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from a young man, who took up seventeen
enormous double sheets of paper in trying to tell me something about
himself. The handwriting was good, the air of educated assurance
breathed from the style was quite impassive, and the total amount of six
thousand eight hundred words was sufficient to say anything in reason.
Yet this voluminous writer managed to say nothing in particular
excepting that he thought himself very like Lord Byron, that he was
fond of courting, and that his own talents were supreme. Now a simple
honest narrative of youthful struggles would have held me attentive,
but I found much difficulty in keeping a judicial mind on this enormous
effusion. Why? Because the writer was a bad correspondent; he was so
wrapped up in himself that he could not help fancying that every one
else must be in the same humour, and thus he produced a dull, windy
letter in spite of his tolerable smattering of education. On the other
hand, I often study simple letters which err in the matter of spelling and
grammar, but which are enthralling in interest. A domestic servant
modestly tells her troubles and gives the truth about her life; every
word burns with significance--and Shakespeare himself could do no
more than give music of style and grave coherence to the narrative. The
servant writes well because she keeps clear of high-sounding phrases,
and writes with entire sincerity. It is the sincerity that attracts the
judicious reader, and it is only by sincerity that any letter-writer can
please other human creatures. Beauty of style counts for a great deal; I

would not sacrifice the exquisite daintiness of epistolary style in Lamb
or Coleridge or Thackeray or Macaulay for gold. But style is not
everything, and the very best letter I ever read--the letter which stands
first in my opinion as a model of what written communications should
be--is without grammar or form or elegance. It is simply a document in
which the writer suppresses himself, and conveys all the intelligence
possible in a limited space. To all letter-writers I would say, "Let your
written words come direct from your own mind. The moment you try to
reproduce any thought or any cadence of language which you have
learned from books you become a bore, and no sane man can put up
with you. But, if you resolve that the thought set down shall be yours
and yours alone, that the turns of phrase shall be such as you would use
in talking with your intimates, that each word shall be prompted by
your own knowledge or your belief, then it does not matter a pin if you
are ignorant of spelling, grammar, and all the graces; you will be a
pleasing correspondent." Look at the letters of Lady Sarah Lennox,
who afterwards became the mother of the brilliant Napiers. This lady
did not know how to put in a single stop, and her spelling is more
wildly eccentric than words can describe, yet her letters are enthralling,
and natural fire and fun actually seem to derive piquancy from the
schoolgirlish errors. If you sit down to write with the intention of being
impressive, you may not make a fool of yourself, but the chances are all
in that direction; whereas, if you resolve with rigid determination to say
something essential about some fact and to say it in your own way, you
will produce a piece of valuable literature. Of course there are times
when dignity and gravity are necessary in correspondence, but even
dignity cannot be divorced from simplicity. Supposing that, by an evil
chance, a person finds himself bound to inflict an epistolary rebuff on
another, the rebuff entirely fails if a single affected word is inserted.
The most perfect example of a courteous snub with which I am
acquainted was sent by a master of measured and ornamental prose.
Gibbon, the historian, received a very lengthy and sarcastic letter from
the famous Doctor Priestley, of Birmingham. Priestley blamed Gibbon
for his covert mode of attacking Christianity, and observed that
Servetus was more to be admired for his courage as a martyr than for
his services as a scientific discoverer. Now Gibbon knew by instinct
that the historic style would at once become ludicrous if used to answer

such a letter; so he deserted his ordinary majestic manner, and wrote
thus--
"SIR--As I do not pretend to judge of the sentiments or intentions of
another, I shall not inquire how far you are inclined to suffer or inflict
martyrdom. It only becomes me to say that the style and temper of your
last letter have satisfied me of the propriety of declining all further
correspondence, whether public or private, with such an adversary."
A perfect sneer, a perfectly guarded and telling rebuff.