Old Letters

I've developed over the years an interest in old letters. Writing letters is a dead art--died in our lifetime. I remember having to send letters home when I was in boot camp, and exchanged a few with a girl I know in Germany before we both had email a few years later. Now facebook--which is becoming somewhat "sluttish" and mostly distasteful. Letter writing is a thing of the past.

But if anyone is so inclined it's fairly easy to look up letters from a long time ago and read them. It would be a good thing to do. Reading them is like looking into an old viewfinder and seeing snapshots from the past, narrated by whoever wrote the letter. You can hear voices and see things that are long gone. It's somewhat strange--all the people and places you read in those old letters are dead. The writer is dead, people and places they're talking about are all gone, but they come alive when you read them.

They do for me, anyway. Old ghost stories.

Here is an excerpt from a nice one I found the other day. I've got a pretty good collection of them now. These old things teach me a lot about writing.

This is early Monday morning. The wind is blowing "fair & free." & here I remark we have not had much wind this spring, & a fresh breeze strikes me as a novelty. There were light showers last night & when I went out last night for a turn in the garden, the larkspurs & white jasmine & holly hocks were in their glory & the cabbages on a broad grin. How sweet it all is, you well know. Do you know that I never can write to you about this old house of yours without a swelling at the heart & often at the eyes. It seems so hard, so incredible that you shd have been forced away from it. I am sitting at your especial window. The Mimosa is just beginning to bloom. June has made up the bed (we sleep in the other room; sit in here) & picked up & put away everything & set both rooms perfectly to rights all but the sweeping wh I did myself. I told her just now, I meant to call her "Help." She is such a help. She sits near in her little carpet bottom chair, dressing "Lea."

One of these windows fell down on my foot this morning & I am quite lame. How could a window fall on a body's foot? Easy enough when you sit with your bare legs elevated out on the window sill in order to get your feet warmed in the sunshine of a cool morning.

I walked through the early moonlight last evening with the children — moon rising red in the east, sun setting gold in the west — to see Dr Hubbard. Found him just lighting his pipe, looking so natural, so pleasant, so cordial. I had a very agreeable hour with them all.

This morning I took the children & rode down to Closs' creek, there we got out & walked down the creek to the "Lake". Thence to the strawberry patch. Fred Hargrave's establishment looks sluttish & tumble down. I told him it needed a mistress. We three & the Malletts went on Monday afternoon to get ivy, aiming for Ivy Hill, but we could not get there. So we wandered & meandered over Purefoy's plantation, the children & Patty M. wading to their heart's content

I think we got more & a greater variety of fine flowers than I ever saw at once before. I like the Mallett girls mightily. They are very agreeable companions. I have been to see Miss Ann Craig several times. She is getting well. Last Sunday evening I found her reading a little old dingy, dilapidated Testament, the type of which tried my eyes sorely when I went to read it to her. Next day I sent her a large copy (with the Psalms). You never saw anyone more grateful than she was yesterday morning when I called in for a minute.

Well. It was so well d (that was not a tear-drop but June , who is fussing now at my hair & wetting it & flirted the water all over everything. She looks over my shoulder very persistent & says, what did you go & tell aunt L. for, that it was me.) It is now after breakfast, nearly 9 & I have just had a visit from Ann Mickle. Such are the interruptions of letter writing.