This consisted of three parts: ‘How to Begin a Letter’; ‘How to Go On with a Letter’; ‘How to End a Letter’. The instruction was more interesting than the architecture, not least because Carroll assumed that the majority of his readers had barely written a letter before. ‘If the Letter is to be in answer to another, begin by getting out that other letter and reading it through,’ he began, ‘in order to refresh your memory, as to what it is you have to answer, and as to your correspondent’s present address (otherwise you will be sending your letter to his regular address in London, though he has been careful in writing to give you his Torquay address in full).’
A stamp for every occasion: Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland solution.
The next instruction seemed a little less obvious: you should address and stamp the envelope before starting the letter. ‘And I’ll tell you what will happen if you don’t,’ Carroll predicted.
‘You will go on writing till the last moment, and, just in the middle of the last sentence, you will become aware that “time’s up!” Then comes the hurried wind-up, the wildly scrawled signature, the hastily fastened envelope which comes open in the post, the address, a mere hieroglyphic, the horrible discovery that you’ve forgotten to replenish your Stamp-Case, the frantic appeal to every one in the house to lend you a Stamp, the headlong rush to the Post Office, arriving, hot and gasping, just after the box has closed, and finally, a week afterwards, the return of the Letter, from the Dead Letter Office, marked “address illegible”!’
Then there was guidance about where to put your own address, and a command to write this in full at the top of the sheet. ‘It is an aggravating thing – I speak from bitter experience – when a friend, staying at some new address, heads his letter “Dover”, simply, assuming that you can get the rest of the address from his previous letter, which perhaps you have destroyed.’ Inevitably Carroll also advised to put the date in full, which will help, years later, in compilation.
How to go on with a letter? ‘Write legibly. The average temper of the human race would be perceptibly sweetened, if everybody obeyed this Rule! A great deal of the bad writing in the world comes simply from writing too quickly. Of course you reply, “I do it to save time.”’ Carroll reported that one friend’s letters were so badly written that it would take a week to decipher the hieroglyphics. ‘If all one’s friends wrote like that, Life would be entirely spent in reading their letters!’
With regards to content, the best subject at the outset would be your friend’s last letter. If one refers to specific points, quote the words exactly to avoid conflict; if there is controversy, take care not to repeat yourself. If you have written anything that may offend, put the letter aside for a day and then read it as if you were the recipient. ‘This will often lead to your writing it all over again, taking out a lot of the vinegar and pepper, and putting in honey instead.’ Carroll’s other rules:
If your correspondent makes a severe remark, either ignore it or soften your response; if your friend is friendly, make your reply ever friendlier.
Don’t try to have the final word: let an issue run its course courteously. ‘Remember “speech is silvern, but silence is golden”! (N.B. If you are a gentleman, and your friend is a lady, this Rule is superfluous: you won’t get the last word!).
If you ever insult your friend in jest, make this very obvious.
If you write that you’re enclosing a cheque or someone else’s letter, ‘leave off writing for a moment – go and get the document referred to – and put it into the envelope. Otherwise, you are pretty certain to find it lying about, after the Post has gone!’
At the end of a sheet, find another one: ‘whatever you do, don’t cross! Remember the old proverb “Cross-writing makes cross reading.”’ (Carroll admitted to inventing that proverb himself.)
His advice on how to conclude a letter provided a neat update on valedictory habits towards the close of the nineteenth century. He detected ‘at least a dozen varieties, before you reach “yours affectionately”’, and they are familiar to us still: yours faithfully, yours truly, your most truly. His advice was to refer to your friend’s last sign-off and to make yours as or even more friendly. He noted a ‘very useful invention’ known as the postscript, which had already been shortened to P.S. ‘But it is not meant (as so many ladies suppose) to contain the real gist of the letter: it serves rather to throw into the shade any little matter we do not wish to make a fuss about.’
And then there was one final admonition. ‘When you take your letters to the Post, carry them in your hand. If you put them in your pocket you will take a long country-walk (I speak from experience), passing the Post Office twice, going and returning, and, when you get home, will find them still in your pocket.’
Two years later, the popular weekly journal All The Year Round published its own version of letter-writing instruction, inspired by the new depths to which its anonymous author perceived the art had fallen.* It began with something incontrovertible: ‘There are letters, and letters. Though little is needed to write a letter, to write a good letter is another matter.’ The highest attainment was to paint in words ‘like an artist, and write like an author; but there will be nothing stiff or ungraceful in his pictures, because they keep so close to Nature. No matter how trivial the occurrences related, they are facts in which both writer and reader have a mutual concern and that, together with the easy, chatty style in which they are related, gives them a charm which never fails to make them acceptable.’
Charles Dickens in productive pose in 1858.
Not everyone could write like this, of course, and not everyone could be taught to, but All The Year Round was keen to provide tips as to how we may at least aspire to greatness. The first referred to the most common bugbear – illegibility. ‘If ever there was a time when writing has been made easy it is this present time, when even the poorest are well taught, when schools are plentiful . . . when paper, pens and ink are all good and cheap.’ But people just couldn’t be bothered to write clearly, the writer complained, or if they couldn’t write clearly they just couldn’t be bothered to improve their writing, and if they did improve their writing they were often so mean that they would write not on ordinary paper but on scraps or even the margins of torn newspapers. The worst offenders were apparently bishops, the nineteenth-century version of doctors: ‘The fact that these right reverend gentlemen are many of them not good, or, rather, are very bad scribes, has grown so notorious, that the saying “he ought to be a Bishop, he writes so badly” is becoming quite a general one.’
But what of those whose writing is fine but just don’t write? ‘This is more generally the fault of young people, and arises chiefly from thoughtless selfishness. Their thoughts and their time are engrossed with their own pleasures and pursuits. It is more amusing and interesting to write to young people of their own age than to write duty letters to parents and relatives.’ Do these terrible people not write at all? ‘A shabby, ill-considered, stilted letter is written at wide intervals to those whose whole life has been spent in their service, while folios of trash are lavished on bosom friends to whom they owe no duty whatsoever.’
Could there be worse crimes still? Apparently so. The poet William Cowper was credited with a phrase equally attributed assigned to his contemporary Jane Austen – that letter-writing may be best described as the art of silent speech, the notion that the best letter to a friend was a ‘talking letter’, something that read as if you were telling it to them over tea. This still makes sense to us today: ‘passing from one subject to another, as the thoughts spring up . . . omitting nothing that would be of interest, and telling everything in a simple, natural way.’ But very few people actually write in this free-flowing, clear-stream way, and who or what is to blame? It is the letter manuals. Too many people ‘assume an unnatural, stilted, verbose style, quite different to their manner in ordinary conversation, using a vocabulary much more pol
ysyllabic in its nature than is their wont. For “mend” they write “repair”, for “enough” “sufficient” and so on, till their letters are no more like themselves than if someone else had written them, and one of the greatest charms of correspondence is entirely lost – its identification with the writer.’
The French explain where to stick it in 1907.
But there were other, ever more ingenious ways of getting a message across. Cards have been sent through the post since the beginnings of the mail (the writing tablets from Vindolanda are arguably the earliest), but their heyday occurred at the start of the twentieth century, the picture postcard coinciding with mass coastal holidaying (the British Postal Museum and Archive estimates that between 1902 and 1914, up to 800 million cards were sent annually). They said what postcards always did: wish you were here, weather mixed, love to all at home. But they were an open and unguarded form of writing, open to prying eyes at every step of their journey, and occasionally a more intimate message was required. This came in the form of a code, and was delivered by the tilting of a stamp (in much the same way as a stroke or symbol on a letter concealed a preordained message prior to 1840). A stamp stuck upside down in the top left hand corner would mean ‘I love you’. A stamp on its side in the same position meant ‘My heart belongs to someone else’. And so on, through the permutations.*
Further complication arrived by post from Scandinavia. Sweden was particularly enamoured with the possibilities of tilting, as the North Carolina Scandinavian stamp specialist Jay Smith makes clear in his interpretation of a Swedish postcard from 1902. This shows eight stamps at distinct angles and their (translated) meanings: ‘Burn my letter’; ‘Fidelity is its own reward’; ‘I cannot accept your congratulation’; ‘You have survived the trial/examination’; and, perhaps reflective of those long dark nights, ‘Leave me alone in my grief and pain’.*
In 1938, what may be the most useful manual of all was published in Shanghai. Written by Chen Kwan Yi and Whang Shih, Key to English Letter Writing was a guide that served double duty: it taught the Chinese how to compose personal and business letters in slightly creaky English, and it provided its English readers with invaluable insight into personal and corporate Chinese customs we may not have otherwise been aware of. Unlike Anglo-American guides, these letter templates did not usually concern misfiring sons and their long-suffering fathers, or how best to address a duchess. Instead, the examples were both more mundane and, conceptually, more profound.
They also show extreme generosity, such as this example for the newlywed. ‘I have heard from Mr B that you were married to Miss C last Wednesday. I beg your acceptance of the accompanying fish as a trifling token of my affection.’ And when that marriage proves fruitful? ‘Allow me to congratulate you on the birth of a child in your family. I beg you will accept the accompanying basket of mixed fish which I send you in celebration of the happy event.’ Would a promotion, perhaps in the legal profession, also yield a fish gift? Sadly not. ‘Sir, I learn with pleasure that you have been admitted to the bar and have established yourself in private chambers . . . Please accept the accompanying bicycle as a slight token of my wishes for your future success.’
The New Yorker came across the Chinese manual in New York’s Chinatown in the middle of September 1939, two weeks after the outbreak of war in Europe. Everything, even near-calamity, was the excuse for a party: ‘The fire which occurred in your neighborhood last night must have caused you considerable alarm,’ another letter surmised. ‘I was very glad to hear that your house escaped . . . Please accept the accompanying dozen of champagne with best congratulations.’
But one should exercise caution, for the bestowing of presents may be seen as overstepping the mark, particularly when romance has not yet blossomed. ‘In the present stage of our relation to each other,’ a young woman is encouraged to write to a pushy suitor, ‘I do not feel justified in accepting gifts, which in my opinion are only compatible with friendships of close intimacy and long standing.’
Something clearly worked: 75 years on, the average well-educated Chinese person’s grasp of English is stronger than the average well-educated English person’s grasp of any dialect of Chinese (with letter manuals taking only some of the credit), and congratulatory tokens of fish are no doubt still testing the resolve of Chinese postal workers from Quanzhou to Jinchang. But this is not all. Key to English Letter Writing also contains a summary of shortened forms of popular Western Christian names, helping to ensure that letters may be addressed less formally once intimacy is attained. If you have a friend called Charles, you may, after a few letters, address him as ‘Chaos’; if he is Thomas, then ‘Jommy’ will bring him delight; and if he is Stephen, you will have a correspondent for life if you call him ‘Steenie’.
Photographs
14232134 SIGMN. BARKER H.C., 30 WING, 1 COY., 9 AIR FORMATION SIGNALS, C.M.F.
4th and 12th August 1944
My dear and lovely Bessie,
This will be a short and hurried letter to convey to you the news that I have recently had a short and safe sea journey to the above mentioned Command [in Naples], and am having a most interesting time, as well as looking forward to the times ahead. You can imagine my relief when I discovered I was not bound for India, and my pleasure to be again on the same continent as you. The sand that fell on the stone floor here when I made my bed here last night is the last I may ever sleep on again.
I have no great complaint about Libya, but it is good to get away from the eternal camel, sand, and to see again trees, houses, streets, civilians and other near-England sights. As I have only been here a day, you will not expect much news of the place. Apart from varied uniforms, there is little sign that there is a war on, and no sign of lack of food. Many of the young children present a similar appearance to those in Egypt, but the adults are well dressed and look true to type. The women are attractive, languorous, and their clothes are of many types and materials. (I gave my issue of preventatives to one of our chaps whose appetite is larger than my own.) There is a good NAAFI, and a Y.M.C.A. At the latter I bought 2 cakes (with a penny each) and a cup of tea for – 6d (10 LIRE). There are some fine, but very dear, silks and satins on sale. Strangely, not many ice cream shops, although I had a wonderfully cold Limonata today for 6d. There are plenty of nice tomatoes about, almonds, pears, etc. I was unfortunately unable to travel with my brother, but will shortly be joining up with him again, to recommence our journeyings together and swap recent experiences.
You can imagine how I felt today to get your photographs, on top of these L.C.s I have lately received! How lovely you are! How really nice! How much to be admired! Dear, dear, dearest Elizabeth, what are you doing to me, what are we doing to each other? How did I not see you, why was I blind, what can I do? I do not want to use ordinary words and usual language to tell you how dear you are to me, how I ache and wait for you. You are worthy of so much more than I can ever hope to give, yet your love inspires me, and makes me think I might succeed with you. I shall return later the photographs taken at Great Yarmouth and Rannoch Moor. Both may be a little bit precious to you, and the four (it’s grand to have so many) others will be wonderful for me to drink in. Already I have had a dozen quick furtive looks. I am looking forward to the time when I can take my first long look at them, when I am by myself, when I can imagine the better that you are with me. Now, when you look at my photographs, you can wonder if I am looking at yours at the same time. There will be many times when that happens, for I shall look often. Look at you holding your skirt, look at you showing your bare feet, look at you by the boat, and be delighted at the curve of your breasts revealed by the jumper. Look at you with the other girl, at your little velvet trousers, your bare knees. Whew! You have done something now! This is magnificent and marvellous, and you are wonderful and glorious. You are a delight and a delicacy, my wondrous woman! My lovely, lovely wife!
I love you.
Chris
/> 28th September 1944
My Dearest,
Your [letter] came today at noon, less than four days from the postmark.
While I applaud any act of decision or resolution on your part, I really do not want you to make yourself unhappy about smoking under the impression that I think it very bad. I hope that you succeed in your cigarette ban. I shall not offer advice, you must have plenty. I know that you are doing it for me, and I can tell you I am proud of you and pleased with you.
You know that, before I left the desert, I had to destroy most of your letters. I kept a very few, I felt that I must because you had said so much to me in them. I had to burn many letters, I have had over twenty since. All of them are precious to me, all of them speak wonderfully to me of your love, of your fragrance. But in the hurry of a move to you know not where, one has to pick out what one can.
We shall not have an easy time immediately I return, because restraint will be necessary. I am hoping you will be able to do something in the way of house-finding before I return, but I know it is difficult. I also hope that when the flying bombs are finally settled you will feel like looking for little things of use in the home. You’ll need potato peelers, egg whisks, all sorts of things which if you can get beforehand will save us a lot of trouble and delay.
To the Letter Page 23