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sense of humor to be "a hindrance to practical success in life," though one could wish this were not so. The great proportion of men who send postcards "in haste" to say they are "much too busy to answer" belong almost always to the class that devotes several days a week to golf or some equally engrossing occupation. Men who really are busy find time to answer letters, and they answer usually by return. Mr. Gladstone used to answer every letter he received-begging letters from obvious impostors alone excepted-and he never dictated his replies; also, I believe I am right in saying, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain seldom leaves a letter unanswered.

Among my collection I find a few letters that can best be summed up in the one word "gushing." Experience teaches me that the habitual writer of the "gushing," frothy effusion, is seldom a man to be trusted. As a rule he ends by revealing himself to be a humbug, if not a hypocrite, and eight times out of ten he finishes by wanting something, it may be a loan, it may be only a note of introduction. I print one specimen only of the "gushing" letter, word for word as I received it.

My very dear Sir,-I was most charmed to receive your most courteous communication, which let me hasten to answer. I can assure you it will afford me the very greatest of satisfaction to show you . . . and to furnish you with every particular. But won't you come and lunch with me, and let me introduce you to my wife? I know she will be as delighted to make your acquaintance as I shall be; in fact, we are both quite looking forward to your visit. . . .

And so on. Yet there was no reason, there could not have been any reason, why this man, or his wife either, should honestly have looked forward to meeting me, a complete stranger. They had no interest in my concerns, and I had none in theirs. But before I quitted

their "hospitable" roof they made use of every means of persuasion in their power to get me to write a newspaper article in praise of some property in which they were interested.

I feel it is almost unnecessary to mention that a considerable proportion of the people to whom one is compelled to apply for information at one time or other, do not reply. Such persons belong to one of three groups. The first group is made up of men and women who, being, to put it plainly, too lazy to write any letter they can avoid writing, are in the habit of remarking sententiously that they "don't answer more letters than they can help-on principle." The second group consists of well-meaning people either devoid of method, or addicted to procrastination, who will tell you semi-apologetically, when you meet them, that they "ought to have answered that letter of yours," but that they are "such shocking correspondents." The third group embraces the self-complacent little crowd who observe, when the subject of not answering letters is broached, that they find that "heaps of letters answer themselves," and they generally roll off this platitude as if it were an original phrase, whereas it dates back to the time of Disraeli. Some men become extremely annoyed when their letters are not answered, in the same way that others lash themselves into anger when they receive rude letters; but, to adapt to the present case the sentence of a famous statesman, "when there is so much in life that is really vexatious it would seem mere waste of animal economy to let such pin-pricks disturb one's equanimity."

I have been struck at discovering how deceptive handwriting often is as a true guide to the writer's habits. Letters well expressed, neatly written, and carefully punctuated, that ought, according to the canons of graphology, to emanate only from men of tidy and regular

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habits, come, as often as not, from individuals whose mode of living is quite the reverse, and whose "workshops" present the appearance of a paper basket recently in eruption. Consequently I have found that a letter typewritten or dictated forms just as sure a key to the correspondent's temperament as one written by hand. Here, for instance, is a letter written at the instruction of a Royal Princess to a very famous vocalist that surely reveals the Royal lady's kindly nature, and her deep consideration for others, as accurately as if the written words were before us:

My dear Madame

As you are always so kind, I come to ask you if it would be possible for you to hear a young girl sing, in whom the Queen takes much interest. She is the daughter of Mr. one of the Queen's head servants, who has been fifty years in the Royal service, and she has been taught at the Musical Academy at South Kensington. The other day she sang there, and the Queen was so much struck by her fine contralto voice that she wished some one of musical influence could hear her. So we thought perhaps we might turn to you dear Madame if it is not giving you too much trouble, and recommend this young girl to your kind interest. She is twenty-two, and, I believe, wishes to make singing her profession. Her elder sister is also very musical, and obtained the Duke of Edinburgh's prize for pianoforte playing at the same academy.

.

It was such a delight hearing you the other night in Lohengrin, and my husband was so pleased to hear you for the first time on the stage.

Hoping to have the pleasure of seeing you again this autumn,

Believe me, dear Madame

Yours, very sincerely,

And here is a letter in the same tone from another Royal lady that was received by the same artist:

My dear Madame

You are always doing kind things for other people, will you do one more for me? The Conversazione of the ... Nurses' Association, of which I am President, takes place on December 18, at the . Hundreds of nurses come from all parts of the Kingdom, and we always endeavor to provide some speWould youcial pleasure for them.

if you are free-give them the supreme pleasure of hearing you sing? Of course I shall be there myself, and if you can grant my petition I shall feel it only another proof of your friendship for me and mine.

Believe me,

Yours most sincerely and affectionately,

Even more gracious was the letter she received upon another occasion from a reigning Sovereign abroad:

Acceptez tous mes remerciments, très chère Madame .. ..., pour la généreuse contribution que vous venez d'offrir à l'hôpital qui porte mon nom. Cet acte de charité est digne de la grande artiste que nous voyons partir avec regret après l'avoir admirée comme l'interprète international de l'harmonie.

What a contrast in tone from that adopted by some of the persons who move in ordinary society, when they have occasion to communicate with distinguished artists. Here is a letter that was sent by a wealthy woman of title, last season, to an artist of worldwide renown:

Madame,-I shall expect you to be here at ten o'clock punctually, so don't fail me. Tell your accompanist to bring all the songs I wrote down in my list. We shall want you to give us five songs at least. When you get here you will be shown into the artists' dressing-room, where please wait until you are fetched.-Yours faithfully,

I need hardly add that the famous vocalist was, at the eleventh hour, "unavoidably detained." In point of fact she did not wish to be "fetched." There are probably few well-known

artists, actors and actresses who have not in the course of their careers received communications of this latter sort. Fortunately the courteous and

The Monthly Review.

gratifying letters as a rule considerably outnumber those which are calculated to leave a disagreeable flavor.

Basil Tozer.

SICK-ROOM FICTION.

Facts are stubborn things, we are told, and the facts which obtrude themselves upon the helpless sufferer bound fast to a sick bed are of a particularly obstinate and unconquerable nature. Leaving out of the count such weighty matters as procrastination of business and the worries attendant thereon, the yoking of a weakened body to a mind abnormally active, there are certain minor facts which claim the attention of the patient with irritating persistence. That crack on the ceiling which would have so exactly portrayed the map of England if Devon and Cornwall had not been cut off by the cornice-how annoying to be unable to remove the obstacle, yet how difficult to construct the peninsula with such an impediment in the way! The wallpaper, at ordinary times bearing an innocent design of roses and foliage, now wreathes itself with grinning faces, the more repulsive because, though nose and mouth and eyes are there, the chin is wanting, and the green pigtail which completes the head is unevenly attached! Then the impatient wonder as to whether the greater comfort ensured by restoring the slippery pillow to its accustomed place would be worth the exertion of raising one's head; as to whether it would be expedient to ring the bell that the blind may be lowered, or whether on the whole it might not be more profitable to wait till somebody came in.

Such slight matters as these assume a quite unnatural importance, and the relief of having one's mind diverted and one's thoughts pleasantly occupied by the sayings and doings of imag

inary persons is proportionately great. From the very earliest age the aid of fiction is invaluable in the sick-room as promoting repose of mind and consequently hastening recovery. I knew a baby boy once who, while still teething, was helped through many a feverish night by the recital of a certain tale, which in his inarticulate fashion he entitled "Tom-'n-d'apple-tree." At intervals of broken slumber the little flushed cheek would be raised from the pillow and the little hand outstretched. "Tom-'n-d'apple-tree!"

Straightway the tired watcher began again, being speedily pulled up if Towzer barked a moment too soon, or if the delinquent Tom began his perilous slide down from the tree before Farmer Brown appeared at the gate.

Looking back upon one's own past, one's first definite recollections of fiction are invariably associated with physic. In one's nursery days the former served as an antidote to the latter. One sees again the railed cot in the corner by the fire, one feels all the importance of lying abed while little sisters' toilets are progressing; one could almost shudder in recalling the slow tread down the long passage and the opening of the door, revealing the advancing figure of old Nurse armed with cup and spoon.

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moment! Shut your eyes and hold your nose, and it will be gone before you know where you are!"

How could one shut one's eyes when one was so anxious to calculate the extent of one's misery, or hold a nose at that time exiguous in nature and rendered slippery with ineffectual tears?

But the nauseous potion is disposed of at last, and Nurse cuts short the injured protests which succeed it by the welcome announcement:

"Now, mavourneen, I'll make ye some toast for your breakfast, and I'll tell ye a story."

The combination was too delightful to be resisted. Smiles succeeded tears as one selected one's particular "wanity" in the matter of toast, and composed oneself to listen. One discarded, of course, ordinary toast in favor of "French" toast, which, as every one knows, necessitates the buttering of the bread before submitting it to the action of the flames; or steamed toast, which was simply prepared by holding a thick slice close to the spout of a boiling-kettle. When quite saturated and buttered hot it afforded a very good imitation of a tea-cake, and possessed the further advantage of being extremely unwholesome.

The selection of the story took rather more time. Nurse only possessed three in her repertory. "Blue-Beard," which was comparatively commonplace; "The Little Man and the Little Woman who lived in the Vinegar Bottle," which was exciting but short, and, moreover, tantalizing to the juvenile mind as being wanting in verisimilitude; and "The Spider and the Gout," a delicious folk-tale which I have endeavored to relate elsewhere ("North, South, and Over the Sea"). The "Gout" was always spoken of as if it were a living thing, and was supposed by the small listener to be a kind of insect. It would be impossible to describe the

raciness which the narrative received from the quaint phraseology and varying facial expression of the story-teller. The "weeshy-dawshy" Little Man was of so sociable a turn that directly the stopper was removed from the vinegar bottle he popped out his head and invited somebody to dinner. Indignation of the "weeshy-dawshy" Little Woman, who pulled him down by the legs and thrusting forth her head, requested the guests to stay away. Obstinate goodwill on the part of the Little Man, who, pushing her aside in her turn, once more looked out upon the world and cried, "Company, company, come!" Fury of the Little Woman, who, reverting to her former tactics, inhospitably shrieked, "Company, company, go!"

The story was disappointing, nevertheless, in having no definite end, whereas the other two, as we knew by experience, finished in the most satisfactory manner possible. One never doubted for a moment that Sister Anne would see somebody coming, any more than one troubled oneself over the misadventures of the Spider and the Gout in the rich man's and poor man's houses respectively, knowing, as one did, that by changing places all would be set right, and that the Gout would revel in velvet cushions and port wine, while the Spider spun his webs undisturbed in the cabin-window.

At a later period one fell under the spell of Dickens. Imagine the delight of the Christmas Books and the opening chapters of David Copperfield to an imaginative child! I have ever found Dickens a welcome visitor in the sick-room, though long familiarity has induced-not contempt, far from it indeed!-but a certain nicety of selection; one picks and chooses which scene shall be enacted for one's delectation before one rings up the curtain. The same applies to other giants of the craft: they are too big, too important

to be permitted to dally long in converse with a sufferer. One is not in a condition to appreciate the subtleties of Meredith, the delicate art of Stevenson, and "the big bow-wow" of which Sir Walter Scott himself speaks is too noisy for the sick-room. Thackeray's occasionally uncomfortable views of human nature strike the prisoner there as painfully true; certain poignant passages in Hardy and George Eliot positively haunt one. Poor Fanny Robins dragging herself in her extremity to Casterbridge Union; the murder-scene in Tess; Hetty Sorrel's journey and its climax-such pages as these dwell in the memory, pervading feverish slumbers, weighing upon one in waking hours.

It may be noted, indeed, that the sick instinctively dread any strong call upon their emotions; this peculiarity is equally noticeable in the old. Anything that demands intense admiration, deep pity, violent abhorrence, whether in actual life or in the pages of a book, is felt to be a strain to which they are unable to make adequate response. In the feebleness induced either by illness or the weight of years one likes to be gently amused, not violently agitated-even by pleasurable emotions, to laugh in moderation, and not to cry at all. It is the young and healthy who in a manner revel in sorrow and take their joys seriously.

Sick-room fiction is best administered in selected portions; though other rich dainties are forbidden, the plums of literature may be indulged in without restraint. A few, very few books may be read from cover to cover without undue excitement or subsequent pain. Such a book as "Cranford," for instance, or to cite more modern examples, "Elizabeth and her German Garden," or "A Lame Dog's Diary." And I know one author, only one, who is welcome to the invalid in her entirety.

A recent illness was lightened for the

present writer by the sympathetic society of the incomparable Jane Austen, whose works were read aloud to her in succession and from beginning to end, just as she reached the captious stage of convalescence. What a delightful company is that to which Jane introduces us! Sunny, high-spirited Emma, gentle Ann Elliot, Catherine so lovable in her naïveté; Elizabeth Bennet, queen of them all. And then Mrs. Jennings, Miss Bates, Mr. Collins-how life-like they are! Could anything be more graphic than that description of Admiral and Mrs. Croft's drive in the one-horse chaise, the Admiral holding the reins to which Mrs. Croft occasionally gives a better direction, judiciously "putting out her hand" whenever they were in danger of taking a post, fallg into a rut, or running foul of a cart? Then the Admiral's joy over their lodgings at Bath, which he likes all the better because they remind him of those they had when they first kept house, a penniless couple, at North Yarmouth. "The wind blows through the cupboards in just the same way."

Not one of these personages but possesses its own individuality. After one has lived in their society for a day or two they assume such actuality that one is inclined to ask a chance visitor if Miss Woodhouse has been seen lately, or: "How does my sweet Ann Elliot do to-day?" One has, moreover, a distinct consciousness of Jane's own personality-one could almost fancy her coming in round the screen, dressed in her brown muslin and carrying her useful little bag. One would submit to the application of any remedy which Jane might produce from that little bag, from lavender drops to hartshorn; and with what satisfaction would one watch that expressive face of hers with its bright eyes and humorous lips!

A recent biographer of Jane Austen has found fault with her for some remarks in her delicious gossiping let

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