red out the wealth of family affection
which was one of the most amiable features of his character. He has
described how he had been to see his mother, how she had laughed at his bad
jokes, how they went out to tea at Mrs. Millar's, and how in going they
were struck with the light and shade through the gateway at the Horse
Guards. And he goes on: "I intend to write you such volumes that it will be
impossible for me to keep any order or method in what I write; that will
come first which is uppermost in my mind, not that which is uppermost in my
heart--besides I should wish to give you a picture of our lives here
whenever by a touch I can do it; even as you must see by the last sentence
our walk past Whitehall all in good health and spirits--this I am certain
of because I felt so much pleasure from the simple idea of your playing a
game of cricket."

There is the recipe by one of the masters of the craft. A letter written in
this vein annihilates distance; it continues the personal gossip, the
intimate communion, that has been interrupted by separation; it preserves
one's presence in absence. It cannot be too simple, too commonplace, too
colloquial. Its familiarity is not its weakness, but its supreme virtue. If
it attempts to be orderly and stately and elaborate, it may be a good
essay, but it will certainly be a bad letter.

ON READING IN BED

Among the few legacies that my father left me was a great talent for
sleeping. I think I can say, without boasting, that in a sleeping match I
could do as well as any man. I can sleep long, I can sleep often, and I can
sleep sound. When I put my head on the pillow I pass into a fathomless
peace where no dreams come, and about eight hours later I emerge to
consciousness, as though I have come up from the deeps of infinity.

That is my normal way, but occasionally I have periods of wakefulness in
the middle of the night. My sleep is then divided into two chapters, and
between the chapters there is a slab of unmitigated dreariness. It is my
hour of pessimism. The tide has ebbed, the water is dead-low, and there is
a vista of endless mud. It is then that this tragi-comedy of life touches
bottom, and I see the heavens all hung with black. I despair of humanity, I
despair of the war, I despair of myself. There is not one gleam of light in
all the sad landscape, and the abyss seems waiting at my feet to swallow me
up with everything that I cherish. It is no use saying to this d