We have access to many friendly letters that are interesting and inspiring. Some of the best have been written by Eugene Field, Scott, Lowell, Cowper, Thackeray, Thomas Jefferson, Washington Irving, Longfellow, Thoreau, Cromwell, and Gray. Let us study a few of them in order that we may, if possible, discover in each case the writer's secret, - find out how he succeeded in making his letter attractive.

The first letter that we shall examine was written by Stevenson, in reply to a boy who had asked him for his autograph. Point out whatever pleases you in the answer.1

Vailima, Upolu, Samoa,

November 28,1891.

Dear Sir, - Your obliging communication is to hand. I am glad to find that you have read some of my books, and to see that you spell my name right. This is a point (for some reason) of great difficulty; and I believe that a gentleman who can spell Stevenson with a v at sixteen should have a show for the Presidency before fifty. By that time "I, nearer to the wayside inn," predict that you will have outgrown your taste for autographs, but perhaps your son may have inherited the collection, and on the morning of the great day will recall my prophecy to your mind. And in the papers of 1921 (say) this letter may arouse a smile.

Whatever you do, read something else besides novels and newspapers; the first are good enough when they are good; the second, at their best, are worth nothing. Read great books of literature and history; try to understand the Roman Empire and the Middle Ages; be sure you do not understand when you dislike them; condemnation is non-comprehension. And if you know something of these two periods, you will know a little more about to-day, and may be a good President.

I send you my best wishes, and am yours,

Robert Louis Stevenson. Author of a vast quantity of little books.

1 From "The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson," Vol. II, by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.

Our friends prize highly the letters into which we put much of ourselves. In each of the two following letters what does the writer tell of his character?

Phillips Brooks to his Niece 1

Munich, September 2, 1883.

Dear Gertie, - When I came away, the first man that wrote me a letter only two days after the Servia had steamed out of New York bay was you. And now that I am coming home, the last letter which I write from the Old World to any man in America shall be to you. For I want to tell you myself that I shall see you on September 22. I suppose you will not be quite able to run over to the wharf at East Boston when the Cephalonia gets in, but I shall come up to see you just as soon as the customhouse people let me out of prison, after I have paid the duties upon all the heaps of presents I have got for you !

Wasn't it good that the baths at Sharon helped you so much? I was at a place the other day where the people take baths for rheumatism. It is called Bad Gastein, but it isn't bad at all; it is very good. It is away back in the hills, and there is a tremendous waterfall, which runs right through the house, and keeps up such a racket you can't get any sleep. But that does no great harm, because you have to take your bath so early that, if it were not for the waterfall in the next room, you would sleep over and never get any bath at all, and so some time you might have the rheumatism all your life. I didn't have any rheumatism, so I went and took a bath for yours, and I rather think that is what made you feel so much better. You thought it was the baths you were taking at Sharon, but it was really the bath I was taking at Bad Gastein!

I wonder how soon you will come and see me when I get back. Everybody here eats his breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner outdoors. I like it, and think I shall do so myself when I get home; so when you come to breakfast, we will have our table out on the grass plot in Newbury Street, and Katie shall bring us our beefsteak there.

1 Phillips Brooks, "Letters of Travel."

Will it not make the children stare as they go by to school ? We'll toss the crumbs to them and the robins. But you must hurry and get well, or we cannot do all this. My love to Agnes and Tood.

Your affectionate uncle, P.

From Edward Fitzgerald.

Geldestone Hall, Dear Allen, September 9 [1834].

. . . [Your letter] has indeed been a long time coming, but it is all the more delicious. Perhaps you can't imagine how wistfully I have looked for it; how, after a walk, my eyes have turned to the table, on coming into the room, to see it. Sometimes I have been tempted to be angry with you; but then I have thought that I was sure you would come a hundred miles to serve me, though you were too lazy to sit down to a letter. I suppose that people who are engaged in serious ways of life, and are of well-filled minds, don't think much about the interchange of letters with any anxiety; but I am an idle fellow, of a very ladylike turn of sentiment, and my friendships are more like loves, I think. . . .

Farewell, my dearest fellow; you have made me very happy to hear from you, and to know that all is so well with you. Believe me to be your ever affectionate friend,

E. Fitzgerald.

There are times when a few words of sympathy are more welcome than anything else we can send a friend. If we axe to help a friend bear grief, we must first understand his suffering partly, if not wholly. Then, in our expression of sympathy, instead of making him feel worse, we should try to call his attention to some one thing which will give him real comfort.

What can we learn from the following letter of Abraham Lincoln? To what extent did he seem to understand the mother's grief? To what extent did he probably comfort her? What words seem to you particularly well chosen ?

Executive Mansion,1

Washington, November 21, 1864. Mrs. Bixby,

Boston, Massachusetts.

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.

Exercises

177. Write a letter to a friend whom you are not likely to see for a long time. Try to be as entertaining as "Gail Hamilton" was in this portion of a letter of hers to Whittier:

You don't want me to write you a letter, I know, but I will, and you cannot help yourself. . . .

Why don't you come and help me kill caterpillars? There are eighty-five thousand millions on our trees. I burn them up first, then I bathe them in kerosene oil, and then I wash it off in soapsuds. I think they rather like it. How they cuddle up together, don't they ? But they are nasty little beasts - that's all you can say about it; and there's a man and a boy coming, who are going to exterminate them, horse, foot, and dragoons. We have fourteen chickens that we have taken "to halves." I don't mean that we split them open every morning, but we are going to nurse and nourish them all summer and own one half of the whole number in fee simple. Behold, says the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, the shifts which honest poverty will make rather than beg or steal! Besides, we have eight little chickens of our own - all born, and ever so many more that are going to be, if Fate and the other hens do not nip them in the shell. Hitherto Destiny has set her face against them. Their mother has been in a state of constant trepidation. I put fifteen eggs under her, and the number has gradually risen to twenty-three! I should not care if they would all turn into chickens, but that nest has been the scene of so many sharp conflicts that I fear the poor little yolks have not had peace enough to enable them to shape themselves into fuss and feathers. But I am going to keep Mother Hen on it until all hope is abandoned, and we shall see what we shall see. . . .

1 From "The Complete Works of Abraham Lincoln," Vol. II, by permission of The Century Co.

I suspect by this time you are pretty tired, but I am not half done yet. Anybody that is as wise as I am knows what a relief it is to sit down sometimes and be silly.

178. Write a letter of congratulation.

179. (1) Write a friend about an interesting book you are reading. Tell him enough to excite his interest without satisfying his curiosity. Or (2) in a letter to a friend write all you have learned from this chapter about letters of friendship.

180. In a letter to the principal of the school, tell what you have accomplished so far this year in each of your studies. Pay attention to (a) paragraphing, (b) sentence structure, (c) punctuation. Use correspondence paper and inclose your letter in a properly directed envelope.

181. (1) Write for a letter of introduction to a man whom you wish to meet on business; answer your letter. Or (2) write a letter of introduction. Your friend - is to be in - , a distant city, for a fortnight, and you wish her to meet a friend of yours in that city. Answer your letter.

182. (1) To a cousin whom you have never seen, write a faithful account of the town or city in which you live. Give a paragraph to each of the following subjects: location, industries, educational opportunities, character of the inhabitants. Or (2) write a friend who runs a bookstore, telling him whether you think there is a good opening for him in your town or city, or in some town near by. He will be interested in much of the matter in the letter you have just written, and in addition will wish to know about the healthfulness of the city, the value of property, rents, taxes, the cost of living, railroad facilities, the growth of the city, and the opportunity to build up the book trade.