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