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But I do not care
to speak about the literature of quarrels; my concern is mainly with
those readers who have relatives scattered here and there, and who try
to keep up communications with the said relatives. Judging from the
countless letters which I see, only a small percentage of people
understand that the duty of a correspondent is to say something. As a
general rule, it may be taken for granted that abstract reflections are a
bore; and I am certain that an exiled Englishman would be far more
delighted with the letter of a child who told him about the farm or the
cows, or the people in the street, or the marriages and christenings and
engagements, than he would be with miles of sentiment from an adult,
no matter how noble might be the language in which the sentiment was
couched. Partly, then, as a hint to the good folk who load the
foreign-bound mails, partly as a hint to my own army of
correspondents,[1] I have given a fragment of the fruits of wide
experience. Remember that stately Sir William Temple is all but
forgotten; chatty Pepys is immortal. Windy Philip de Commines is
unread; Montaigne is the delight of leisurely men all the world over.
The mighty Doctor Robertson is crowned chief of bores; the despised
Boswell is likely to be the delight of ages to come. The lesson is--be
simple, be natural, be truthful; and let style, grace, grammar, and
everything else take care of themselves. I spoke just now of the best
letter I have ever read, and I venture to give a piece of it--
[1] Written when Mr. Runciman answered correspondents of the
Family Herald.
"DEAR MADAM,--No doubt you and Frank's friends have heard the
sad fact of his death here, through his uncle or the lady who took his
things. I will write you a few lines, as a casual friend that sat by his
death-bed. Your son, Corporal Frank H. ----, was wounded near Fort
Fisher. The wound was in the left knee, pretty bad. On the 4th of April

the leg was amputated a little above the knee; the operation was
performed by Dr. Bliss, one of the best surgeons in the Army--he did
the whole operation himself. The bullet was found in the knee. I visited
and sat by him frequently, as he was fond of having me. The last ten or
twelve days of April I saw that his case was critical. The last week in
April he was much of the time flighty, but always mild and gentle. He
died 1st of May. Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite in
surgical treatment, nursing, &c. He had watchers most of the time--he
was so good and well-behaved and affectionate. I myself liked him
very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting by
him and soothing him; and he liked to have me--liked to put his arm out
and lay his hand on my knee--would keep it so a long while. Towards
the last he was more restless and flighty at night--often fancied himself
with his regiment, by his talk sometimes seemed as if his feelings were
hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely
innocent of--said, 'I never in my life was thought capable of such a
thing, and never was.' At other times he would fancy himself talking, as
it seemed, to children and such like--his relatives, I suppose--and
giving them good advice--would talk to them a long while. All the time
he was out of his head not one single bad word or idea escaped him. It
was remarked that many a man's conversation in his senses was not half
so good as Frank's delirium. He seemed quite willing to die--he had
become weak and had suffered a good deal, and was quite resigned,
poor boy! I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it must have been
good; at any rate, what I saw of him here under the most trying
circumstances, with a painful wound, and among strangers, I can say
that he behaved so brave, so composed, and so sweet and affectionate,
it could not be surpassed.... I thought perhaps a few words, though from
a stranger, about your son, from one who was with him at the last,
might be worth while, for I loved the young man, though I but saw him
immediately to lose him."
The grammar here is all wrong, but observe the profound goodness of
the writer; he hides nothing he knows that bereaved mother wants to
know about her Frank, her boy; and he tells her everything essential
with rude and noble tenderness, just as though the woman's sorrowing
eyes