a toast, to my american lafayette!" and they stood up and drank a toast to the blushing young giant. "i didn't dream any one could have such a good time at her own wedding," said judy when the last vestige of cake had disappeared. it was a wonderful cake with a tiny white sugar bride and a chocolate groom perched on top. there had been much holding of hands under the table. every other person seemed to be eating with his or her left hand, and cousin sally complained that she had no hand to eat with at all, as philippe held one of her hands and the american lafayette held the other. the marquis could not come, much to the regret of all the company, for his regiment expected to be called to the front any day and no leaves could be granted. judy put up a brave front when adieux were in order, but her heart was very sad. how many terrible things might happen to these kind friends she was leaving! the tricots, good souls, might be bereft at any moment. dear cousin sally, with two in the war, might be doubly visited by the hand of death. polly and jo perkins were to part after this brief time of happiness, holding hands under the tricots' hospitable board, one to return to his office of caring for the wounded, the other to her office of keeping the german ambulance drivers busy. the young kentucky giant, jim castleman, was to join his regiment on the following day. his glee at having a chance to swat the prussians was intense. he didn't look like a person who could ever die, but one bit of shrapnel might in the twinkling of an eye destroy that virile youth. "come to see me when you can, my american lafayette," begged the marquise, "and if you get so much as a tiny little wound, let me nurse you if you can get to me." jim had delighted the little party by translating into his execrable french football terms to describe his idea of how the war should be conducted. his left tackle was frankly: "_gauche palan_," and his centre rush was: "_cintre jonc_." he and kent were not very demonstrative in their parting, but both of them felt it deeply. "wuv e lul lul! sus o lul o nun gug!" called jim, as the cab bearing the bride and groom started. "gug o o dud lul u sank kuk!" was kent's feeling rejoinder. chapter xxiii. the star-spangled banner. no submarine warfare interrupted the peaceful passage of our honeymooners. the voyage was delightful to both of them after all the trials they had been through. judy was as much at home on the water as on land, literally a born sailor, as she had been born at sea. kent loved a ship and all the many aspects of the ocean. the lazy days on deck, with their chairs drawn as close together as chairs could be, their hands clasped under the steamer rug, seemed like a beautiful dream, only a dream that was going to last for a lifetime, not the lazy days on deck but the being together and never talking out. being lazy was not the idea of eternal bliss common to either of these young persons. kent felt there were worlds to conquer in the architectural universe and he meant to do his share towards conquering them; and with judy by his side, he gloried in the task before him. as for judy, she meant to paint like mad and to work up many ideas she had teeming in her head. she was thankful for the reels of undeveloped snapshots she had in her trunk, as she was going to use them as a jog to her memory for the numerous illustrations she meant to make in an article she was thinking of writing on paris at the outbreak of the war. cousin sally's admonition to work for the allies was not forgotten, either. judy was planning a busy winter for herself in new york just as soon as she and kent could get themselves settled in an apartment. "it must be very inexpensive, too, kent. we must save money." kent couldn't help laughing at judy's solemn face. what would judy's friends say at her becoming penurious? judy, the spendthrift! "you see, i've always cost poor bobby a lot of money; not that he has ever complained, but i don't mean to be a burden to you, kent." kent had no answer for such foolishness but to squeeze her hand. "i'd be perfectly happy if i just knew that bobby and poor little mumsy were all right." "why, they may be on the high seas this minute. we will surely hear something of them when we get to new york." * * * * * sandy hook was at last sighted and then came the slow, majestic steaming into the harbour! liberty still held her torch on high with the gulls circling around her. the same little tugs were puffing up and down, with the great ferries plying back and forth like huge shuttles. new york's sky line was as fascinating to mrs. kent brown as it had ever been to judy kean. "oh, kent, i love it so! how could i have stayed away so long?" cried judy, rapturously making sketches in the air. the pier was filled with an eager crowd, awaiting the arrival of the steamer. "there won't be any one for us," said judy rather wistfully. "your mother is in kentucky, and of course molly couldn't leave the baby to come meet us, and there isn't any one else." kent smiled and said nothing. he was almost sure he saw the figure of his tall brother-in-law, professor green, towering above the crowd, but he was afraid he might be mistaken and could not bear to disappoint judy. it was edwin green and hanging on one arm was molly (kent knew her by the blue scarf). and who was that on the other arm? oh, what a mother! it was mrs. brown, her face uplifted and glowing. "judy, look a little to the left of the second post! right in front of us, honey! what do you see?" "oh, it's molly! i can tell her by her blue scarf--and kent! kent, there's your mother and dear edwin!" then judy clutched her young husband's arm. "look a little to the right, standing by your mother--there's a big man that looks like bobby--see, with a little doll baby woman in front of him--he's keeping the crowd off of her--see! see! it is--it is bobby and little mumsy!" judy, who not much more than two weeks before had considered herself the most unfortunate and friendless of mortals, now knew that there was not such a happy person in all the world. how long the vessel took to be made fast to the pier! and then such a crowding and pushing! every one on board seemed to have some one on the pier he had not seen for centuries and must get to immediately. "they can't be as anxious to hug their mothers as i am, and i know they haven't any bobbies," she complained. "and i am sure they have not been shipwrecked like you and given up for drowned by their families. they ought to let us off first." mr. kean was behaving exactly as though he were at a football game. he was jumping up and down and waving and shouting, and his rooting egged kent to make a rush for the gangway, holding judy like a pigskin; and once on the gangplank there was nothing to do but push and be pushed by the crowd until they shot out on the pier into the arms of their waiting and eager families. with every one talking at once, it was difficult to get any accurate knowledge about one another, but when it was all sifted out it developed that mr. and mrs. kean had finally been allowed by the imperial government to leave berlin, in fact, they had been encouraged to go. mr. kean was looked upon as a dangerous person, a lunatic at large, and they did not want the responsibility or expense of caring for him. his jokes got to be too many and serious, and when he became such an adept in evading the spy set to watch him that two had to be detailed for that duty, the powers that be evidently decided that what knowledge he possessed of the topography of turkey did not outweigh in importance the wearing out of perfectly good soldier material. he worried the spy so that he was nothing more than skin and bones, poor fellow! they had arrived in new york only the day before and had immediately got molly on the long distance telephone. of course, they knew nothing of judy's being married, but unhesitatingly approved of the step kent had taken and did not consider him at all high-handed. mr. kean, being of a most impulsive disposition, could understand it in other persons, and little mrs. kean was so used to her comet-like husband and daughter that she was never astonished by anything they did. "i was not the impulsive one this time, though, bobby," judy declared when they finally settled themselves around the luncheon table at the hotel where a second bridal feast had been prepared, ordered by the lavish bobby. "it was kent. i had no idea of ever being married--in fact, it seemed to me to be not quite decent to be married so quickly when i was in such deep mourning--the wedding was quiet because of the recent bereavement----" "in mourning! you, judy, in mourning for whom?" and poor little mrs. kean gasped, not knowing what she was to learn now. "why, for kent himself. nothing but the bombs dropped in paris kept me from having my best serge suit dyed black. molly, i always said i'd make a fetching widow, and i did all right. kent thought i was just lovely in the hat i fixed for his mourning." "oh, judy! the same old judy!" exclaimed molly fondly. molly had thought it would be impossible for her to go to new york to meet the incoming steamer with its precious cargo, but edwin had declared she should go; so little mildred was taken on the jaunt as well, with the eager katy as nurse. kizzie was already installed as cook and katy was proving a most careful and reliable nurse. molly was looking and behaving more like herself and no longer had to let her patient husband go off to his lectures like a bachelor with no wife to pour his coffee. "and now, you and kent and mr. and mrs. kean must all come to wellington to visit us," announced the hospitable molly. "mustn't they, edwin?" "indeed they must," said edwin obediently, but in his heart wondering where molly would put all of them. the old red house on the campus was large but had not very many rooms. the young professor could never quite get used to the browns and their unbounded hospitality. his favorite story was one on his mother-in-law; how, when one of her sons brought home the whole football team to spend the night, she calmly took the top mattresses off all the beds (the beds at chatsworth were fortunately equipped with box mattresses and top mattresses) and made up pallets on the floor, thereby doubling the sleeping capacity of her hospitable mansion. "i can't come, molly,--mighty sorry," said kent, "but my job must be held down now. they have kept it open for me long enough." "and i stay with kent!" declared judy. "hurrah, hurrah! her mother's own daughter!" cried the delighted bobby. "i was wondering what kind of wife my girl would make; now i know. i wouldn't take anything for that: 'i stay with kent.'" "oh, i'm going to be terribly domestic. i found that out while i was living with the tricots. what's more, i can make tarts--the best ever. i can hardly wait to get a flat and a pastry board to make some for kent." "you might use your drawing board for a pastry board," teased her father. "i fancy art is through with." "through with, indeed! why, bobby, i am astonished and ashamed of you! i am going to paint all the time that i am not making tarts, and what time is left, i am going to knit socks and make bandages for the wounded." "and poor me! when do i come in?" asked kent. "you come in early and behave yourself or i'll spend the rest of the time making suffrage speeches," laughed the war bride. * * * * * and now since we must leave our friends some where, what better time and place than at this second wedding breakfast, while all of them are together and happy? perhaps we shall meet them again when the old red house on the campus shall be taxed to its utmost in its endeavor to behave like chatsworth. we shall see judy and kent in their little flat and mayhaps taste one of judy's tarts. we must know more of molly's girls at wellington and meet dear nance oldham and little otoyo sen again. it is hard to part forever with our friends and those who know molly brown feel that all her friends are theirs. so i hope our readers will be glad to meet again "molly brown's college friends." the end. [illustration] marjorie dean college series by pauline lester. author of the famous marjorie dean high school series. those who have read the marjorie dean high school series will be eager to read this new series, as marjorie dean continues to be the heroine in these stories. all clothbound. copyright titles. price, cents each. marjorie dean, college freshman marjorie dean, college sophomore marjorie dean, college junior marjorie dean, college senior for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers. a. l. burt company - east rd street, new york [illustration] marjorie dean high school series by pauline lester author of the famous marjorie dean college series these are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age. all cloth bound copyright titles price, cents each marjorie dean, high school freshman marjorie dean, high school sophomore marjorie dean, high school junior marjorie dean, high school senior for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company - east rd street new york [illustration] the girl scouts series by edith lavell a new copyright series of girl scouts stories by an author of wide experience in scouts' craft, as director of girl scouts of philadelphia. clothbound, with attractive color designs. price, cents each. the girl scouts at miss allen's school the girl scouts at camp the girl scouts' good turn the girl scouts' canoe trip the girl scouts' rivals the girl scouts on the ranch the girl scouts' vacation adventures the girl scouts' motor trip for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company - east rd street new york [illustration] the camp fire girls series by hildegard g. frey a series of outdoor stories for girls to years. all cloth bound copyright titles price, cents each the camp fire girls in the maine woods; or, the winnebagos go camping. the camp fire girls at school; or, the wohelo weavers. the camp fire girls at onoway house; or, the magic garden. the camp fire girls go motoring; or, along the road that leads the way. the camp fire girls' larks and pranks; or, the house of the open door. the camp fire girls on ellen's isle; or, the trail of the seven cedars. the camp fire girls on the open road; or, glorify work. the camp fire girls do their bit; or, over the top with the winnebagos. the camp fire girls solve a mystery; or, the christmas adventure at carver house. the camp fire girls at camp keewaydin; or, down paddles. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company - east rd street new york [illustration] the blue grass seminary girls series by carolyn judson burnett for girls to years all cloth bound copyright titles price, cents each splendid stories of the adventures of a group of charming girls. the blue grass seminary girls' vacation adventures; or, shirley willing to the rescue. the blue grass seminary girls' christmas holidays; or, a four weeks' tour with the glee club. the blue grass seminary girls in the mountains; or, shirley willing on a mission of peace. the blue grass seminary girls on the water; or, exciting adventures on a summer's cruise through the panama canal. [illustration] the mildred series by martha finley for girls to years. all cloth bound copyright titles price, cents each a companion series to the famous "elsie" books by the same author. mildred keith mildred's married life mildred at roseland mildred at home mildred and elsie mildred's boys and girls mildred's new daughter for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company - east rd street new york * * * * * transcriber's note: minor printer's errors have been corrected. otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) eight or nine wise words about letter-writing by _lewis carroll_ emberlin and son , magdalen street oxford first published . contents. page. _on stamp-cases_ _how to begin a letter_ _how to go on with a letter_ _how to end a letter_ _on registering correspondence_ § . _on stamp-cases._ some american writer has said "the snakes in this district may be divided into one species--the venomous." the same principle applies here. postage-stamp-cases may be divided into one species, the "wonderland." imitations of it will soon appear, no doubt: but they cannot include the two pictorial surprises, which are copyright. you don't see why i call them 'surprises'? well, take the case in your left-hand, and regard it attentively. you see alice nursing the duchess's baby? (an entirely new combination, by the way: it doesn't occur in the book.) now, with your right thumb and forefinger, lay hold of the little book, and suddenly pull it out. _the baby has turned into a pig!_ if _that_ doesn't surprise you, why, i suppose you wouldn't be surprised if your own mother-in-law suddenly turned into a gyroscope! this case is _not_ intended to carry about in your pocket. far from it. people seldom want any other stamps, on an emergency, than penny-stamps for letters, sixpenny-stamps for telegrams, and a bit of stamp-edging for cut fingers (it makes capital sticking-plaster, and will stand three or four washings, cautiously conducted): and all these are easily carried in a purse or pocketbook. no, _this_ is meant to haunt your envelope-case, or wherever you keep your writing-materials. what made me invent it was the constantly wanting stamps of other values, for foreign letters, parcel post, &c., and finding it very bothersome to get at the kind i wanted in a hurry. since i have possessed a "wonderland stamp case", life has been bright and peaceful, and i have used no other. i believe the queen's laundress uses no other. each of the pockets will hold stamps, comfortably. i would recommend you to arrange the , before putting them in, something like a _bouquet_, making them lean to the right and to the left alternately: thus there will always be a free _corner_ to get hold of, so as to take them out, quickly and easily, one by one: otherwise you will find them apt to come out two or three at a time. according to _my_ experience, the _d._, _d._, and _s._ stamps are hardly ever wanted, though i have constantly to replenish all the other pockets. if your experience agrees with mine, you may find it convenient to keep only a couple (say) of each of these kinds, in the _s._ pocket, and to fill the other pockets with extra _d._ stamps. § . _how to begin a letter._ if the letter is to be in answer to another, begin by getting out that other letter and reading it through, in order to refresh your memory, as to what it is you have to answer, and as to your correspondent's _present address_ (otherwise you will be sending your letter to his regular address in _london_, though he has been careful in writing to give you his _torquay_ address in full). next, address and stamp the envelope. "what! before writing the _letter_?" most certainly. and i'll tell you what will happen if you don't. you will go on writing till the last moment, and just in the middle of the last sentence, you will become aware that 'time's up!' then comes the hurried wind-up--the wildly-scrawled signature--the hastily-fastened envelope, which comes open in the post--the address, a mere hieroglyphic--the horrible discovery that you've forgotten to replenish your stamp-case--the frantic appeal, to every one in the house, to lend you a stamp--the headlong rush to the post office, arriving, hot and gasping, just after the box has closed--and finally, a week afterwards, the return of the letter, from the dead-letter office, marked "address illegible"! next, put your own address, _in full_, at the top of the note-sheet. it is an aggravating thing----i speak from bitter experience----when a friend, staying at some new address, heads his letter "dover," simply, assuming that you can get the rest of the address from his previous letter, which perhaps you have destroyed. next, put the date _in full_. it is another aggravating thing, when you wish, years afterwards, to arrange a series of letters, to find them dated "feb. ", "aug. ", without any year to guide you as to which comes first. and never, never, dear madam (n.b. this remark is addressed to ladies _only_: no _man_ would ever do such a thing), put "wednesday", simply, as the date! "_that way madness lies._" § . _how to go on with a letter._ here is a golden rule to begin with. _write legibly._ the average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweetened, if everybody obeyed this rule! a great deal of the bad writing in the world comes simply from writing _too quickly_. of course you reply, "i do it to save _time_". a very good object, no doubt: but what right have you to do it at your friend's expense? isn't _his_ time as valuable as yours? years ago, i used to receive letters from a friend----and very interesting letters too----written in one of the most atrocious hands ever invented. it generally took me about a _week_ to read one of his letters! i used to carry it about in my pocket, and take it out at leisure times, to puzzle over the riddles which composed it----holding it in different positions, and at different distances, till at last the meaning of some hopeless scrawl would flash upon me, when i at once wrote down the english under it; and, when several had been thus guessed, the context would help one with the others, till at last the whole series of hieroglyphics was deciphered. if _all_ one's friends wrote like that, life would be entirely spent in reading their letters! this rule applies, specially, to names of people or places----and _most_ specially to _foreign names_. i got a letter once, containing some russian names, written in the same hasty scramble in which people often write "yours sincerely". the _context_, of course, didn't help in the least: and one spelling was just as likely as another, so far as _i_ knew: it was necessary to write and tell my friend that i couldn't read any of them! my second rule is, don't fill _more_ than a page and a half with apologies for not having written sooner! the best subject, to _begin_ with, is your friend's last letter. write with the letter open before you. answer his questions, and make any remarks his letter suggests. _then_ go on to what you want to say yourself. this arrangement is more courteous, and pleasanter for the reader, than to fill the letter with your own invaluable remarks, and then hastily answer your friend's questions in a postscript. your friend is much more likely to enjoy your wit, _after_ his own anxiety for information has been satisfied. in referring to anything your friend has said in his letter, it is best to _quote the exact words_, and not to give a summary of them in _your_ words. _a's_ impression, of what _b_ has said, expressed in _a's_ words, will never convey to _b_ the meaning of his own words. this is specially necessary when some point has arisen as to which the two correspondents do not quite agree. there ought to be no opening for such writing as "you are quite mistaken in thinking i said so-and-so. it was not in the least my meaning, &c., &c.", which tends to make a correspondence last for a lifetime. a few more rules may fitly be given here, for correspondence that has unfortunately become _controversial_. one is, _don't repeat yourself_. when once you have said your say, fully and clearly, on a certain point, and have failed to convince your friend, _drop that subject_: to repeat your arguments, all over again, will simply lead to his doing the same; and so you will go on, like a circulating decimal. _did you ever know a circulating decimal come to an end?_ another rule is, when you have written a letter that you feel may possibly irritate your friend, however necessary you may have felt it to so express yourself, _put it aside till the next day_. then read it over again, and fancy it addressed to yourself. this will often lead to your writing it all over again, taking out a lot of the vinegar and pepper, and putting in honey instead, and thus making a _much_ more palatable dish of it! if, when you have done your best to write inoffensively, you still feel that it will probably lead to further controversy, _keep a copy of it_. there is very little use, months afterwards, in pleading "i am almost sure i never expressed myself as you say: to the best of my recollection i said so-and-so". _far_ better to be able to write "i did _not_ express myself so: these are the words i used." my fifth rule is, if your friend makes a severe remark, either leave it unnoticed, or make your reply distinctly _less_ severe: and if he makes a friendly remark, tending towards 'making up' the little difference that has arisen between you, let your reply be distinctly _more_ friendly. if, in picking a quarrel, each party declined to go more than _three-eighths_ of the way, and if, in making friends, each was ready to go _five-eighths_ of the way--why, there would be more reconciliations than quarrels! which is like the irishman's remonstrance to his gad-about daughter--"shure, you're _always_ goin' out! you go out _three_ times, for _wanst_ that you come in!" my sixth rule (and my last remark about controversial correspondence) is, _don't try to have the last word_! how many a controversy would be nipped in the bud, if each was anxious to let the _other_ have the last word! never mind how telling a rejoinder you leave unuttered: never mind your friend's supposing that you are silent from lack of anything to say: let the thing drop, as soon as it is possible without discourtesy: remember 'speech is silvern, but silence is golden'! (n.b.--if you are a gentleman, and your friend a lady, this rule is superfluous: _you won't get the last word_!) my seventh rule is, if it should ever occur to you to write, jestingly, in _dispraise_ of your friend, be sure you exaggerate enough to make the jesting _obvious_: a word spoken in _jest_, but taken as _earnest_, may lead to very serious consequences. i have known it to lead to the breaking-off of a friendship. suppose, for instance, you wish to remind your friend of a sovereign you have lent him, which he has forgotten to repay--you might quite _mean_ the words "i mention it, as you seem to have a conveniently bad memory for debts", in jest: yet there would be nothing to wonder at if he took offence at that way of putting it. but, suppose you wrote "long observation of your career, as a pickpocket and a burglar, has convinced me that my one lingering hope, for recovering that sovereign i lent you, is to say 'pay up, or i'll summons yer!'" he would indeed be a matter-of-fact friend if he took _that_ as seriously meant! my eighth rule. when you say, in your letter, "i enclose cheque for £ ", or "i enclose john's letter for you to see", leave off writing for a moment--go and get the document referred to--and _put it into the envelope_. otherwise, you are pretty certain to find it lying about, _after the post has gone_! my ninth rule. when you get to the end of a note-sheet, and find you have more to say, take another piece of paper--a whole sheet, or a scrap, as the case may demand: but, whatever you do, _don't cross_! remember the old proverb '_cross-writing makes cross reading_'. "the _old_ proverb?" you say, enquiringly. "_how_ old?" well, not so _very_ ancient, i must confess. in fact, i'm afraid i invented it while writing this paragraph! still, you know, 'old' is a _comparative_ term. i think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken, just out of the shell, as "old boy!", _when compared_ with another chicken, that was only half-out! § . _how to end a letter._ if doubtful whether to end with 'yours faithfully', or 'yours truly', or 'yours most truly', &c. (there are at least a dozen varieties, before you reach 'yours affectionately'), refer to your correspondent's last letter, and make your winding-up _at least as friendly as his_; in fact, even if a shade _more_ friendly, it will do no harm! a postscript is a very useful invention: but it is _not_ meant (as so many ladies suppose) to contain the real _gist_ of the letter: it serves rather to throw into the shade any little matter we do _not_ wish to make a fuss about. for example, your friend had promised to execute a commission for you in town, but forgot it, thereby putting you to great inconvenience: and he now writes to apologize for his negligence. it would be cruel, and needlessly crushing, to make it the main subject of your reply. how much more gracefully it comes in thus! "p.s. don't distress yourself any more about having omitted that little matter in town. i won't deny that it _did_ put my plans out a little, at the time: but it's all right now. i often forget things, myself: and 'those who live in glass-houses, mustn't throw stones', you know!" when you take your letters to the post, _carry them in your hand_. if you put them in your pocket you will take a long country-walk (i speak from experience), passing the post-office _twice_, going and returning, and, when you get home, will find them _still_ in your pocket. § . _on registering correspondence._ let me recommend you to keep a record of letters received and sent. i have kept one for many years, and have found it of the greatest possible service, in many ways: it secures my _answering_ letters, however long they have to wait; it enables me to refer, for my own guidance, to the details of previous correspondence, though the actual letters may have been destroyed long ago; and, most valuable feature of all, if any difficulty arises, years afterwards, in connection with a half-forgotten correspondence, it enables me to say, with confidence, "i did _not_ tell you that he was 'an _invaluable_ servant in _every_ way', and that you _couldn't_ 'trust him too much'. i have a _précis_ of my letter. what i said was 'he is a _valuable_ servant in _many_ ways, but _don't_ trust him too much'. so, if he's cheated you, you really must not hold _me_ responsible for it!" i will now give you a few simple rules for making, and keeping, a letter-register. get a blank book, containing (say) leaves, about inches wide and high. it should be _well_ fastened into its cover, as it will have to be opened and shut hundreds of times. have a line ruled, in red ink, down each margin of every page, an inch off the edge (the margin should be wide enough to contain a number of digits, easily: _i_ manage with a / inch margin: but, unless you write very small you will find an inch more comfortable). write a _précis_ of each letter, received or sent, in chronological order. let the entry of a 'received' letter reach from the left-hand edge to the right-hand marginal line; and the entry of a 'sent' letter from the left-hand marginal line to the right-hand edge. thus the two kinds will be quite distinct, and you can easily hunt through the 'received' letters by themselves, without being bothered with the 'sent' letters; and _vice versâ_. use the _right-hand_ pages only: and, when you come to the end of the book, turn it upside-down, and begin at the other end, still using right-hand pages. you will find this much more comfortable than using left-hand pages. you will find it convenient to write, at the top of every sheet of a 'received' letter, its register-number in full. i will now give a few (ideal) specimen pages of my letter-register, and make a few remarks on them: after which i think you will find it easy enough to manage one for yourself. | / . || -------+ || ( ) |ap. (tu.) _jones, mrs._ am || sendg, |as present from self and mr. || j., a |white elephant. || -------+----------------------------------|| ( ) |do. _wilkins & co._ bill, for|| grand |piano, £ _s._ _d._ [pd|| , -------+----------------------------------|| ( ) |do. _scareham, h._ [writes from|| 'grand | hotel, monte carlo'] asking || to borr|ow £ for a few weeks (!) ||[symbol] -------+----------------------------------+-------- [symbol]||( ) do. _scareham, h._ would| like to ||know _object_, for wh loan is | asked, ||and _security_ offered. | ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) ap. . _wilkins & co._ ||in pre- ||vious letter, now before me, || you ||undertook to supply one for ||£ : ||decling to pay more. || ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _cheetham & sharp._ | have ||written --enclosing previo|us let- ||ter--is law on my side? | [ ------++----------------------------------++------- ( ) ||ap. . _manager, goods statn_,|| _g. n.||r._ white elephant arrived, ad- || dresse||d to you--send for it at once-- || 'very ||savage'. || -------+----------------------------------+-------- | | | | | / . | ------++ | ||( ) ap. . (f) _jones, mrs._ th||anks, ||but no room for it at present, am||send- ||ing it to zoological gardens. || ||----------------------------------++------- ||( ) do. _manager, goods sta||tn, g._ ||_n. r._ please deliver, to bearer||of this ||note, case containg white ele-||phant ||addressed to me. || ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _director zool. garde |ns._ (en- ||closing above note to r. w. ma|nager) ||call for valuable animal, prese|nted to ||gardens. | -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |ap. . _cheetham & sharp._ you|| misquo|te enclosed letter, limit named || is £ | . || -------+----------------------------------||------- ( ) |ap. . _director, zoo. gardens._|| case de|livered to us contained doz.|| port--|consumed at directors' ban-|| quet--|many thanks. || -------+----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. t _jones, mrs._ why | call a [symbol]||doz. of port a 'white elephant'? | -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |do. t _jones, mrs._ 'it was a ||[symbol] joke'. | || -------+----------------------------------+-------- | | | | | / . | -------+ | ||( ) ap. . (th) _page & co._|orderg ||macaulay's essays and "jane |eyre" ||(cheap edtn). | -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |do. _aunt jemima_--invitg for || or |days after the th. [ || -------+----------------------------------|| ( ) |do. _lon. and west. bk._ have || recevd |£ , pd to yr acct fm parkins || & co. |calcutta [en || -------+----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _aunt jemima_--can|not ||possibly come this month, will|write ||when able. | [ ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) ap. . _cheetham and |co._ re- ||turn letter enclosed to you. | [× ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _morton, philip._ co|uld you ||lend me browning's 'dramati|s per- ||sonæ' for a day or ? | -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |ap. . _aunt jemima_, leav- || ing ho|use at end of month : address || ' , |royal avenue, bath.' [ || -------+----------------------------------|| ( ) |ap. . _cheetham and co._, || returng|letter as reqd, bill / / . [ || -------+----------------------------------+-------- | | | | | / . | -------+ | ( ) |ap. . (tu) _page & co._ bill ||} for boo|ks, as ordered, / [ ||} -------+----------------------------------||} ( ) |do. ¶ _do._ books ||} -------+----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _cheetham and co._ c|an un- ||derstand the / --what is £ |for? -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |ap. . ¶ _morton, p._ 'dra- || matis |personæ', as asked for. [retd || -------+----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _wilkins and co._ w|ith ||bill, / / , and ch. for do.| [en ||----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) do. _page and co._ bill,| / , ||postal [symbol] for /- and| stps. -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |ap. . _cheetham and co._ it || was a |'clerical error' (!) || -------+----------------------------------+-------- ||( ) ap. . _morton, p._ retu|rng ||browning with many thanks. | -------+----------------------------------+-------- ( ) |do. _wilkins and co._ receptd || bill. | || -------+----------------------------------+-------- | | | | i begin each page by putting, at the top left-hand corner, the next entry-number i am going to use, _in full_ (the last digits of each entry-number are enough afterwards); and i put the date of the year, at the top, in the centre. i begin each entry with the last digits of the entry-number, enclosed in an oval (this is difficult to reproduce in print, so i have put round-parentheses here). then, for the _first_ entry in each page, i put the day of the month and the day of the week: afterwards, 'do.' is enough for the month-day, till it changes: i do not repeat the week-day. next, if the entry is _not_ a letter, i put a symbol for 'parcel' (see nos. , ) or 'telegram' (see nos. , ) as the case may be. next, the name of the person, underlined (indicated here by italics). if an entry needs special further attention, i put [____ at the end: and, when it has been attended to, i fill in the appropriate symbol, e.g. in no. , it showed that the bill had to be _paid_; in no. , that an answer was really _needed_ (the '×' means 'attended to'); in no. , that i owed the old lady a visit; in no. , that the item had to be entered in my account book; in no. , that i must not forget to write; in no. , that the address had to be entered in my address-book; in no. , that the book had to be returned. i give each entry the space of lines, whether it fills them or not, in order to have room for references. and, at the foot of each page i leave or lines _blank_ (often useful afterwards for entering omitted letters) and miss one or numbers before i begin the next page. at any odd moments of leisure, i 'make up' the entry-book, in various ways, as follows:-- ( ) i draw a _second_ line, at the right-hand end of the 'received' entries, and at the left-hand end of the 'sent' entries. this i usually do pretty well 'up to date'. in my register the first line is _red_, the second _blue_: here i distinguish them by making the first thin, and the second _thick_. ( ) beginning with the last entry, and going backwards, i read over the names till i recognise one as having occurred already: i then link the two entries together, by giving the one, that comes first in chronological order, a 'foot-reference' (see nos. , ). i do not keep this 'up-to-date', but leave it till there are or pages to be done. i work back till i come among entries that are all supplied with 'foot-references', when i once more glance through the last few pages, to see if there are any entries not yet supplied with head-references: _their_ predecessors may need a special search. if an entry is connected, in subject, with another under a different name, i link them by cross-references, distinguished from the head- and foot-references by being written _further from the marginal line_ (see no. ). when consecutive entries have the same name, and are both of the same kind (i.e. both 'received' or both 'sent') i bracket them (see nos. , ); if of different kinds, i link them with the symbol used for nos. , . ( ) beginning at the earliest entry not yet done with, and going forwards, i cross out every entry that has got a head- and foot-reference, and is done with, by continuing the extra line _through_ it (see nos. , , ). thus, wherever a _break_ occurs in this extra line, it shows there is some matter still needing attention. i do not keep this anything like 'up to date', but leave it till there are or pages to look through at a time. when the first page in the volume is thus completely crossed out, i put a mark at the foot of the page to indicate this; and so with pages , , &c. hence, whenever i do this part of the 'making up', i need not begin at the beginning of the volume, but only at the _earliest page that has not got this mark_. all this looks very complicated, when stated at full length: but you will find it perfectly simple, when you have had a little practice, and will come to regard the 'making-up' as a pleasant occupation for a rainy day, or at any time that you feel disinclined for more severe mental work. in the game of whist, hoyle gives us one golden rule, "when in doubt, win the trick"--i find that rule admirable for real life: when in doubt what to do, i 'make-up' my letter-register! the end. works by lewis carroll. published by macmillan & co., ltd., london. alice's adventures in wonderland. with forty-two illustrations by tenniel. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. ninetieth thousand. the same; people's edition. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, price _s._ _d._ net. one hundred and forty-third thousand. the same; illustrated pocket classics for the young. fcap. vo, cloth, with full gilt back and gilt top, _s._ net. limp leather, with full gilt back and gilt edges, _s._ net. the same. vo, sewed, _d._; cloth, _s._ the same; miniature edition. pott vo, _s._ net. the same; little folks' edition. square mo. with coloured illustrations. _s._ net. aventures d'alice au pays des merveilles. traduit de l'anglais par henry bue. ouvrage illustré de vignettes par john tenniel. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. second thousand. le avventure d'alice nel paese delle meraviglie. tradotte dall' inglese da t. pietrocola-rossetti. con vignette di giovanni tenniel. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. alice's adventures under ground. being a facsimile of the original ms. book, which was afterwards developed into "alice's adventures in wonderland." with thirty-seven illustrations by the author. (begun, july, ; finished, feb., ; first published, in facsimile, in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. fourth thousand. through the looking-glass; and what alice found there. with fifty illustrations by tenniel. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. sixty-third thousand. the same; people's edition. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, price _s._ _d._ net. eighty-fourth thousand. the same; illustrated pocket classics for the young. fcap. vo, cloth, with full gilt back and gilt top, _s._ net. limp leather, with full gilt back and gilt edges, _s._ net. the same. vo, sewed, _d._; cloth _s._ the same; little folks' edition. square mo. with coloured illustrations. _s._ _d._ net. alice's adventures in wonderland; and through the looking-glass; people's editions. both books together in one volume. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, price _s._ _d._ net. the hunting of the snark. an agony in eight fits. with nine illustrations, and two large gilt designs on cover, by henry holiday. (first published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ _d._ net. twenty-third thousand. rhyme? and reason? with sixty-five illustrations by arthur b. frost, and nine by henry holiday. (first published in , being a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portions of "phantasmagoria, and other poems," published in , and of "the hunting of the snark," published in .) crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. eighth thousand. sylvie and bruno concluded. with forty-six illustrations by harry furniss. (first published in .) fifth thousand. crown vo, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ _d._ net. people's edition, _s._ _d._ net. n.b.--this book contains pages. the story of sylvie and bruno, in one volume. with illustrations by harry furniss. crown vo, _s._ _d._ net. three sunsets, and other poems. with twelve illustrations by e. gertrude thomson. fcap. to, cloth, gilt edges, price _s._ net. n.b.--this is a reprint, with a few additions, of the serious portion of "phantasmagoria, and other poems," published in . works by lewis carroll. published by chatto & windus, st. martin's lane, london, w.c. price _s._ net, boards; _s._ net, bound in leather. feeding the mind. a lecture delivered in . with preface by william h. draper. always in stock at emberlin & son, oxford. postage one penny. advice to writers. buy "the wonderland case for postage-stamps," invented by lewis carroll, october , , size inches by , containing separate pockets for stamps of different values, coloured pictorial surprises taken from _alice in wonderland_, and or wise words about letter-writing. it is published by messrs. emberlin & son, magdalen street, oxford. price _s._ n.b.--if ordered by post, an additional payment will be required, to cover cost of postage, as follows:-- one, two, three, or four copies, _d._ five to fourteen do., _d._ each subsequent fourteen or fraction thereof, _d._ the wonderland [illustration] postage-stamp case published by emberlin and son, , magdalen street, oxford. [illustration] (post free, d.) price one shilling [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] invented by [illustration] lewis carroll mdccclxxxix transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the original text includes an intention blank space that is represented in this text version as ____. the gentleman's model letter-writer a complete guide to _correspondence on all subjects_ with commercial forms london and new york: frederick warne & co. preface. though the number of existing "letter writers" is many, the publishers feel that there is yet a want which this little manual, it is hoped, will supply. it has been compiled with great care from several sources, and contains much original matter, for which experience assures them there is a necessity. contents. a book-keeper and accountant applying for employment acknowledging a letter of congratulation on the birth of a child a father applying to the principal of a school to ascertain terms, &c. a gentleman applying for a loan on the insurance of his life a gentleman applying to an agent at a watering-place for lodgings reply a gentleman having visited a property, making an offer for it reply a gentleman in the corn trade to another a gentleman regretting he cannot accept an invitation a gentleman to a friend relative to a bill a gentleman ordering a set of harness from a saddler saddler in reply gentleman in reply, objecting to price saddler in reply a gentleman's servant applying for a situation a gentleman to a friend, speaking of kindness received at another friend's house reply a letter from a father to a son at school, on the necessity of attention to his studies a letter from a marine engineer, seeking an eligible partnership a letter of condolence a letter to a gentleman who has been making enquiries about a lady's horse an application for a donation to a charitable institution in the country, such as coal and blanket clubs, and soup kitchen reply, enclosing donation reply, unfavourable an application for an appointment on a railway an estate agent, relative to a house of which his client is anxious to dispose answer from a landlord in reply to a tenant, relative to non-payment of rent an application for a situation in the police a parent to his daughter at service a person desirous of entering into partnership in a lucrative profession application for a debt some time owing application for a house, furnished, desiring lowest terms application for an outstanding account application for employment in an auctioneer's and estate agent's office application to borrow money reply granting the loan applying for a clerkship applying for an account, and furnishing particulars applying for a situation as a gardener applying to a friend for a recommendation, by a young man desirous of obtaining an appointment appointing an interview relative to a loan a reply to an advertisement for an appointment as secretary to an institution a sailor to his sweetheart a sugar refiner applying for a situation a tenant to a landlord, requesting time to pay rent commercial forms form of cheque to "bearer" form of cheque to "order" form of ordinary bill of exchange form of promissory note form of foreign bill of exchange form of ordinary receipt form of receipt for rent form of agreement for taking a house form of notice to quit, from landlord to tenant form of notice to quit, from tenant to landlord form of will form of bill of sale directions for addressing persons of rank, &c. the royal family the nobility official members of the state ambassadors and governors under her majesty judges the parliament the clergy from a child acknowledging the receipt of the present of a book from a coachman, requiring a place reply coachman's reply from a father to a son, relative to his expenditure from a father to his son beginning the world from a father to his son, who has been complaining of the severity of his master from a father who has lately lost his wife, to his daughter at school from a friend at bradford, to his friend in london, on business (wool) from a gentleman accepting an invitation, though suffering from illness (temporary) from a gentleman applying for sittings, or a pew in a parish church, in the country from a gentleman, enclosing a certificate of illness from a medical man, excusing himself from attending at his office medical attendant's certificate from a gentleman in india to a relation in england from a gentleman in town to another in the country, enclosing a wedding gift from a gentleman to a lady with whom he is in love from a gentleman to a young lady from a house and estate agent, acknowledging receipt of a communication relative to sale or letting of property from a husband, absent on business, to his wife from a husband to his wife, on sailing from england from a man with a small capital intending to go into business, asking for advice reply from a merchant abroad to his brother forwarding goods for sale, and requesting others brother, answering his brother or friend, relative to receipt of goods from an agent who has been engaged in endeavouring to arrange a matter of importance, applying for remuneration from a person desirous of employment as a manager of a wholesale or retail business from a soldier abroad to his affianced bride from a shopkeeper in the country to a wholesale dealer answer from a son who has misconducted himself towards his employer, to his father the father's answer from a young man who has taken his late employer's business, to an old customer reply from a young tradesman asking advice in difficulties reply from one brother to another, on having unexpectedly amassed a fortune from one gentleman to another, relative to a dog reply from one gentleman to another, explaining the cause of not replying to a letter from a gentleman abroad from the secretary of a convalescent hospital applying for expenses of patient gentleman's reply to a lady, imagining he was indifferent to her giving information about trains in reply to a gentleman asking the loan of a book relative to german spa waters in reply to a gentleman inquiring for a solicitor who may be moderate in his charges invitation to a gentleman to row in a boat accepting invitation to a bachelor party accepting invitation to a croquet party accepting declining invitation to a dinner (bachelor's) accepting invitation to a family dinner accepting invitation to a family dinner invitation to a gentleman to a friendly dinner invitation to "best man" at a wedding same accepting invitation to join a party to the derby same accepting refusing letter from a traveller at manchester, to his employers in london letter urging payment of a debt love letter from a gentleman to a lady postponing a visit same regretting being unable to give an appointment to a situation relative to an advertisement requesting a copy reply from landlord to a tenant, relative to non-payment of rent reply to a gentleman recommending a young man for employment as a porter reply to a gentleman requiring a situation as clerk and foreign correspondent reply to a gentleman who wishes to claim an estate in chancery reply to a letter from a young man informing his uncle he had contracted debts reply to an advertisement for the appointment of medical officer to an union division reply to an application relating to an advertisement reply to question as to rent of, and permission to view, a house requesting the renewal of a bill to a child who has been guilty of telling a falsehood to a gentleman in reply as to an agency for a bordeaux firm to a gentleman whose brother is dangerously ill, offering him consolation and comfort to a relieving officer, by a neighbour of a poor woman taken ill to a theatrical manager to a young man, relative to his late employer's business which he proposes to carry on urging a son to relinquish the naval profession reply the gentleman's model letter-writer. _invitation to dinner_ (_bachelor's_). the albany, june th. dear browne, will you dine with me at eight o'clock to-morrow? some of our fellows are coming, and we mean to have a quiet game of whist in the course of the evening. come if possible. yours truly, ---- _accepting._ gower street, june th. dear ----, i will come without fail, and win your money if i can. yours truly, ---- _invitation to family dinner._ camden town, march th. dear smith, will you dine with us to-morrow? it is the old lady's birthday, and i can offer her no greater pleasure, i am sure, than your pleasant company. do come if you can, there's a good fellow. yours ever, ---- _accepting._ russell square, march th. dear ----, i shall be delighted to accept your kind invitation for to-morrow, and offer my good wishes to your charming wife on her birthday. yours ever, ---- _invitation to family dinner._ medway villas, june th. dear captain maurice, will you favour mrs. trevor and myself with your company at dinner on monday next at o'clock? we expect general hill and his wife, and think you may like to make their acquaintance. with our united regards, believe me, yours truly, ---- _invitation to a croquet party._ havant, may th. dear howard, the girls talk of having a croquet party on thursday next. will you join it? we shall be delighted to see you if you can come. little totty desires me to add, that you must play on her side, because then she will be sure to be one of the winners. ever yours most truly, ---- _accepting._ havant, may th. dear ----, i shall be delighted to join your croquet party. pray offer my best respects to miss totty, and tell her i will do all i can to prove myself her obedient servant. believe me, ever yours truly, howard. ---- _declining._ havant, may th. dear ----, i regret extremely that i cannot accept your invitation, and put myself at miss totty's disposal for a game of croquet; but, unluckily, i am obliged to go to town to-morrow, and shall not return till monday week. yours ever, ---- _from a gentleman, accepting an invitation, though suffering from illness_ (_temporary_). hampstead, may th. dear mrs. thurgood, i have been laid up with neuralgia for some days, and have not yet recovered from it. i will, however, accept your kind invitation for saturday next, and hope to be able to come. with kind regards to yourself and sister, i remain, yours very truly, walter bossora. ---- _a gentleman regretting he cannot accept an invitation._ the albany, february st, -- my dear madam, thank you very much for thinking of me on saturday. i should have liked to have joined your party immensely, but i go to ventnor that afternoon, and am therefore unable to have the pleasure of accepting your very kind invitation. my mother and sisters have gone to beaumaris; they left on wednesday, and on the same day our friends the boscawens returned to ventnor. i hope to reach that truly lovely place on saturday. although a month has elapsed since the last year left us, i must send you and your sister all good old-fashioned new year's wishes, hearty and sincere; will you both accept them? and with many thanks, repeated, for your kind note, believe, me, dear mrs. b----, your sincere friend, henry ross. ---- _invitation to a gentleman to row in a boat._ chester, june th, -- dear george, will you join three friends and myself on saturday next for a row up the river? you are a capital stroke, and we wish to get into the way of pulling a longer stroke than we have at present: little jerry will steer us. do not say no. we will finish the evening at the ----, where i have ordered supper. yours sincerely, bedford price. ---- _accepting._ rock terry, june th, -- dear bedford, i fancy you have formed too good an idea of my performance as a stroke oar; however, if you think i can be of any use to your crew, i will readily do my best. i shall sleep in chester, so we need not hurry in returning from our practice. yours sincerely, george sheepshanks. ---- _invitation to a bachelor party._ kidderminster, february, -- dear fellows, yesterday i met donovan and our four other old friends, who are here for a few days; they are coming to dine with me to-morrow at seven. i know it is some years since you met them; i hope you will make one of our party. believe me, yours sincerely, f. cunningham. ---- _accepting the same._ hill house, kidderminster, feb. -- dear cunningham, it will afford me the very greatest pleasure to dine with you to-morrow at seven. it is many years since i met those you mention, but i have a vivid recollection of passing many pleasant hours in their society and companionship. believe me, yours sincerely, harry fellows. ---- _invitation to a gentleman to a friendly dinner._ dunland place, oct. st, -- dear hindmarsh, i heard by the merest accident, yesterday evening, that you were in town. will you come and dine with us to-morrow? you know our time, but i may as well remind you that it is seven o'clock. i met j. f----, and our intimate friend from the north, yesterday. they will be here, and we shall have a little music in the evening, when i hope your tenor voice will be in its usual power and sweetness. all join in best regards. yours very sincerely, ---- _postponing a visit._ greenfield, october th. my dear george, i regret extremely that we are obliged to ask you to postpone your visit till next month. we can not get the house at brighton for which we were in treaty, till that time, and our present abode is so small that we are unable to offer a bedroom to a friend. i trust this delay will not inconvenience you. it is a great disappointment to us, as we longed equally for the sea and your company. my wife unites with me in kind remembrances. i am ever, yours very truly, ---- _same._ the beeches, sydenham, november th. my dear tom, i am sure you will be truly grieved to hear that the sudden and dangerous illness of my mother will oblige me to postpone our dinner party fixed for the th. i hope to give you better news shortly, and renew my invitation. truly yours, ---- _invitation to be "best man" at a wedding._ reading, may th. dear tom, i intend to be "turned off" next tuesday week! will you attend on the mournful occasion as "best man?" _seriously_, i am to be married to my charming little ada on the ----, and i look for your presence at our bridal as the completion of my happiness, for then the man and woman i love best will unite in confirming my happiness. always yours, ---- _same._ liphook, may th. dear john, julia has consented to our marriage on the th inst., and i scribble a line to remind you of your promise to be "best man" on the occasion. marriage is supposed sometimes to separate bachelor friendships, but such will not be the case in my instance, my dear fellow. julia has a great regard for you, and is too sensible and good to interfere between us with petty jealousies. i am awfully happy, jack! wish me joy, and believe me ever your true friend, ---- _accepting._ the albany, may th. dear ----, i shall be delighted to assist at the important event fixed for the ----, and beg to offer my best congratulations to miss ---- and yourself on your approaching happiness. i intend to offer as my wedding gift a drawing-room clock. my object in naming this intention to you is that, if you are likely to receive a similar gift from any other friend, you will tell me so, and i will exchange it for something else, as duplicate gifts are a great bore. ever, dear hal, your true old friend, john. ---- _invitation to join a party to the derby_. knightsbridge, may . dear norris, three of our fellows have agreed to go to the derby together in a drag, and we shall be very glad if you will make a fourth. jervis drives. don't refuse, old fellow; we shall have a jolly day, and i shall enjoy it doubly if you go with us. yours truly, ---- _same._ green bank, may rd. dear reid, will you accompany a party of us to-morrow to the derby? let me have an answer by bearer, and take care that it is in the affirmative. yours ever, ---- _accepting_. london, may rd. dear george, i shall have much pleasure in accompanying you to the derby. let me know, please, the hour at which you start. i am, ever, yours truly, j. reid. ---- _refusing_. london, may rd. dear bob, it is awfully unlucky, but i am obliged to go to chester on the derby day, and _can't_ do as i desire. i wish you a pleasant trip. i am ever, yours truly, ---- _love-letter from a gentleman to a lady._ the temple, june th. dearest, days have passed by now since we have had the pleasure of a few moments' conversation even; how these hours have dragged their slow pace along you and i alone can tell. it is only when we are left to the peaceful enjoyment of our own society that time flies. it may be that to-morrow at mrs. e.'s we shall have a little time alone. we all dine there; she told me she should have a dance also, and that your mamma had promised her your sister and yourself should be of the party. may i ask for the first waltz? i send a few flowers, but i imagine you will only wear one, the rose in your hair; your sister is always pleased with a bouquet, so i shall not be very angry if you let her have them, only wear my rose. your own edward. ---- _a sailor to his sweetheart._ h.m.s. centaur, june th, - my dear fanny, you are never out of my mind. if you only think of me half as much, i shall be satisfied. sleeping or waking it is all the same, fanny, you are my only thought. what have you done with your piece of the half-sovereign we cut in halves? i have bored a hole in mine, and wear it round my neck on a bit of blue ribbon, to show that your william is true blue. do you wear yours the same, my dearest fanny? when i come home we will splice the halves, and fanny and her william will be one--will we not, darling girl? our cruise will now soon be over; i only hope, fanny, you have been as true to me as i have been to you; never have i ceased thinking of you. bear in mind your faithful william, who loves you as fondly as ever. your devoted lover, william. ---- _gentleman's reply to the lady, imagining he was indifferent to her._ gillingham, april th, - dearest love, such i must and will, with your permission, always call you. your letter really caused me much uneasiness. but, dr. b., who came in just as it arrived, strictly forbade me to excite myself in any way, and would not allow me to reply to it immediately, as he feared an immediate return of my old heart complaint. who can have been so mischievous, so ungenerous, so determined to make two hearts miserable, as to invent this wicked story of my flirtation with miss g.? you name mrs. g. on inquiring of her this morning i find she heard it somewhere spoken of, she says, but cannot recall to her mind the person who mentioned it. let me at once and for ever disabuse you of such a suspicion. my affection for you is unchanged and unchangeable; often and often i have by letter and verbally too, pledged myself that you alone, katie dearest, were my only thought, my only joy. banish all vain suspicions from your mind. trust in me; i will never deceive you; my love is inviolably yours; for you i breathe, for you i live, without you i should die. believe me, dearest, night and day you are uppermost in my thoughts, and a sad, sad day it would be for me if for one moment you withdrew that confidence in me that i have so long happily possessed. believe no aspersions against one who loves you madly. the time, i trust, will soon arrive when i can call you mine alone, and no breath of suspicion shall ever fall upon my fidelity. love me then, my dearest, as your own heart dictates; have no cares in future as to any attention even in the least degree being shown by me to any one, further than due civility, or what is required from the usages of society, exacts. to-morrow i will do myself the pleasure of calling, and trust then to succeed (if not successful now) in fully explaining away any doubts or fears you may entertain. believe me, dearest katie, your ever affectionate, ---- _from a gentleman to a lady with whom he is in love._ braintree, essex. dear miss ----, as no opportunity has presented itself of speaking to you lately alone, i venture to address you by letter, and i assure you my happiness greatly depends on the reply with which you may deign to favour me. i love you, dear miss ----, very sincerely, and if you can return my affection and become my wife, i shall consider myself the most fortunate of men. the income which i can place at your disposal is not large, but in my family you will find the most tender and affectionate connexions. my mother (to whom alone i have confided my secret) is rejoiced at the hope of having you for a daughter. do not, best beloved miss johnstone, disappoint her and myself! should you not reject me--if i am ever so happy as to call you my wife--the tenderest and most affectionate devotion shall be yours, and the principal and only study of my future days shall be to render your life as happy as you deservedly merit it should be. your reply is most impatiently awaited by one whose life is wrapped up in yours. my aunt has just called, and it appears that some years since she was very intimately acquainted with your father, to whom i have written, enclosing this note for you, and stating to him the purport of its contents. i remain, dear miss johnstone, yours very truly, harry clinton. ---- _from a soldier ordered abroad, to his affianced bride._ portsmouth, april th, - dearest julia, i can scarcely compose myself to write, for this very morning, at mid-day parade, a telegram was received by our commanding officer directing the regiment to hold itself under orders for immediate foreign service; so that of course i shall be prevented seeing you before our departure, as all leave is stopped for officers as well as for the non-commissioned officers and men. where our future destination may be no one can at present conjecture, but we think it may be canada. how blighted now are our hopes! where all seemed bright and joyous, nothing is left but separation and blank despair. julia, you love me; you are mine, are you not, dear julia? although separated for a time, we shall love each other faithfully; no doubts must arise, no feelings of suspicion or fear between us; but firm in the knowledge that we are devotedly attached to each other, and that nothing can change the ardent feelings we entertain, we must wait and hope. i trust in a few short years, my darling julia, to call you mine. your ronald will be true to his promise and his love, and in faith that his julia will bear up bravely, as a soldier's destined wife should do, he obeys his country's call in anguish but not in despair. accept the little present i send you (forwarded by registered letter by this evening's post), and with most affectionate and enduring love, believe me, my dearest julia, your ever devoted, ronald dugan. ---- _from a gentleman to a young lady._ snow hill, january st, - dear rosy, on returning from skating yesterday afternoon, and reflecting alone on the pleasant morning we had passed, i was more than ever impressed with my wretched solitary existence. will you break for me this monotonous routine of life by saying, "it need not be, charlie." i have loved you fondly and long; your parents and mine are intimate friends; they know my private character. will you accept me as your husband, dearest rosy? believe me, your ever fondly attached, charlie byers. ---- _from a husband to his wife, on sailing from england._ h.m.s. psyche, june th. my dearest wife, i take the opportunity of the pilot's return to send you a hurried and last farewell. oh, my dearest, what but duty could reconcile me to leaving you? what but the certainty that we are both protected by our heavenly father could support me through the weary days and nights which i am destined to spend far from you? ah! the waves that are now washing the sides of our vessel will soon cease to beat upon that shore where my wife, where my friends are all thinking of me. farewell my dearest wife; be assured i am in good health and tolerable spirits. comfort yourself, my dearest! we shall all meet soon and happily again. i have not time to write to my mother, but pray tell her she is always in my thoughts. god bless you, dearest!--my heart is full of you. ever your devoted husband, h. p. ---- _from a husband absent on business to his wife._ the fens, lincolnshire, june st, - dearest isabella, this is the first time, my darling, we have ever experienced the bitterness and misery of separation, and the few days i have already been absent from you appear like years. what my state of mind will be at the expiration of another two or three weeks i will let your little affectionate heart conjecture. but i must not be selfish, my dearest isa. you share my trial, but do not be down-hearted, the time will soon pass away. you must go out and visit the nice friends near you. your dear kind mother also is within an easy walk, i am glad to think. roger hughes is going to stay with his family for some little while; i do not care much about him (you remember we met him at ----). he is certain to call upon you, but it will be just as well not to be at home to him always. hoping to return in a fortnight, i remain, with very best love to your mother and yourself, your ever affectionate husband, josiah webb. ---- _from a father to his son beginning the world._ hampstead, may th, - my dearest son, separated as you will shortly be from your childhood's home--for many years, perhaps--and not having your poor old father to consult and obtain advice from, when any difficulties may arise, you will naturally be inclined to appeal to those among your acquaintances whom you may consider from intimate association as entitled to the name of friends. now this is a matter in which you must observe the very greatest caution and discrimination; a mistake made in selecting a friend and acting up to his advice, is a fatal one, and no one can for a moment form an idea of the consequences which may arise from it. in the first place, do not seek the friendship of the "fast young man" whose sole thought is to gratify himself in the enjoyment of this world's pleasures, without any regard to the misery or disgrace his conduct may be entailing on a happy, innocent family. make friends of those who, by their actions, have raised themselves in the estimation of their superiors, and are regarded with eyes of jealous admiration by their equals. remember the old proverb, "tell who are your friends, and i will tell you what you are." i hope, dear boy, your own good sense will lead you to avoid bad companions. should you ever (which i trust may never be the case) be tempted to do anything contrary to the laws of honour or of duty, question yourself thus: "should i do this in my father's house? should i act thus in my mother's presence?" the answer will be the best talisman to keep you from falling in your combat with the world. we have great hopes in you, my dear son. never omit to write to your dear mother and myself, when you possibly can; and with our best and fondest love, believe me, ever your affectionate father, ---- _from a son who has misconducted himself towards his employer, to his father._ eastcheap, november th, - dear father, i am in such distress i scarcely know how to commence my letter. without the least reason, without the least provocation, i left my master at the most busy season, just for a temporary, trifling amusement. he--the best of masters--for the moment was forgotten by me: self predominated. i ran away from my service, and here i find myself disgraced and miserable, and grieve to think how indescribably shocked you will be when mr. evans communicates with you relative to my absence. however, dear father, there is one consolation: i cannot be accused of dishonesty; so i hope my character is not irretrievably ruined. will you see my master, and tell him how deeply i regret my fault, and entreat him to forgive me? it shall hereafter be my constant study to perform my duty in the most upright manner, and with the most assiduous attention. let me hear also, dear father, in sending me mr. evans's reply, that you also forgive your erring, but heartbroken son, h. h. h. ---- _the father's answer._ bedhampton, november st, - my dear son, words cannot express my grief at the receipt of your letter. how can you so soon have forgotten all the home lessons of duty you have learned? what society can you have mingled in to have caused you to be guilty of such folly? i have seen your master, and read him your letter; and he agrees with myself that from the manner you have acted in immediately informing me of your position, it is probable you may, in an untoward moment, have been induced to commit an act which you will never cease to regret. it is your first offence, and he bids me say he rejoices that you are sensible of your grievous error, and he will allow you to return, and never mention what has occurred to you. never, dear son, forget yourself again, be grateful to your master, who is charity itself, and believe me, your affectionate father, ---- _a father applying to a principal of a school to ascertain terms, &c._ hopwood house, june th, - sir, being desirous of sending my son, aged thirteen, to school, my friends have strongly recommended me to apply to you on the subject. i should be glad to learn your terms, and to be informed as to your plan of tuition. will you favour me with a prospectus of your school, and also inform me whether you have a vacancy? i remain, yours faithfully, ---- _to a child who has being guilty of telling a falsehood._ brecon, may th, - my dear samuel, i was much grieved to find after you had left us in the early part of the week, that the replies you gave me relative to your acquaintance with the l----s were utterly at variance with the truth. little did i think you would ever deceive us, when such confidence has been always placed in you. why did you try to deceive me by a falsehood? let me entreat of you never again to deviate from the truth; should you do so you will soon obtain a character as an untrustworthy person, and no one will believe you, even when you speak the truth. every one will shun you, as they will always suspect that you are trying to deceive them; even when you are acting rightly they will look upon you with suspicion. have you forgotten that truth is the point of honour in a gentleman, and that no one can tell a falsehood and retain the character of one? i cannot tell you the shame i felt when i discovered your untruth; i felt degraded by it. strive to retrieve your character in the future, by perfect truthfulness and a high sense of what honour requires from you. till i believe that you feel the enormity of your fault i cannot sign myself other than your afflicted father, ---- _urging a son to relinquish the naval profession._ upton, june th, - dear frederick, your letter of the st, informing me that you had determined to remain in your present profession, caused me great distress. if you wish to add some little portion of comfort to the last years of a father's life, which your headstrong passions have already greatly embittered, you will immediately relinquish it. remember you are the only representative of our family. why then persist in remaining in a profession wherein you are exposed to constant and imminent danger? i wish you to marry, and hope to see you settle down and discharge the duties of your position in society as a country gentleman; you have ample means at your disposal now, as the whole of your late uncle's property is yours. concede a little to your father, whose only desire is to see his name honourably upheld, his family perpetuated, in the county in which we are now so much respected. age is creeping on me, frederick, i am widowed and alone. i trust this appeal will not be made in vain. you know my deep and lasting affection for you; do not wound it by a refusal. awaiting with great anxiety your determination, believe me, your affectionate father, ---- _reply._ h.m.s. psyche, june th. my dear father, dearly as i love my noble profession, i am unable to resist your last earnest appeal, and agree therefore to give up my commission, and return to a life on land. the pang this resolution costs me is softened by the remembrance that i may thus hope to ensure the happiness of so good a father. i shall shortly return to you, and will endeavour in all things to prove your most dutiful and affectionate son, ---- _a letter from a father to a son at school, on the necessity of attention to his studies._ mudiford, january th, - my dear boy, now you have returned to school it is my duty to point out to you how absolutely necessary it is for your future success that you should persevere in your studies, more especially if you wish to leave college (for which you are destined) with honour. do not be carried away with the natural love of ease and pleasure, but accustom yourself at once to really hard work. if you cannot reconcile yourself to do so in your youth you will be unable to do so as you grow older, and you will become incapable of achieving anything great. application may be difficult at first, but when once you have accustomed yourself to it you will find study pleasant, easy, and agreeable, and in years to come you will be well repaid for the toil and trouble you now undergo. what can be pleasanter than to find yourself at the head of your school, leaving all competitors behind? what more gratifying than to give pleasure to your father and mother, and to obtain the admiration and approval of your teachers? that, dear boy, will be your reward if you study constantly and patiently; but if you neglect the opportunities offered to you now, your future life will be nothing but disquietude, and you will grow up ignorant, and be despised. pay attention to my advice, and work in the morning of your days. with your mother's best love and mine, believe me, your ever affectionate father, r. r. ---- _reply to a letter from a young man informing his uncle he had contracted debts._ soltney, march th, - my dear nephew, i was indeed deeply grieved on the receipt of your letter to find you had forgotten, or at least not acted up to the advice i gave you--to pay for everything you purchased at once, and not to go into debt on any account. i must put things before you now in a plain unvarnished manner, and give you my opinion, formed after many years' experience. the man who contracts debts which he is unable to pay, more especially for articles of useless luxury, is much more culpable than the poor creature who, distracted by all the miseries of his starving family at home, rushes into the first shop he sees and steals something to relieve their necessities. when men find themselves encumbered with debts which they are unable to pay, mean subterfuges are resorted to; applications for delay of payment are made--and granted, without any good result; the final crash comes at last: the patience and temper of the tradesmen become exhausted, they have recourse to their legal remedy, and wretchedness and beggary are the result. it may be that you have been endeavouring to keep pace with some young man of greater fortune than your own. be not led away by such absurd vanity. the largest income will be and has been squandered, unknown as it were to its possessor, solely from the crime (and a great one too it is) of running into debt. i regret that i cannot assist you at present with the loan you request, and remain your affectionate uncle, t. h. p. ---- _acknowledging a letter of congratulation on the birth of a child._ duke street, st. james's, dec. th, - dear ----, thanks for your kind letter and good wishes. i am happy to say that my wife and the baby are going on well. i have told mrs. compton about mr. denville; she is glad to hear so good an account of him. wishing you all a merry christmas and a happy new year, believe me, yours sincerely, d. w. ---- _from a child, acknowledging the receipt of the present of a book._ ramsden hall, january th, - my dear mrs. ----, thank you very much for the beautiful book you have sent me. it is very pretty and nice, and i like it very much. i long to see you again. i have been out driving this morning in the pony carriage. there is a hard frost. with best love to dr. g. and yourself i remain, your most affectionate little friend, r. d. a. ---- _from a father to a son, relative to his expenditure._ hackney, march th, - my dear son, your last letter gave us pleasure not unmixed with pain: pleasure to learn that you were well, and held in esteem by your superiors, and on friendly terms with those of your own standing; and pain from the request which it contained. your mother, like myself, feels grieved that you should ask for an additional allowance. you should consider that you have brothers and sisters for whom i have also to make a provision, and that if the allowance i now give you (which is considered large) be increased, it must deprive us all of some of our necessary comforts. you must reflect on this, dear boy, and then i am well assured that you will not urge your request. i will, however (for this once alone, understand me), make you a present of thirty pounds. your own good sense, i am certain, will show you the necessity of retrenchment, so i shall not allude to the matter further. the presents you sent us each by last mail are much appreciated and treasured by us. we are going to move from this neighbourhood, as we find it too expensive; when next you write, therefore, address to durnford street. your brother fred is going to be married, but will live near us. his future wife is a daughter of mr. passmore, and at his death she will have about _l_.; at present he will make her an allowance of _l_. per annum. all your pets are well, and we guard them jealously for your sake. trusting you will remain some time at shopoo, as it agrees with you so well, and that we may constantly hear from you, believe me, with our united kindest love, your affectionate father, h. v. rossiter. ---- _from one brother to another, on having unexpectedly amassed a fortune._ natal, s. africa, february st, -- dear william, you are well aware that when i sailed from england a few years ago, after paying my passage out i had but a very few pounds left; but i soon got good employment, and saved out of my wages all that i possibly could. i never was very fond of company, and have no expensive habits; so at the end of two years i found myself with _l._ to my credit in the bank. when the report came here of diamonds being found up the country, i started off, bag and baggage, and on my arrival got an allotment, and went to work with a hearty good will. for many a weary day i toiled, giving myself little time for rest. at last i was rewarded: among the washings i found a diamond, a small one, yet what a treasure i thought it! on and on i toiled--some weeks with success, and others with none; however, my labours have been successful: i have been fortunate enough to find diamonds, which, when valued, have realized the handsome sum of £----. tell my dearest mother that now she will never want. i am coming home, and shall invest for her sole use during her lifetime £----. will you, dear william, look out for a good school for my little sister? she must be nine years of age now. ask the clergyman's wife to recommend you one. i wish her to be educated as a lady, and she shall have the £---- at my mother's death. how i wish our poor father had lived to derive some comfort from my fortune! you shall have _l._ paid to your credit to provide the things jane will require on going to school, and to pay for the first half-year's expenses there. i hope to be home in six months, when i will take a suitable house for our dear mother. if you will accept it from me, i make you a present of £----; with the remainder of my earnings i shall purchase a nice property, so that i may be certain my money will be secure, for were i to speculate i might lose all. with best love, and hoping shortly to see you happy and well, believe me, your affectionate brother, angus m'donald. ---- _from a gentleman in india to a relation in england._ camp, booltan, feb. st, -- my dear ----, many thanks for your last letter, which arrived some three weeks ago. we never received the letter to which you allude, containing the photographs; and i am very sorry it went astray, for we should have liked so much to have them. i hope, if you have other copies, that you will kindly send them to us when you next write. we both desire to thank you for your kind and cordial reception of dear richard. he wrote and told us how warmly you received him, and how pleased and gratified he was to see you. i trust he will come to see you again on his return from devon, where he was when we last heard from him. we miss him terribly, and look forward anxiously to meeting him out here again next year, if, please god, we are all spared. james, his wife, and children are living down at cheltenham. i wonder if there is any chance of your meeting? sarah maria is in cornwall, but they took a house for a term of years near watford, and will be back there, certainly before christmas; she had no idea you were in london, and i must tell her of it when i next write to her. we are now in camp, marching about the district; of course i do my office as usual in tents every day--a happy, gipsy kind of life--and dearest sophie and the little ones always enjoy it. give my kindest love to emma and blanche. i have been intending to write to emma, and i will really write soon; but in the hot weather one feels terribly indisposed for letter-writing, and i have quite quill-work enough to do every day. our kindest love to yourself and horace, and to jane and sophia; and many kisses from our little darling. always your very affectionate cousin, harold sothern. ---- _a father, who has lately lost his wife, to his daughter at school._ woburn, july th. my darling child, i was very pleased and comforted by your last affectionate letter. bitterly indeed do i miss you! had i given way to my own selfish wishes, i think i should not have allowed you to return to school. your dear aunt, however, who is now looking carefully after my domestic affairs, showed me so plainly that by keeping you at home i should be depriving you of the advantages of education, that i sacrificed my feelings for your sake. on reflection, also, i hoped that you would find some little consolation and comfort from association with young ladies of your own age, for here all is cheerless and dreary. the void caused by your dear mother's death can never be refilled; my home is truly desolate. it would have been wrong to keep you at home to share my grief, and thus uselessly add bitterness to your younger years. do not grieve too long and bitterly, my child, for your dearly loved mother; imitate her in every action of her life; and when time has slightly moderated your poor father's sorrow, and you are in charge of his home and your own, things may be brighter and more cheerful again. pray write to me soon, and believe me, your ever affectionate father, ---- _a parent to his daughter at service._ farndon, march st, -- my dear daughter, when you left home for service, you were so young and inexperienced that we were most anxious as to your welfare. we are truly thankful to find from your letter, received a few days ago, that you are in a place that is likely to prove comfortable. i need not give you much advice as to obedience, for you have always been, both to your mother and myself, a most obedient and dutiful child. your mistress is very kind in showing you how to perform your duties. be attentive, and grateful to her for such kindness. do not make acquaintances too hurriedly; never stay out later than the hour appointed for you to be at home; and on no account whatever admit any one into the house, without first obtaining leave from your mistress. never miss an opportunity of attending divine worship. write to us as often as you can; and with the love of your mother and myself, believe me, your affectionate father, joseph hodges. ---- _from a father to his son, who has been complaining of the severity of his master._ putney, march, -- my dear frederick, i was very sorry indeed to find from your last that you were not satisfied with your place, and that your master was always finding fault with you. you must not imagine that in doing so he is at all cruel or severe; but, having a great interest in your future welfare, he wishes, whilst there is yet time, to correct the faults he sees you commit. it is not with you that he is angry; it is with the faults and errors he sees you fall into. it is for your good, believe me, my dear fred, that he speaks; and in after years you will look with gratitude and respect on mr. c----, who now appears to you to be harsh and unkind. with our fondest love, hoping you are well, and that you will become more contented soon, believe me, your ever affectionate father, ---- _a letter of condolence._ hampton road, april th, -- my dear j----n, i sincerely commiserate you in this your fearful and awful visitation. sad indeed it is to lose your wife and your expected child in one short moment! your dear wife, we are well aware (as far as human beings can form a judgment of the lives of their fellow creatures) was in every act, deed, and word a true christian. your account of her death is deeply touching; but how grateful you must have felt to have seen her so resigned and happy in the thought that, although her loss would cast a shadow on your life on earth, you would meet her hereafter in that better world, where no trouble or sorrow is to be found. she was good in every acceptation of the term: her charities (so unostentatiously dispensed), her cheerful willingness to relieve any real distress, her talents and charms, endeared her to all. naturally you must deeply grieve for the loss of one so dear and excellent. you have again another source of grief in the loss of your child; dear j----, and at present all consolation must seem to you impossible; but god has ordained that time shall bring comfort and soothing for all earthly sorrows, and to its healing influence we must leave you. as soon as you feel equal to the journey, come to us, and stay as long as you feel inclined. we will walk and ride together. there is great healing in nature, and open-air exercise--i speak from experience--does as much as reason and philosophy in soothing a great grief. my wife unites with me in best regards and truest sympathy. i am ever, dear j----, yours most truly, ---- _to a gentleman whose brother is dangerously ill, offering him consolation and comfort._ my dear ----, every morning we listen for the post with the greatest anxiety, trusting that it will bring us better news of your dear brother. the accounts yesterday gave us a very lively idea of your situation, while you are expecting so critical and dangerous an hour as that which you have in view. we deeply feel for you, yet we know you are and will be supported. we pray for you and your brother, and we know and believe that he on whom we call is rich in mercy and mighty to save. we see many around us who have been restored from the very gates of the grave when every human effort has proved ineffectual. this gives us hopes that our supplications may terminate in praises for your dear brother's restoration to health. yours most truly, ---- _giving information about trains._ chatham, june rd. my dear ----, we were all very glad to find on martha's return yesterday that you would come on saturday, and we trust we may induce you to stay until monday. i enclose you a list of the departure and arrival of the trains. the launch takes place at three o'clock, but (if you can manage it) you had better come early, that you may have a rest after your journey. let us know at what time you propose leaving london, and we will meet you at the station. it appears to me the one leaving at . , and arriving at . , is the best, as you will only be an hour on the road. however, let us know. we unite in kindest love to all, and best regards to a---- your affectionate brother, leave victoria. arrive at chatham. . . . . . . . . ---- _from a gentleman applying for sittings or a pew in a parish church, in the country._ wales, october th, - dear sir, i should feel much obliged if you would use your influence with the churchwardens to procure me a pew or sittings for myself and family in the parish church. i need not point out to you the inconvenience arising from not having one allotted to me. i purposed making a formal application to the churchwardens, but being a stranger to them all, i believe a word from you would procure them for me. for some weeks i have been confined to the house from indisposition, or i would have done myself the pleasure of making my request in person. i remain, dear sir, very truly yours, the rev. ---- ---- _a gentleman applying to an agent at a watering-place for lodgings._ thickset lodge, howbury, may st, -- sir, wishing to leave my house in the country for some months in the summer, i should feel obliged if you would inform me whether there would be much difficulty in obtaining furnished apartments at ----. i am well aware that at some of the towns on the south coast (especially at this time, when a demonstration of our naval forces is to be made) it may be difficult to find them. you know the place well, and also about the terms i generally give. if you have received my rent from dr. ----, please forward it at your convenience, and let me know if any repairs are required at the house. yours faithfully, ---- _reply._ marchsea, may th, -- sir, in reply to your letter, i beg to inform you that all the best lodgings here are occupied, and i fear that i cannot find any which would suit you. i enclose a cheque for your rent, and am happy to inform you that no repairs are required at present at bellevue. i remain, sir, your obedient servant, ---- _an application for a donation to a charitable institution in the country, such as coal and blanket club and soup kitchen._ hampton, december st, -- sir, having taken great interest in forming a club for providing coals and blankets, and also in establishing a soup kitchen for the poor in this town, i venture to request your charitable co-operation. i enclose you a prospectus, which will enable you at one glance to see to what extent any donation you may send will entitle you to recommend families who by misfortune or sickness are unfortunately compelled to solicit relief. i remain, yours obediently, ---- _letter in reply, enclosing a donation._ hampton, december th, -- sir, i am much pleased to find the interest you take in the suffering poor at this inclement season is so great. your prospectus is very satisfactory; but as i am well assured that all cases of a really deserving nature must be fully known to you, i must request you to distribute as you please the number of tickets to which i am entitled for the cheque for _l._ which i enclose. i remain, sir, yours obediently, ---- _reply, unfavourable, to an application for a donation._ belfield, january st, -- dear sir, in acknowledging the receipt of your letter of the nd, soliciting a subscription to assist you in your charitable efforts for relieving the many distressed poor in your neighbourhood, i regret extremely to have to reply that it is out of my power to help you. prior to the receipt of your application i had made arrangements to supply some poor families with soup three days in each week for the next six weeks. i cannot afford to devote more money to this object. i remain, dear sir, yours faithfully, john ellis. ---- _a gentleman to a friend, speaking of kindness received in another friend's house._ stalybridge, may st, -- dear george, you will, i am certain, be very sorry to hear that for the last six weeks i have been confined to the house with a severe attack of rheumatic gout. you, who so well know my active habits, can thoroughly enter into my feelings at being a prisoner for so long a time. the agony i have suffered has been excruciating; i was unable to move without assistance, and was as feeble as an infant, being unable to do the most trifling thing for myself. but you will be glad to hear that i received the greatest kindness and attention from our friends. i was unable to hold a book or a newspaper, but every morning one or the other of this kind family with whom i am staying tried to relieve the monotony of my life by reading to me; in the afternoon some of them would come and tell me the news; and in the evening, whilst i sat propped up on a sofa, the charming daughters would sing and play. i feel grieved to remember the inconvenience and annoyance i must have been to them all, and shall be happy indeed when i can be moved; as, although they are so extremely kind, i feel what a tremendous amount of additional labour i must cause to all the household. never can i forget the attention and kindness shown me. i shall be very glad to see you when you come home. have you had much civility shown you at p----? it used to be a very nice place when i lived there. believe me, yours very sincerely, james turner. ---- _gentleman in reply._ preston, may th, -- dear james, i am sorry to hear you have had such a severe attack. nothing is so trying to a man of active habits, like yourself, as confinement to the house. it was fortunate for you that you were not laid up during the best part of the hunting season, as i am afraid your patient spirit would have utterly rebelled against your privation from one of the only things you really enjoy. we are very snug indeed here, and are made a great deal of. we need never be at home unless we choose. your friends the ducrows have a very nice house near, and they have introduced me to some very pleasant people. one of their daughters is a very charming girl. we sing duets together; and as we have to practise for some musical parties, i see a great deal of her. you would like her, i think. i hope we may remain here some time longer, as it is not often one meets with such real friendship as the people here have shown us. i send you a few papers which may amuse you. i hope to hear soon that you are better. when you are able to travel i shall be glad to see you here; i can put you up very comfortably. believe me, yours very sincerely, george milner. ---- _from a gentleman to another, explaining the cause of not replying to a letter from a gentleman abroad._ poonah house, december th, -- my dear john, you must not measure the real pleasure and gratification it afforded me to receive your letter by the time i have taken to answer it. i have meant many times to sit down and write to you, but one thing or the other has prevented me. the chief cause of my silence, i grieve to say, has been the fresh sorrows we have lately had, in the loss of our dear little pet, a boy of nearly one year old, during teething, and then the break-up of our little comfortable home in consequence of this--for my dear wife was quite broken by it, in health and spirits; and requiring change of air, i sent her and our eldest girl to dawlish, where they are now comfortably established with my brother's family, and i sincerely hope the change will prove beneficial to them both. there are many of our old durham friends residing there, which will be pleasant for her. i shall be so completely tied by business here for some weeks, or it may be longer, that i can scarcely fix the time i shall join them. i shall be dull enough alone, you may well imagine. forgive my apparent neglect, and if you should be passing near be good enough to give me a call. we are a party of about seven in this boarding-house. the terms are very moderate, and if you know any friend requiring accommodation in one, i can vouch for their being comfortable here. best regards to your wife and daughters. yours very sincerely, h. d. ---- _from a gentleman in town to another in the country, enclosing a wedding gift._ united hotel, waterloo place, january th, -- my dear jones, i am sorry i have not been able to run over to see you lately, but some friends of ours from the country have been in town, and i have had to go about with them constantly. i am just off for a fortnight into warwickshire, but shall call as soon as i return. i hope you are now free from bronchitis, and i trust that mrs. j----s and the young ladies are well. i had a very quiet christmas with my dear old mother. i suppose you are busy in preparations for the wedding. i enclose a small present; it may be more useful than any ornament i can at present think of, and your daughter can purchase with it whatever she may consider best. i wish her every happiness. are any of you going to see the opening of parliament? if so i can secure you a very advantageous seat. with kind regards and good wishes, i remain, yours sincerely, h. w. b. ---- _a letter to a gentleman who has been making inquiries about a lady's horse._ hithrun, march th, -- dear marden, mr. somes, of b----, has requested me to tell you that he will sell his mare for thirty-five guineas. she is aged about eight or nine; has been as you know regularly hunted for the last two or more seasons, and is a safe and beautiful hack, and goes well in harness. i need not say more than to observe that he is perfectly indifferent about selling her, though much obliged to you for recommending her. i think she is well worth fifty pounds. yours very truly, j. l----t. ---- _regretting being unable to give an appointment to a situation._ oakham, december st, -- dear mr. ---- i am exceedingly sorry at having to return your enclosures without being able to offer you the appointment in question. regretting the trouble you have had, and with my best wishes, believe me, yours very truly, h. h. v. ---- _from one gentleman to another, relative to a dog._ rochester, march th, -- dear fellowes, as you are well up in everything relating to diseases in dogs, i wish for your advice about my puppy. some people tell me that by vaccinating him i shall ward off the distemper. do you think it would prove efficacious? i should be sorry to lose him. perhaps you will drop me a line when you have time. you are generally so occupied that it is scarcely fair to trouble you, but i think you will in this case excuse your old friend. have you seen anything of doxman lately? he was here last week. believe me, yours very sincerely, h. m. e. ---- _reply to letter relative to a dog._ tipnor, th march, -- dear purchase, i have always leisure to give a friend a hint if i think it possible to be useful, so i lose no time in replying to you about your pup and the distemper. i have tried vaccination and found it a perfect fallacy, and many of my friends, real judges of dogs, and one of whom is frequently appealed to on matters of dispute with regard to their treatment, decidedly says he has no faith in it, and that the effects are nothing. one of my friends had some dogs which all escaped distemper, but that was attributed to his never giving them any animal food. i rarely have a case (among my dogs) of distemper, and if i do it is generally very mild, and i account for it from my mode of feeding them. until they reach the age of twelve months i keep them entirely, or nearly so, on bread and milk, potatoes, cabbage, meal, and milk, with the very slightest quantity imaginable of flesh food. do not keep your dog too closely confined; feed him as i advise, and he may escape distemper altogether. should he not, it will not be so severe as if you had fed him entirely on meat. i shall be coming into your neighbourhood shortly, and will pay you a visit. believe me, yours sincerely, h. m. fox. ---- _in reply to a gentleman inquiring for a solicitor who may be moderate in his charges._ sheffield, december th, -- my dear sir, when i retired from business i relinquished my connexion in favour of my former partner, mr. ----, and i have much pleasure in giving you his name and address:-- , boland street, close to the newly erected sessions hall. he will, i am sure, be glad to attend to your friend's business, and make only fair charges. i am much obliged for your kind inquiries, and am happy to say my wife and children are all well, and unite with me in kind remembrances. when you write to your sister-in-law, will you be so good as to present our kind regards to her? if you find time and opportunity to come so far north as this, we shall be extremely glad to see you. thank you very much for your kind offer of a welcome, and believe me to be, yours truly, h. f. ---- _application for a house, furnished, desiring lowest terms._ the limes, hampstead, may st, -- sir, being in want of a furnished residence, the enclosed order to view yours has been sent to me. please let me know, before i go to view it, what will be the lowest rent. please return the order. yours faithfully, h. d. t. ---- _to a relieving officer, by a neighbour of a poor woman taken ill._ tapton, march th, -- sir, mrs. waterson, a neighbour of mine, whom i have known for more than fifteen years as an industrious woman, is now ill and unable to work. she has no relations who can assist her in any way. would you, next thursday, on your way to the board of guardians' meeting, call and see her? her house is at the corner of sedgwood lane. i will see that her wants are attended to until then. i am, sir, your obedient servant, george newns. ---- _reply to a gentleman recommending a young man for employment as a porter._ hitchin, june th, -- sir, i have received your communication relative to john ----. from the accounts you give of his general good conduct, his honesty, and the respectability of his family, i think he will be just the person i require to take the place of the porter i have lately lost by death. if the young man will call to-morrow, he can commence his duties. i remain, sir, yours obediently, j. d. s----. ---- _application to borrow money._ ashmead, january th, -- dear rogers, having been rather unfortunate in some speculations of late, i find i am unable to meet the demands of a tradesman, who positively says he cannot remain longer without a settlement of his account. he threatens proceedings, which just at present would prove very disagreeable. could you, without inconvenience, oblige me with the loan of _l._ for a month? yours ever, seth jones. ---- _reply, granting the loan._ , stanhope gardens, january th, -- dear jones, there is nothing so annoying as to be threatened with proceedings. perhaps you have not replied civilly to your tradesman's demand for payment; generally speaking, if you do so, they are not pressing. i enclose you a cheque for _l._, and shall be glad if you will dine with me this evening. bring your i. o. u. yours ever, saml. rogers. ---- _reply to a gentleman who wishes to claim an estate in chancery._ strand, june th, -- dear sir, in reply to your letter of the th inst. relative to the pulwood estate, in chancery, i think that your first step is to ascertain in whose court the suit is pending. you can discover this by searching at the record and writ clerks' courts, in chancery lane. you must then ascertain by search in chambers of the judge to whose court the suit is attached, to what stage the proceedings have advanced, and, if no certificate has issued finding the heir or heirs, you must make out your pedigree, by searching parish and other registers, old family bibles, &c., and obtain also all the evidence you possibly can in support of it; but you had better employ a solicitor. i trust you will be successful. believe me, yours truly, josiah webb. ---- _in reply to a gentleman asking the loan of a book relative to german spa waters._ harrow, may th, -- dear francis, i was heartily glad to hear from you again, as i was beginning to fancy you had forgotten me. so you are thinking of going abroad to try the german waters? i have a very useful book, called "the baths of europe," and also a small pamphlet on the "german waters." i will lend them both to you. there are some others written by english physicians, but i forget their titles at this moment. any bookseller, however, would supply you with the information; but let me advise you, if you intend trying a course of water-drinking or bathing at the foreign spas, not to select any particular place or bath merely from a description given in a book, however good or reliable it may be, so much depends on individual cases and constitutions. consult first some physician who has made the foreign baths his particular study. trusting you will derive benefit from the change, believe me, yours ever, ---- _a gentleman applying for a loan on the insurance of his life._ chelsea, s.w., may th, -- sir, having seen an advertisement in the _evening standard_, stating that advances are made by you on life policies at the rate of per cent. per annum, i should feel obliged if you would inform me what amount would be advanced on my life policy. i have insured in the g---- office for nearly eighteen years. the policy is no. , . the annual premium is _l._ a reply at your earliest convenience will oblige, yours faithfully, s. h. bolt. to j. h., esq., e. i. office, trade street. ---- _appointing an interview relative to a loan_. trade street, may th, -- sir, in reply to your note of the th, i have to request you will be good enough to favour me with a call to-morrow at about a.m. will you kindly bring your policy with you, and the last receipt? yours faithfully, george simms, _secretary_. s. h. bolt, esq. ---- _a letter from a marine engineer, seeking an eligible partnership._ ipswich, march , -- sir, from an intimate friend of your family with whom i have spent a few days, i am led to suppose you have some desire to join in a desirable partnership. i beg to inform you that for some years i have been engaged in iron ship-building, and i am prepared to take a partner, active or otherwise. the business in which i am at present engaged is connected with an extensive graving dock, now in formation; attached to which will be marine engine and boiler works, so that we may be able to attend, not only to the lengthening and requisite repairs of the hulls, but be able to uphold and renovate their engines, boilers, &c. &c., a combination which is now specially demanded by the greatly increased employment of steam vessels. if you will favour me with a call, i will enter more fully into particulars. i remain, sir, yours faithfully, h. b. c. ---- _a gentleman having visited a property making an offer for it._ the elms, whitchurch, feb. th, -- dear sir, i am this moment returned from nantwich, having travelled part of the way last night from b----. the house there did not quite satisfy me, but if the trustees of the late owner will do what is required, the place may be made suitable. i looked over the house, grounds, and furniture, and my chief objection is to the want of finish about the grounds. with the house itself i am quite satisfied, and the furnishing of the ground floor requires no special remark; but the bedrooms appear rather defective. some rooms i could not see, on account of the indisposition of the present tenant. on the whole my notion of the value is about £-- per annum, which, if entertained, i should be disposed to give, supposing the trustees will do all i require. i should prefer renting the house for a twelvemonth's occupancy, with option to make it five years. i shall be in london next week, and will fix a day for calling on you if you think it likely we may come to terms. i of course assume that the house would be fully furnished in every respect, excepting plate and linen. i should wish some inexpensive matters done to the grounds which i will explain if we meet. should you wish any further references i shall be happy to furnish you with them. yours truly, a. b. h. ---- _reply to a gentleman who has been treating for a house._ westwood, february th, -- dear sir, i am glad to find by your letter of yesterday's date that you like the house. i only wish you could have seen it when i occupied it myself--there would have been no cause of complaint as to the out-door appearance then. i shall be very glad indeed to see you in london on monday, tuesday, or wednesday next (on thursday i go axminster), but should those days be inconvenient, pray name your own. i think it likely we may come to terms. strange to say, i had an application from mrs. eglamon's solicitor yesterday, asking permission for her to remain a few months longer. i shall not reply until i have seen you. yours truly, h. ----. ---- _from a young man who has taken his late employer's business, to an old customer._ romsey, july th, -- sir, i doubt not that you have heard of the death of my late employer. i have managed his business during the whole of his illness, and as his widow declines to carry it on, i have taken the shop and stock-in-trade, and shall be glad to keep up the connexion with you. i have sent the enclosed bills, which are due, and you may depend on punctuality and attention if you honour me with your orders. i remain, yours respectfully, ---- _to a young man, relative to his late employer's business, which he proposes to carry on._ portsmouth, july th, - sir, i received yours of the th inst., and am extremely sorry to hear of the death of my old friend, your late employer, but at the same time very much pleased to find that his business has fallen into such good hands as yours. you have double advantages over a stranger, as you are well acquainted with your late employer's trade and customers, which, by his transactions with me, appear to be very extensive. i have sent your order in ten bales marked d.p., by the . train, and you will find them as good as your best customers can desire. i am very glad you wish to keep up the old connexion. wishing you every success, i remain, yours faithfully, john bacon. ---- _from a young tradesman, asking advice in difficulties._ commercial road, june th, -- dear sir, i am encouraged by my knowledge of your kindness to ask your advice with regard to the difficulties which at present surround me. on commencing business, about four years since, everything looked bright and prosperous, but the pressure put upon me now, in consequence of the many bankruptcies that have lately taken place, has brought me to the very brink of misery and ruin. i see no prospect before me but to compound with my creditors, and _that_ i would by any possibility avoid. knowing the interest you have always taken in me, and being well aware that your advice and assistance are most valuable, i now venture to apply to you. i have dreaded to do so, as it appeared to me that i was, as it were, imposing upon your too compassionate heart. however, now, dear sir, you know the whole of my circumstances, and exactly the position in which i find myself, through no fault of my own. i shall anxiously await your reply. with many thanks for past undeserved kindness, i remain, dear sir, yours most respectfully, h. s. f. ---- _reply to young tradesman's letter, relative to difficulties._ st. mary axe, london, june th, -- dear sir, having admired you for your upright dealings ever since you commenced business, i am sorry to hear of your present difficulties. there are but two courses open to you--bankruptcy or composition. compound with your creditors, as the best and only means of showing your honesty of purpose, and also because it will save them the expenses caused by bankruptcy. i will do all in my power to arrange matters for you. my own claim i will not at present press, and very possibly when everything is settled you may find yourself in a much less distressing position than you at present imagine. let me see you as soon as you can. keep nothing back from me. yours truly, h. t. g. ---- _from a man with a small capital intending to go into business, asking for advice._ penge, april th, -- dear mr. matthews, having within the last few weeks received a very handsome legacy, i am thinking of endeavouring to increase it by going into business. for some years, you are aware, i was with messrs. piper and co., and i imagine i might derive benefit from their connexion. i am well convinced, from your practical knowledge, you will give me such information as will prevent my getting into difficulties. i presume i must be cautious, in starting in business, not to sink too much of my funds in a large stock at first, as there may be a doubt that the return would not be sufficiently speedy to cover my outlay, and consequently i should be obliged to draw upon my capital for household expenses. there is another point on which i wish your advice, and that is as to the locality in which i should take a business. do you recommend a new neighbourhood, or not? will you also give me some hints as to the sort of connexion i should endeavour to obtain? and doubtless you will oblige me in giving me a few general directions as to the best mode of succeeding in my undertaking. i remain, dear sir, yours respectfully, d. t----. ---- _reply to young man intending to go into business._ tarnham, may th, -- dear mr. thomas, i was glad to receive your letter, and glad to find you have confided in your father's old friend for advice, under the circumstance of your starting in business. you do not tell me the amount of your capital; but whether large or small, the same rule should be adopted;--you must be very careful in the matter of investing your money, for without great precaution and judgment you may be a considerable loser. do not lay in too large a stock. should trade prove slack, the rent and taxes of your premises must be paid; the stock lies idle and deteriorates in value; and when once you dip into your capital there will be little prospect of your recovering yourself again. with regard to a locality, you must be guided very much by the number of the inhabitants, the nature of the neighbourhood, the requirements and the customs of the resident population; and if possible you should ascertain whether there is any one in the same business who may already have obtained the best connexion. many small capitalists, in going into a new neighbourhood, have been bitterly disappointed in their expectations of making a good connexion. it is really a fact, that the first shops established in a new place generally fail. should your neighbourhood be a poor one, guard against laying in a supply of luxuries. necessaries will be certain to sell. being agent to one of the large wine firms that supply grocers is a great advantage, as many a customer coming for wine is induced to purchase another article. there is one thing necessary to success in business, and that is civility, an amount of which in stock will cost nothing. and by treating all your customers, rich and poor, with due deference but not servility, you will find your custom very much increase. let your customers see that it is a pleasure for you to oblige, and that it is not done with a view only of selfish greed or gain. should you require advice at any future time, i shall be very glad indeed to give you any information you may require. i will close my letter with one more word of counsel, which is this--do not get into debt. wishing you every success, believe me, your sincere friend, ---- _from a merchant abroad to his brother, forwarding goods for sale, and requesting others._ leghorn, may th, -- dear fred, according to promise by last mail, i send you by first steamer twelve bales of raw silk, marked r. n. i need not tell you to dispose of them to the best advantage; they are in first-rate condition, warranted good; i examined each bale myself before shipping. i enclose an order for several different articles of british manufacture, to be sent at an early date; let them be as good and as _cheap_ as you can possibly procure. that class of goods is in great demand at present. your affectionate brother, j. t. ---- _brother answering his brother or friend, relative to receipt of goods._ london, may th, -- dear john, yours of the th was duly received, and the goods therein mentioned have since been delivered at the custom-house. i immediately advertised them for sale in twelve different lots, but they were all bought up by one of the principal manufacturers in spitalfields for a good sum, which i have lodged in the bank to your credit. i forwarded last week, by the _orion_, the different articles you ordered. there are twenty bales, marked "a. x." i am told, by judges in the trade, that they are the best and cheapest that can be had. i shall be glad to hear they have realized your expectations. your affectionate brother, fred. ---- _a gentleman in the corn trade to another._ petersfield, january st, -- dear ----, we had a tolerable supply of wheat at market to-day; there was rather a limited attendance, however, and business on the whole proceeded slowly. most of the samples exhibited were in poor condition; and this, coupled with the sluggish demand, caused prices to give way from one to two shillings per quarter. foreign wheat had but a dull inquiry. in the flour market there was a moderate consumptive business done, at about late terms; best descriptions of malting and grinding barleys were held for rather higher terms, with a quiet demand. i shall be in your neighbourhood on sunday, and will give you a call. yours very truly, j----n d----r. ---- _from a friend at bradford to his friend in london, on business (wool)._ bradford, january th, -- dear ----, we are looking up, as there is a very good tone prevailing in the wool market, and a very fair amount of business has been done during the past week. the late advancing rates, consequent upon the high prices of country dealers, tend to check operations, which are quite of a consumptive character. very good wethers continue in demand. hogs are rather more in favour. skin wool is also in fair request; pieces are very stiff. hughes' sale the other day fully sustained the tendency of the market, both as respects demands and quotations. i will not lose an opportunity, believe me. i remain, yours sincerely, james bolton. ---- _from a shopkeeper in the country, to a wholesale dealer._ cefnmawr, october st, -- sir, i was very sorry, on the last receipt of a parcel forwarded by you, to be obliged to find fault with some of the goods, which were not at all up to sample that was sent about two months since. you assured me, at the same time, that in future there should be no cause for complaint. since then i have received my last order, and there is, if possible, a greater inferiority in some of the articles than on the previous occasion. i do not, believe me, complain without cause; my customers are disposed, i fear, to leave me, not being satisfied with the quality of the articles i sell. if you will make some reduction in price, i will retain those i have now; otherwise, however unwilling i may be to do so, i must return them. awaiting an early reply, i remain, sir, yours truly, h. n----. ---- _wholesale dealer, to tradesman in the country._ london, october th, -- dear sir, we were sorry to find, on receipt of yours of the -- inst., that you had occasion again to find fault with the goods lately furnished. some parcels forwarded to you were done so by inadvertence. we should be sorry to lose your custom, and also grieved to hear you had suffered any pecuniary loss. we are perfectly willing to agree to such a reduction in price as you, in your integrity, think fairly just. we remain, sir, yours obediently, a. o----. ---- _to a theatrical manager._ shoreham, september, -- sir, having seen in the _era_ of last week that your theatre opens in a fortnight, and that a "general utility man" and "first walking lady" are wanted, i beg to offer the services of mrs. a. and myself. we have filled the same places in many theatres (our last engagement was in the north). we have also been very frequently employed in arranging and conducting amateur performances. i trust to hear in a few days, as i leave this next week. i remain, sir, your obedient servant, h. adair. ---- _from a house and estate agent, acknowledging receipt of a communication relative to sale or letting of a property._ , crane street, london, nov. th, -- madam, i am obliged by your favour of yesterday's date, notifying that treverne house will be vacant next month. i am sorry to say, things remain very bad here, and i find few purchasers at high prices. see my last letter respecting the offer made by mr. townsend. i gave you information about selling prices, and i do not see much improvement in the ideas of buyers at present. by the way, there is a small account of _l._ outstanding against you on my books, which doubtless you have overlooked. will you kindly remit it? and please say if i am to take any step beyond placing treverne house on my list, to sell or let. i remain, madam, yours faithfully, thomas oliver. mrs. a. morgan, , st. george's road, hanover square. ---- _a gentleman to a friend, relative to a bill._ tangel lane, may th, -- dear robson, i had a note from mr. b---- this morning relative to our bill for _l._ i am very anxious about the matter. will you call to-morrow, and bring as much money as you can collect? i am afraid he is inclined to be very disagreeable. i will do all i can. yours ever, j. f. t. ---- _reply to question as to rent of, and permission to view, a house._ wandsworth, may th, -- sir, as we are about to go abroad, we wish to let our house quickly, and for this purpose have consented to reduce our terms from ---- guineas to ---- guineas, furnished. we are quite convinced this is a very cheap rental for the style and accommodation of the place, which we think you will be pleased with, if you will favour it with a visit. the scenery is beautiful; the parish church is close at hand, as also the station; the neighbourhood is excellent. there is a good market town within easy reach. trusting to hear from you shortly, i remain, yours faithfully, h---- h----. ---- _from the secretary of a convalescent hospital, applying for expenses of patients._ denbigh, july th, -- sir, i am directed by the committee of management to request you will remit the sum due for the maintenance of the sick people introduced by you during the last quarter. the amount due, i believe, was furnished you by the house surgeon a week or two since. i remain, sir, your obedient servant, h---- h---- i----. ---- _from a gentleman, enclosing a certificate of illness from a medical man, excusing himself from attending at his office._ brompton, may th, -- dear sir, i enclose, as you wish, a certificate from dr. r. p----, who has been attending me for the last few weeks. i hope most sincerely i shall be able to resume my duties about the middle of the week, particularly if i go on improving as i have done the last few days. i trust you will tender my best thanks to all for their forbearance and assistance during my illness. believe me, yours very truly, h. b. h. ---- _medical attendant's certificate._ brompton, may th, -- i beg to certify that mr. j. w---- is unable to attend to his duties. for some weeks past he has suffered greatly, but i think in a week or ten days he will be in a position to resume his post. b---- o----, m.d. ---- _reply to an advertisement for the appointment of medical officer to an union division._ bromley, may th, -- gentlemen, herewith i enclose my testimonials, with an application for the appointment of medical officer to the upton division of your parish. i am duly qualified, as a reference to the "medical register" will show. should you be pleased to elect me to the vacant post, i can assure you that no pains on my part shall be wanting to alleviate the sufferings of the poor, with due regard to the interests of the ratepayers. i remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, p---- a----. ---- _to a gentleman in reply as to an agency for a bordeaux firm._ strand, london, march th, -- sir, i have received your letter of the th inst. if you feel confident that you are in a position to do a good and safe private trade for my firm i shall be pleased to hear from you with regard to references, &c. the commission we allow to our agents is per cent., the cheapest qualities excepted, on which we allow only per cent. commission. letters for me to be addressed "care of messrs. f----t and f----k, strand, london." i shall be returning to bordeaux shortly, and await your early reply yours truly, james mortine. _one of the firm of mortine & co._ ---- _letter urging payment of a debt._ doncaster, april th, -- sir, i have made several applications to you for the settlement of your account, now a long time over due. our clerk has frequently called for it, but has not been fortunate enough to have an interview with you. i have a very large amount to make up by the end of this month, and must beg of you to give attention to it before that time. you must be aware that the account has already run far beyond my usual term of credit. awaiting an early settlement, i am, sir, your obedient servant, h. h. c. ---- _a tenant to a landlord, requesting time to pay rent._ , steel street, january st, -- dear sir, from most unexpected and distressing circumstances, of which perhaps you may, by report, have become acquainted before this, i regret that i have been unable to pay my rent for the past half-year. but as up to this time the payment has always been punctually made, i hope i may request your kind forbearance a short time longer. trusting that you will accede to my request, i am, dear sir, yours respectfully, adam jones. c. douglas, esq. ---- _answer from a landlord in reply to a tenant, relative to non-payment of rent._ lansdowne place, april th, -- sir, as you assume, i have heard reports of your distressing disappointments. i think you have known me long enough to be sure i would not willingly distress any one, more especially a tenant who up to this time has been so punctual in his payments. when you can conveniently pay the last half-year's rent, do so; i shall not--rest assured--make any demand upon you for it. trusting that your difficulties will soon be satisfactorily arranged, i remain, yours faithfully, john savage. ---- _reply from landlord to a tenant, relative to non-payment of rent._ hood's place, waverton, january st, -- sir, i regret to hear of the difficulties and disappointments which you tell me in your letter of the th inst. you are at present experiencing. were it in my power to grant you time to pay the rent now overdue, i would most willingly do so; but i have heavy and serious calls upon me at this moment, and must therefore request you to forward me the amount by return of post. i remain, sir, yours obediently, james goodchild. ---- _a sugar refiner applying for a situation._ shoreditch, july th, -- gentlemen, being out of employment at present, and hearing you required a sober, steady, active, and pushing man to superintend your business upstairs, i write to inform you that for years i was head upstairs man at messrs. ---- and co. you will see by the enclosed copy of a testimonial from them that the duties of filling out the goods up to the stoving, were carried out in such a manner as to convince them i thoroughly understood the business. a reply at your convenience will much oblige, yours respectfully, o. ---- messrs. sweet and sharp. ---- _an application for an appointment on a railway._ chatham, january st, -- sir, having received my discharge from the army after completing ten years' service, and being desirous of obtaining employment as a porter on a railway, i take the liberty of enclosing a copy of my discharge to you, understanding you have great influence in the appointment of the company's servants. i have never filled such an appointment before, but i lived as footman for some years with a gentleman whose testimony as to character i also enclose. i trust you will favourably consider my case. should my application prove successful i will always endeavour, by diligent discharge of my duty, to show my sense of your kindness. i remain, sir, your most obedient servant, james maurice. samuel stevens, esq., secretary tavistock railway. ---- _reply to a gentleman requiring a situation as a clerk and foreign correspondent._ austin friars, july th, -- dear sir, i am glad to be able to offer you the position you sought. your testimonials are excellent. although you had many competitors, your knowledge of languages (more especially german) had great weight, and we have decided to appoint you. the gentleman who has held the appointment up to this time is, i find, residing in your neighbourhood. he may be known to you; if so, he would i dare say tell you we are extremely particular as to punctuality. you can commence your duties on monday next. i remain, dear sir, yours obediently, j. jones. ---- _applying for a clerkship._ gentlemen, being desirous of obtaining a clerkship, and seeing by advertisement that your firm is in want of a confidential clerk, i beg to offer myself as a candidate for the situation. i held a similar appointment for some years with messrs. turine and medei of san paulo. i can write, speak fluently, interpret, and translate french, spanish, and german. i enclose copies of my testimonials. should you be pleased to appoint me, no exertion on my part shall be wanting to give you satisfaction. i remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, ---- _a reply to an advertisement for an appointment as secretary to an institution._ london, may st, -- "_wanted immediately, a secretary._" sir, with reference to the above advertisement i beg to enclose copies of testimonials, received within the last few months, by which you will see my capability for management. my friends, you will observe, are gentlemen of position and influence, with whom i am and have been for years on terms of the greatest intimacy. i need not say that, should i obtain the appointment in question, my interest with them and many other very influential friends should be exerted to the utmost of my power to promote in every way the interests of the institution. i remain, sir, yours faithfully, h. v. y. ---- _applying to a friend for a recommendation by a young man desirous of obtaining an appointment._ chelsea, may th, -- dear sir, as you have known me for very many years, and as i am at present endeavouring to obtain an appointment with messrs. l----g and l----g, may i take the liberty of asking you to give me a recommendation to them? you know that i have always borne an upright and unblemished character, and that while under your superintendence i was always attentive to my duties, and i believe that i obtained your confidence. trusting you will comply with my request, i remain, dear sir, yours respectfully, h. p. k. ---- _an application for a situation in the police._ sevenoaks, february th, -- sir, having served with you for seven years in the --th foot, during which time i was employed in situations of trust, and hearing now that you have great influence with the commissioners of the police force of the city of london, may i take the liberty of asking you to assist me in obtaining an appointment in the force? i am twenty-eight years of age, five feet ten inches in height, strong and healthy, and carried away many prizes at our regimental games. i remain, sir, yours most respectfully, h. j. i., late sergeant th foot. colonel ----, belgrave square. ---- _from a person desirous of employment as a manager of a wholesale or retail business._ shepherd's bush, april th, -- gentlemen, i beg to forward a strong recommendation from messrs. c---- and g---- for the post of manager of your [retail or wholesale] business. for some years previous to the late war i was employed by messrs. ---- and ----, and was selected by their french correspondents to manage a branch establishment at b----, which is now progressing most satisfactorily. i am a good correspondent in french and italian and german, and understand the business well in all its branches. trusting that you will favourably consider my friend's recommendation, i remain, gentlemen, yours faithfully, ---- _reply to an application relating to an advertisement._ , princes street, london. sir, in reply to yours respecting the advertisement in yesterday's _times_, the appointment referred to was to fill up a vacancy in the board of an established brewery company, "limited," and one which has the prospect of more than ordinary success. all the parties connected with it are of the highest respectability. ---- pounds are required to be invested in paid-up shares, and the remuneration of a director would probably be £---- per annum. there is one appointment also connected with this, worth £---- per annum; but the individual who takes this is expected to introduce £---- on share or loan capital. should this be likely to suit you, please make an appointment for an early interview. yours faithfully, ---- _a book-keeper and accountant applying for employment._ hampton, february st, -- sir, my late employer, mr. ----, having relinquished business, and hearing that you required a book-keeper, i venture to apply for the situation. for many years i have had great business experience, having been entrusted with matters of great responsibility. i am a good accountant, and can speak and write german, french, and italian fluently. soliciting the favour of a reply, i remain, sir, yours faithfully, ---- _application for employment in an auctioneer's and estate agent's office._ swansea, july st, -- gentlemen, having lately been engaged in the office of s---- and co., auctioneers and surveyors in b----, and wishing to remove to london, where i have some very influential friends, i write to ascertain if you have a vacancy in your office. the whole control of the business here was left in my hands. i am an experienced surveyor, and can prepare particulars of sale, plans, reports, catalogues, advertisements, &c.; and am able to conduct the routine of business, both in and out of doors. i can refer you to persons in the city should you favour me with a reply. i remain, sir, yours respectfully, ---- _a person desirous of entering into partnership in a lucrative profession._ ladbroke terrace, may st, -- sir, having seen that mr. b---- has retired from your firm, i beg to introduce to your notice a friend of mine, who wishes to invest about _l._ in a lucrative business. i have pointed out to him what a well established house yours is, and how the business could be readily increased by the assistance of an energetic partner. he is a man of education, has a great turn for business, and has travelled abroad. he is about thirty years of age, and can give you the most unexceptionable references. if you can call on me i will introduce him to you. yours truly, ---- _an estate agent, relative to a house of which his client is anxious to dispose._ salisbury, february th, -- _re woodside._ dear sir, we have been expecting to hear from you _re_ the above, giving us instructions as to whether we shall put it up in the mart this spring or not. if it is still your intention to do so, may we ask that you will kindly let us know at once, as we will then immediately get our bills out, and have them posted about, as this is generally requisite a month or two before the sale, so as to have it well advertised. if you would kindly favour us with a call, we shall be glad to confer with you upon the subject. we may mention we are expecting to have several other estates for sale by auction in the spring. an early call or reply would greatly oblige, your most obedient servant, h. & co. ---- _from an agent who has been engaged in endeavouring to arrange a matter of importance, applying for remuneration._ , trafalgar square, september th, -- dear madam, you will of course have observed, by the announcement in the newspapers of this day's date, that the business we have been so anxious about is settled. i do not wish to enlarge on my own humble services in the cause; but i am sure you will admit that if a professional gentleman had been employed, the advice and services i have rendered during the last few years would have been made into a very lengthy bill, far exceeding the amount you promised me, whatever the issue of the negotiations might be. i am well assured that i am in good hands, however, and had i been called upon to render ten times the required services and advice, you would have found me as ready and willing as i have been. your kind favour of the --ult., enclosing cheque, was duly received. i need not say how glad i shall be to hear again from you at your earliest convenience. i remain, dear madam, yours very faithfully, erasmus jackson. ---- _letter from a traveller at manchester, to his employers in london._ manchester, january th, -- dear sirs, during the week very little change has taken place in prices quoted in my last. cotton was a shade better on monday, which caused sellers of yarn and cloth in this market to ask rather more in some instances; but the improvement was quite evanescent. the market, however, has continued steady. some buyers have made attempts to operate at rather lower prices, and offers have been freely made at / _d._ to / _d._ per lb. for yarns, but the offers have only been made in exceptional cases. for goods of all descriptions, notwithstanding some discouraging accounts from abroad, very considerable contracts for distant delivery in point of time could have been secured by making a very slight concession. madapollams, jaconets, and mulls are not in active request, but maintain last week's values. printers t cloths and domestics meet with a fair consumptive demand, and orders can only be placed at the prices of tuesday. large importations of cotton, and lower prices, are causing buyers to operate cautiously, both in yarn and cloth. i leave this to-morrow for macclesfield. i remain, gentlemen, yours obediently, ---- _relative to an advertisement, requesting a copy._ wareham, june th, - dear sir, i have the pleasure of forwarding you, on the fly-leaf, a copy of the order for the advertisement. we trust it was in conformity with your wishes. yours respectfully, h. m. b----. ---- _application for a debt some time owing_. windsor buildings, may th, - madam, mr. w. c. durnford has placed his book debts in my hands to collect, and i shall be obliged by the payment of _l._ _s._ _d._, for which i find you are his debtor. i am, madam, your obedient servant, j. i----. ---- _application for an outstanding account._ london, may th, -- mrs. ----, madam, we beg to inform you that we are instructed by messrs. b----n and c----n, of duncan street, who are desirous of clearing off several outstanding accounts which are considerably overdue, to make application to you for payment of an amount of £-- _s._ _d._ for articles supplied in july, , and january, ; and to facilitate the next balancing of books, we ask you to kindly make it convenient to favour us with a cheque for the amount before the th inst. we are, madam, yours faithfully, h. f. & co. ---- _applying for an account, and furnishing particulars._ streatham, june th, -- dear sir, on the other side i hand you particulars of mrs. soames' account, for which please send me cheque. yours truly, w. w. _pro_ p. f. c. ---- _a gentleman's servant, applying for a situation._ praetland terrace, march st, -- "_valet wanted._" sir, in reply to an advertisement in yesterday's _daily telegraph_, headed as above, i beg to offer myself for the situation. for six years and a half i lived with the late general aslett in that capacity; on his death the establishment was reduced, and i received my dismissal. i enclose a copy of my character from my previous masters, and also one from the proprietor of the great northern hotel, who has known me for many years. i am unmarried, ft. in. in height, and twenty-eight years of age. i remain, sir, your most obedient humble servant, james field. ---- _from a coachman, requiring a place._ croydon, october nd. sir, having heard that you are in want of a coachman, i respectfully beg to offer myself for the situation. i have lived in my last place with j. g----, esq., who will, i am sure give me a good character. i remain, sir, your obedient servant, john james. ---- _reply._ beech park, october th. john james, i have received your application for my coachman's place, and should be glad to know of how many horses you had the care at mr. ----'s; whether you had a groom under you; and if you can drive in london as well as in the country. let me know also if you are a married man, and, if so, whether you have a family. robert bruce. ---- _coachman's reply._ croydon, october th. sir, i had the care of three horses at mr. ----, and he allowed me assistance in the stable. i am a married man and have five children. i have been used to drive in london during the season. if you should be pleased to engage me, i shall endeavour to do my best to serve you. i am, sir, your obedient servant, john james. ---- _applying for a situation as a gardener._ snowdrop cottage, june st, -- sir, understanding that there will be a vacancy shortly in your establishment for a gardener, i respectfully beg to offer myself for the place. from boyhood i have been under the best of gardeners. i served my apprenticeship with, and have been from time to time improving myself under the direction of one of the most experienced landscape gardeners employed in the crystal palace gardens. i enclose you a copy of the opinion formed of my capabilities by those under whom i placed myself, and assure you my whole time and study shall be devoted to your service. i remain, yours obediently, e. gardner. ---- _a gentleman ordering a set of harness from a saddler._ edisbury place, february th, -- sir, i send my coachman to consult with you as to the style and quality of a new set of double harness, which i shall shortly require. my own idea is that harness cannot be too light looking. i have also a great objection to a large amount of plating. my coachman will tell you the size of the horses; and please let me know by him the very lowest price. yours obediently, james heaton. ---- _saddler, in reply._ , tanning road, february st, -- sir, many thanks for your esteemed communication. from the description given by your coachman of the double harness required, i think i can supply you to your satisfaction for the sum of _l._, and everything will be of the best quality. trusting that you will be satisfied with the quality and character of the goods, i remain, sir, your humble obedient servant, joseph tanner. ---- _gentleman in reply, objecting to price._ edisbury place, february, -- sir, on my return i was much surprised to find that your prices were so very much above the sum i proposed to expend for a set of double harness: however, i will consider the matter. a friend of mine who lately ordered a set of harness much the same as that which my coachman described to you, assures me that the charge for it was between _l._ and _l._ less. i will see you on the subject on my return from rome. yours obediently, james heaton. mr. ---- ---- _saddler, in reply._ , tanning road, february st, -- sir, as i am sorry at any time to lose custom, i take the liberty of requesting you to defer your decision until your return, and if you will then favour me with a call i think i can show you sets of harness at a price that you will find moderate. i enclose you a letter which i have received from a coachman, from which you will be able to judge for yourself of the pressure put upon us by servants. i remain, sir, yours respectfully, joseph tanner. james heaton, esq. ---- _requesting the renewal of a bill._ tipnor, february th, -- dear sirs, having had great difficulty in collecting my accounts during the last half year (although i have strict assurances that they will all, or nearly all, be settled by the end of this month), i find i am unable to meet in full my acceptance to you for _l._ _s._ _d._ would you oblige me by holding it to the end of this month? i shall then be prepared to meet the same. an early reply will oblige, yours truly, messrs. farren, johnson, and styles. commercial forms. _form of cheque to "bearer."_ london, dec. th, -- to the london joint-stock bank, chancery lane branch. pay to ---- or bearer, one hundred pounds. £ . t. robinson. ---- _form of cheque to "order."_ london, dec. th, -- to the london joint-stock bank, chancery lane branch. pay to ---- or order, one hundred pounds. £ . t. robinson. this form will require, previous to payment, the endorsement of the party to whom it is made payable. ---- _form of an ordinary bill of exchange._ london, may st, -- £ . three months after date, pay to me or my order one hundred pounds. value received. t. robinson. to mr. henry jones, liverpool. to make this a negotiable document, it has to be accepted by being signed across the face by the party on whom it is drawn, and endorsed on the back by the drawer. this admits of the following change, according to circumstances: instead of "three months after date," it may be "at sight," or at such a time "after sight," or at such a specified time, or "on demand;" and the instruction to pay may be "to a. b. or order." ---- _form of a promissory note._ £ . london, july st, -- three months after date, i promise to pay to mr. henry jones, or order, one hundred pounds, for value received. t. robinson. payable at the london joint-stock bank, chancery lane branch. to make this a negotiable document, it has to be endorsed by being signed across the back by the party to whom it is made payable. ---- _form of a foreign bill of exchange._ £ . paris, june st, -- sixty days after sight of this first of exchange (second and third unpaid) pay to the order of messrs. jones and robinson, one hundred pounds sterling, value received; and charge to account, with or without advice of william smith. to mr. thomas kelley, manchester. payable in london. the naming of the payee admits of the same variations as are exhibited in an ordinary bill of exchange. the time of payment may be, in like manner, variously expressed. the term "usance" is sometimes employed to express the period of running in foreign bills. it means a certain time fixed by custom as between any two places, and the period covered by a usance will therefore depend on the places of drawing and payment. ---- _form of ordinary receipt._ london, may nd, -- received of mr. john frost, twenty-nine pounds twelve shillings and sixpence. £ _s._ _d._ c. cuthbert. n.b.--all receipts for sums of two pounds and upwards require to have a receipt stamp affixed to them, which stamp should be cancelled by being written across. the penalty for evading this law is _l._ ---- _form of receipt for rent._ london, august th, -- received of a. wigram, esq., fifteen pounds, being one quarter's rent due on midsummer day last, for the premises occupied by him at no. , south rupert street, w.c. £ _s._ _d._ t. phillips. ---- _form of agreement for taking a house._ memorandum of an undertaking entered into this ---- day of ----, --, between a. b. of ----, and c. d. of ----, as follows:-- the said a. b. doth hereby let unto the said c. d. a dwelling-house, situate in the parish of ----, for the term of one year certain, and so on from year to year, and so on until half a year's notice to quit be given by or to either party, at the yearly rent of £----, payable quarterly; the tenancy to commence at ---- day next. and the said a. b. doth undertake to pay the land-tax, the property-tax, and the sewer-rate, and to keep the said house in all necessary repairs, so long as the said c. d. shall continue therein. and the said c. d. doth undertake to take the said house of a. b. for and at the before-mentioned term and rent, and pay all taxes except those on land or property and the sewer-rate, and to abide by the other conditions aforesaid. witness our hands the day and year aforesaid. a. b. witness e. f. c. d. [n.b.--premises are sometimes let for a term of years, or upon other conditions different from those specified above; in such cases the agreement must, of course, be worded conformably.] ---- _form of notice to quit, from a tenant to landlord._ sir, i hereby give you notice that on or before the ---- day of ----next, i shall quit and deliver up possession of the house and premises i now hold of you, situate at ----, in the parish of ----, in the county of ----. dated this ---- day of ----, --. witness, k. i. g. h. to mr. l. m. ---- _form of notice to quit, from landlord to tenant._ sir, i hereby give you notice to quit the house and appurtenances, situate at no. ----, which you now hold of me, on or before ---- next. dated ----, --. signed n. o. (landlord). to mr. p. q. ---- _form of will._ this is the last will and testament of a. b., of no. ---- street, ----. i hereby give and devise to my wife, jane b., her heirs, executors, and administrators, for her and their own use and benefit, absolutely and for ever, all my estate and effects, both real and personal, whatsoever and wheresoever, and of what nature and quality soever, and i hereby appoint her, the said jane b., sole executrix of this my will. in witness whereof i have hereunto set my hand this ----day of ----, one thousand eight hundred and ----. a. b. signed by the said a. b., in the presence of us, present at the same time, who in his presence and in the presence of each other, attest and subscribe our names as witnesses hereto. [n.b.--the above is a simple form of will. they can, of course, be made in various ways, but in every case care should be taken that the persons mentioned in the will should be fully and properly designated, and that the testator's intentions be stated in language as clear and precise as possible.] ---- _form of bill of sale._ know all men by these presents, that i, a. b., of ----, for and in consideration of the sum of ----, in hand, paid, at and before the sealing and delivery hereof, by c. d., of ----, the receipt whereof i do hereby acknowledge, have bargained and sold, and by these presents do bargain and sell unto the said c. d., all the goods, household stuff, and implements of household, and all other goods whatsoever mentioned in the schedule hereunto annexed, now remaining and being in ----. to have and to hold all and singular the goods, household stuff, and implements of household, and every of them by these presents, bargained and sold unto the said c. d., his executors, administrators, and assigns for ever, and i, the said a. b., for myself, my executors, and administrators, all and singular, of the said goods, unto the said c. d., his executors and administrators and assigns, and against all and every other person and persons whatsoever, shall and will warrant and for ever defend by these presents, of which goods i, the said a. b., have put the said c. d., in possession, by delivering him one silver candelabrum, &c., on the sealing hereof; in witness whereof i have hereunto put my hand and seal this ---- day of ----, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and ---- a. b. signed, sealed, and delivered, } c. d. in the presence of us, } e. f. directions for addressing persons of rank, &c. _ . in letters or conversation._ _ . the directions of letters._ the royal family. the queen-- . madam; most gracious sovereign; may it please your majesty. . to the queen's most excellent majesty. the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters of sovereigns-- . sir, or madam, may it please your royal highness. . to his royal highness the prince of wales. to her royal highness the duchess of cambridge. other branches of the royal family. . sir, or madam, may it please your highness. . to his royal highness the duke of cambridge; or, to her royal highness the princess mary of teck. the nobility. a duke, or duchess-- . my lord duke, or madam, may it please your grace. . to his grace the duke of bedford; or, to her grace the duchess of bedford. a marquis, or marchioness-- . my lord, or madam, may it please your lordship, or, may it please your ladyship. . to the most noble the marquis, or marchioness, of westminster. an earl or countess--the same. to the right honourable the earl, or countess, of shrewsbury. a viscount or viscountess-- . my lord, or madam, may it please your lordship, or, may it please your ladyship. . to the right honourable viscount, or viscountess, lifford. a baron or baroness--the same. to the right honourable, the lord wensleydale, or the lady st. john. the widow of a nobleman is addressed in the same style, with the introduction of the word dowager in the superscription of her letters. to the right hon. the dowager countess of chesterfield. the sons of dukes and marquises, and the eldest sons of earls, have, by courtesy, the titles of lord and right honourable; and all the daughters have those of a lady and right honourable. the younger sons of earls, and the sons and daughters of viscounts and barons, are styled honourable. official members of the state. a member of her majesty's most hon. privy council-- . sir, or my lord, right honourable sir, or my lord, as the case may require. . to the right honourable ----,[ ] her majesty's principal secretary of state for foreign affairs. [ ] here write the name, and specify the title or rank of the person addressed, as "the right honourable the earl of winchelsea." ambassadors and governors under her majesty. . sir, or my lord, as the case may be; may it please your excellency. . to his excellency the french (or other) ambassador. . to his excellency ----,[ ] lieutenant general, and general governor of that part of the united kingdom called ireland. [ ] here write the name, and specify the title or rank of the person addressed, as "the right honourable the earl of winchelsea." judges. . my lord, may it please your lordship. . to the right honourable ----, lord chief justice of england. the lord mayor of london, york, or dublin, and the lord provost of edinburgh, during office--the same. . my lord, may it please your lordship. . to the right honourable ----, lord mayor of london. to the right honourable ----, lord provost of edinburgh. the lord provost of every other town in scotland is styled honourable. the mayors of all corporations (excepting the preceding lord mayors), and the sheriffs, aldermen, and the recorder of london, are addressed right worshipful; and the aldermen and recorders of other corporations, and the justices of the peace, worshipful. the parliament. house of peers-- . my lords, may it please your lordships. . to the right honourable the lords spiritual and temporal, in parliament assembled. house of commons-- . may it please your honourable house. . to the honourable the commons of the united kingdom of great britain and ireland. the speaker of the house of commons-- . sir, or mr. speaker. . to the right honourable ----, the speaker of the house of commons. a member of the house of commons not ennobled-- . sir. . to thomas hughes, esq., m.p. the clergy. an archbishop-- . my lord, may it please your grace. . to his grace the archbishop of canterbury; or, to the most reverend father in god, ----,[ ] lord archbishop of canterbury. [ ] here write the christian but not the surname. a bishop-- . my lord, may it please your lordship. . the right reverend the bishop of london. . to the right reverend father in god, ----,[ ] lord bishop of peterboro'. [ ] here write the christian but not the surname. a dean-- . reverend sir. . to the very reverend dr. ----, dean of westminster. an archdeacon-- the venerable the archdeacon of ----. chancellors are addressed in the same manner. the rest of the clergy-- . sir,--reverend sir. . to the rev. dr campbell. to the rev. j. jones; or, to the rev. mr. wilson, &c.