Chapter II: Introduction

NO unimportant branch of education is letter writing. A great part of the commerce of human life is carried on by this means. In the days of old we find that letter writing was esteemed by the Romans in the number of liberal and polite accomplishments. Thus Cicero, a great and learned man, mentions with pleasure an elegant letter he had received from his son.

A fine letter does not consist in saying fine things, and the following anecdote of the Rev. R. Robinson, of Cambridge, is perhaps one of the most complete essays on the true art of letter writing that is to be found. The reverend gentleman was very fond of children, and used to make himself very familiar with them by adapting his conversation to their capacities, and joining heartily in all their sports. Still he never lost an opportunity of throwing out some hint that might be useful in after life.

Among his little favorites were two fine boys, sons of a much-esteemed member of his congregation. The elder, named John, was about ten years old; the younger, Robert, about eight. Upon one of Mr. Robinson's visits to their father, Robert, being told of his arrival, came bounding into the room, and, as usual, jumped upon his knee, when they entered into the following dialogue:—

_Mr. R._ Well, Robert, so you have taken your old seat; but how is it my other knee is unfurnished? Where is John?

_Robert._ Oh, sir, John is gone to London.

_Mr. R._ Indeed! How long has he been gone?

_Robert._ More than a fortnight, sir.

_Mr. R._ How many letters have you written to him?

_Robert._ None, sir.

_Mr. R._ How is that?

_Robert._ Because I do not know how to write a letter, sir.

_Mr. B._ But should you like to know how?

_Robert._ Oh, yes sir, very much indeed.

_Mr. R._ Then suppose you and I, between us, try to make up a letter to John; shall we?

_Robert._ Oh, dear yes, sir, if you please: I should so like to do that.

_Mr. R._ Well, then, let us begin: "Saucy Jack." Will that do?

_Robert._ Oh dear, no, sir, I should not like to say that at all.

_Mr. R._ Why not?

_Robert._ Because that would be so rude, sir.

_Mr. R._ Let us try again then: "My dear brother." There, will that do?

_Robert._ Oh, yes, nicely, sir.

_Mr. R._ Well, then, let us go on. "Last Thursday half Cambridge was burnt down, and—"

_Robert._ Oh, no, no, sir; that will never, never do.

_Mr. R._ Why won't it do?

_Robert._ Because it is not true; you know, sir, there has not been any fire at Cambridge.

_Mr. R._ Then suppose we alter it to "Last night our tabby had three kittens." That's true, you know, because you told me so just now.

_Robert._ (Hesitatingly.) Y-e-s, sir, it is true, but I should not like to write that.

_Mr. R._ But as you know it to be true, why should you not like to write it?

_Robert._ Because I do not think it worth putting into a letter, sir.

_Mr. R._ Oh, oh! Then, if I properly understand you, friend Robert, you think that when we write to our friends, we should, in the first place, never be rude; secondly, we must never say what is not true; and, thirdly, we must never tell them what is not worth their knowing. Am I right?

_Robert._ Yes, sir; if I were to write a letter, I should try to think of all that.

_Mr. R._ Then, my dear boy, you must never again tell me you don't know how to write a letter; for I assure you that you have a much better notion of letter writing than many people have who are five times your age.

The narrative we are about to relate is contained in a series of letters; and though, perhaps, this is not the most interesting form of story-telling, the events described are of so amusing a character that we feel sure our young readers will feel pleasure in their perusal. They are very simply written, affording a fine illustration of the recipe for letter writing—civility, truth, and interest.