Please Mr. Postman

Je n’ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n’ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte.

Blaise Pascal, apologising in 1657 for writing a long letter

I am a member of only two Societies: The Wine Society and the Handwritten Letter Society. The former has brought me much enjoyment over the years. The latter I joined only in the past few weeks. This Reflection is not so much of that Society but of letter writing in general.

Last month I received a handwritten letter from a friend of long-standing. At the start of this year, the letter’s writer resolved to send a letter a week to a friend or family member. I enjoyed receiving mine so much that I decided to follow suit and despatch a letter each week to friends or family.

Receiving my letter also gave me cause to think of how many years have passed since I last received what was once commonplace. These days there’s something special about a ‘real’ letter. The opening of the envelope. The feel of the pages within. The glimpse of a familiar, or not so familiar, hand. Discovering its contents.

There is a tangibility in a letter that an email, SMS, or IM does not possess. They feel transitory and for reading on the move. But something handwritten feels substantive. Encouraging you to take a seat in a quiet corner to better savour the content. Less disposable too. Casting away an email, SMS or IM requires no thought and little action. They exist in a virtual world. The press of a key despatches them to oblivion. Whereas consigning a written letter to the bin is a far more deliberate act requiring destructive action.

I still have some letters from my father written in the 1970s. My parents did not have a telephone, so letters were our only means of staying in touch after my leaving home. There’s nothing dramatic or significant in them. They convey the everyday life of my father and mother. Endearing just for that. I also have my father’s last letter to me. Found alongside his will. It’s not full of sentiment or endearments. He was not that sort of man. There are no grand requests or wishes, although it does have some recommendations as to undertakers. It ends with a request that I take care of my mother. The letter’s matter of fact style reflects my father’s character and that’s what gives it gravitas.

I also have a letter sent to my grandfather in July 1917, when hospitalised by shrapnel wounds courtesy of a German artillery shell. It begins “Dear John” but unlike what became WWII ‘Dear John’ letters, this has a happy conclusion. The letter is from the vicar of my grandfather’s hometown in the northeast of England. As one would expect, the letter is of care, compassion, and hope. It obviously meant much to my grandfather, who kept it until his death close to 70 years later. Passed on to my mother, it came to me when she died. No doubt I too will pass it on.

When my children were younger, I marked significant occasions in their lives by writing poems or letters to them. Sadly, it’s a practice I let lapse in their adulthood. However, my new resolution to write weekly letters may renew my energy for increased letter writing on other occasions.

There are many famous letter writers such as Queen Victoria, Lord Nelson, and Jane Austen. Some are of import, but many are of the minutiae of everyday living. Today they offer a remarkable social history.

There are also famous love-letter writers. For example, Beethoven and his ‘Immortal Beloved’ letters or Zelda and F Scott Fitzgerald. There are those of John Keats to his love, Fanny Brawne. And those of Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas. There are many, many more.

However, it was not a household name who wrote the love letter that stands out for me. That letter is from a soldier to his wife, Sarah while separated by War. The American Civil War. The writer was Major Sullivan Ballou of the Army of the North and the letter written some days before the opening battle of the War. Named in the North, The First Battle of Bull Run or the Battle of First Manassas in the South.

The letter is not full of self-pity or angst. It’s a letter of honour, duty, responsibility, hope and love. Deep, deep love. Both for Sarah and their children. I’ve read the letter many times. It never fails to move me.

So, my music this week, ‘Ashokan Farewell’ serves as a fitting backdrop to a reading by Paul Roebling of the letter. The American folk musician Jay Ungar composed the music. It was used as the title theme of Ken Burns’ documentary, ‘The Civil War’. A powerful and moving piece of television.

The extract I share closes episode one of that documentary series.