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. 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 i