It is more plaintive still, perhaps, when a man of genuine and simple purpose, having previously written to ask counsel as to books for his grandchildren, comes back four years later for a plan and "Spesefacations" to aid in building him a tanyard for those same grandchildren, in which the "difrent helps" may be put in "the most conviniant placeses." Where, but in America, one asks, are the different pursuits of literature and life brought so frankly and honestly together with compensation guaranteed in advance?

PA. November 19, 1886.

I am sending thus at a ventur I was so suscesful in geting Books through you so sutabel for my grandchildren in 1882.

I am bilding a tanyerd in houp that it may bi run by my grandsons. 40 by 100. intended to have atachments.

I want a plan and Spesefacations in Book pamflat or leflet form that wil gide the man that is Bulding the house in puting down the vats, and placing the difrent helps at ther levels, and most conviniant placeses.

whatever information you can help mi to I will pay for in advance, if you wish. your Servt.

For the literary man especially, the phrase "to writh" is clearly more vigorous and expressive than "to write" and often represents the same process; especially when the writer is painted at the very climax of toil, and is described as "verry bussy whit his work." What the "littel catpiece" was, is now lost to memory, but it is something to know that when "washet whit soap and whater" it "becum quit white and niece." Note throughout, also, the absence of all mere illiteracy in the spelling of this letter, a document which simply lies in some zone, halfway between some other language and our own, resulting in a consistent and uniform dialect, only half spoiled into English.

As a sample of a really vigorous, but somewhat untrained American mind, with its multitude of momentous things to be said and nothing longer than a possible sentence to say them in, - this letter from an unseen correspondent in a remote Western region will suffice. We may picture her as the kind and well-to-do adviser to her neighbors, who seek her in market wagons to enquire of her how to regain supposed bequests in far-off lands; even she being unable to find for them any refuge but in what she describes as "Carnage."

MY DEAR FRIEND, This is all one letter, a part of the last, when I got to writing about that immaginary old gentleman, that would be to old to care anything about waiting if he was older than I am, I forgot what I wished to say and that is about English lawyers, do you know of one who could attend to some business for my neighbors, this place is out of the way we have no railroads and are not connected with the city only by market wagons, we do not know any thing here, I am the only one who has been abroad and they come to me for advice about their property who know nothing about lawyers. I have one a young man who manages my estate, and I told him to write for my neighbors to Mr B—who is consul to Liverpool as I know his wife, and ask for a Lawyer for my neighbors who wish to get some money from the Bank of England, the Bank having written that it was left there by their grandfather for them. Mr. B-wrote the name of a firm, and my lawyer wrote to them to see how much money there was in the bank for them as he did not think it could be as many millions as they thought, now the lawyer answered and said he had looked the chancery and there was no estate for the — there, of course there was not, he was never told to look the chancery, what would you think of a lawyer like that, you who are noted for knowledge ought to know, and then the Bank of England wrote to know the title of the old man who lived so long ago in this neighborhood, and then my young lawyer did not know what to do, and I thought of asking you for an English lawyer of sense. Some money in this neighborhood might get us a library for the High School. I have given the land and the house is built, these farmers ought to have a library, how could we get in touch with Carnage, or some other of that generous kind of people.

No really illiterate letters will ever be so dear to my heart, or even afford such suggestive studies as to the way in which

written language first unfolds itself, as those received when I was in charge of a camp of nearly a thousand freed slaves, nine tenths of whom were making their early efforts toward the employment of written words. The simplicity and directness of the process, the seeming hopelessness of the result, the new suggestions conveyed as to phonetic methods of spelling, the absolute daring with which nouns and verbs were combined, made all mere common school instruction appear commonplace beside these. The writer of the following epistle, Baltimore Chaplin, was one of those picturesque vagabonds who are to be found in all regiments, white or black, and who are apt to make themselves more interesting to their senior officers than those leading lives of more monotonous virtue. He had been, it would seem, arrested for some offense, and probably with undue violence. The letter was addressed to the commander of the Department, and I believe it soon turned out that the writer had been, for once, unjustly suspected, and must be set at liberty. As I recur to the epistle after nearly forty years have passed, there is a certain fascination in tracing the successive efforts to make the untutored pen express the untrained ear, thus giving forth sounds new in their combination and sometimes more expressive than tones achieved under the full rigors of grammar and dictionary. The wildness of all peril appears thus concentrated into the word "Somharme" and the refuge for all safety into the word "Gorhome;" while the union of these two words in one sentence seems to reach the acme of all desolation. I have ventured to elucidate the letter by translating phrases within brackets, wherever the unaided comprehension would seem hopeless, which is, indeed, quite often.

March 22 [1864].

DEAR GENRAL GILMOR I tak my [pen to] Root [write] you this to you And Do if you Plas [please] to Grant this Parden For me For God Sak Did not Now [know] that it Twas enen Harm for my Go home

But I find that Twas Somharme For me to Gorhome But Do Genral Do If you Plas to Parden And forgev me

For All that Pat [is put] agant me for God Sak Do if you Plas to Relefe Me for God Sak for I Went home And the Sen [they sent] After me And I Saw the Copprol When he Com And he told me that I is His Priner [Prisoner] And But ten Sake [seconds] from after I Semet [submit] to Him as Privner he Shot Me Do if Ples [please] to Grant this for me This is retted [written] By the hand of Baltimore Chaplin

Do by the mercy of god Grat [Grant] this for Me Do Genral for God Sak To Parden And forgiev me.

The path back to the accustomed orthography and grammar may perhaps best be traced by this letter, written by a man in the same regiment, of much higher quality, whose intellectual progress showed itself at this stage, as often happens, by an undue range of sonorous words. I am sorry that the document does not contain his more accustomed signature, which was absolutely original and of the most dignified and even stately quality. Having been the very first colored soldier enlisted in the Civil War, he had created a title as genuine and substantial as that of any medieval baron; and usually signed himself "William Brunson, 1st Sergeant, Co. A., 1st S. C. Vols. also A: 1, African Foundations." This is one of his letters:

AT CAMP SAXTON Feb. 20th 63 MY DEAR COLONEL I hav inform in here About so doing: According to the different in rule in wish how: I stand now: for I dont know if it is Right for me to hav one of the Armies Regulation Books: so sir that is the reason I had come to you to know: and if you think that it is right for me to have one I Like to have one if it cost me one Month wages: for I Am withness [witness] that it will in Prove and give me A withness: in so doing it from sergt Wm Brunson Co A.

If to his function of literary man, poor but patient, an author adds that of being constantly confounded with a relative who is always originating large enterprises and backing them up munificently, he is liable to receive such letters as the following, which came several years since through the post office from Poonah, India. This letter was addressed in a handwriting which had, so to say, an Arabic flavor, and the address ran thus: Hinginson, the great lord of Boston, Boston through Italy." Straying into the Cambridge post office, it was handed to me, and no stretch of humility could be expected to preclude me from the privilege of opening it. The letter itself was very long, and after describing business calamities, the death of a wife, etc., it thus goes on:

"To my great misfortune this genarous uncle died Since a month and my aunt soon urges me to take away my family. This is a great difficulty I ever experienced. Money requires to settle my house again, which I have none. I asked the protection of many great men of my own cast as well as Europions, but to my evil star they all have closed their ears against me. I had heard much about the kind and generous feelings of your Americans & I have read one fresh example of your own generosity & I beg from you a protection of £50 fifty to enable me to bring my family here & commence busyness honestly. Will it please God to raise me up again and make me prosperous, I will return your amount honestly, otherwise only gratify myself by ever remembering your kind generocity and pray God to grant you a long life and prosperity. Wishing you all the worldly blessings remain

Honored Sir,

Your most

Servant."

To my perhaps too hardened ears, the gem of this whole letter is unquestionably to be found in the word "otherwise," which occurs near the close. Never before, I think, was it my lot to read a letter

asking for a loan of money and intimating one instant's doubt as to the repayment. If there is a point at which hope springs eternal in the breast of the most lagging debtor, it is this. Had I vast sums in my

pocket, yearning to be loaned, I think that the recipient whom I should prefer to all others would be the man who had the stern integrity to hint at one atom of doubt as to my seeing my money again.

THERE were all kinds of words, short ones and long ones. Some were very long. This one-we-ell, maybe it was n't so long, for when you're nine you don't of course mind three-story words, and this one looked like a three-story one. But this one puzzled you the worst ever!

Morry spelled it through again, searching for light. But it was a very dark word. Rec-om-pense, if it meant anything money-y, then they'd made a mistake, for of course you don't spell "pence" with an "s."

The dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to look up things in it, Morry wished it was not so far away and that you could do it sitting down. He sank back wearily on his cushions and wished other things, too: That Ellen would come in, but that was n't a very big wish, because Ellens are n't any good at looking up words. That dictionaries grew on your side o' the room,

that wish was a funny one! That Dadsy would come home oh, oh, that Dadsy would come home!

With that wish, which was a very Big One, indeed, came trooping back all Morry's Troubles. They stood round his easy-chair and pressed up close against him. He hugged the most intimate ones to his little thin breast.

It was getting twilight in the great, beautiful room, and twilight was troubletime. Morry had found that out long ago. It's when it's too dark to read and too light for Ellens to come and light the

lamps that you say "Come in!" to your troubles. They're always there waiting. If Dadsy had n't gone away to do— that. If he'd just gone on reg'lar business, or on a hurry-trip across the ocean, or something like that. You could count the days and learn pieces to surprise him with when he got back, and keep saying, "Won't it be splendid!" But this time well, this time it scared you to have Dadsy come home. And if you learned a hundred pieces you knew you'd never say 'em to him- now. And you kept saying, "Won't it be puffectly dreadful!"

"Won't you have the lamps lit, Master Morris?" It was Ellen's voice, but the Troubles were all talking at once, and much as ever he could hear it.

"I knew you were n't asleep because your chair cricked, so I says 'I guess we'll light up,'-it's enough sight cheerier in the light;" and Ellen's thuddy steps came through the gloom and frightened away the Troubles.

"Thank you," Morry said politely. It's easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. "Now I'd like Jolly, you guess he's got home now, don't you?"

Ellen's steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down the hall. "It's a good thing there's going to be a Her here to send that common boy kiting!" she was thinking. Yet his patches were all Ellen so far had seen in Jolly to find fault with. Though, for that matter,

in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place enough!

"Hully gee, ain't it nice an' light in here!" presently exclaimed a boy's voice from the doorway.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Jolly! Come right in and take a chair, - take two chairs!" laughed Morry in his excess of welcome. It was always great when Jolly came! He and the Troubles were not acquainted; they were never in the room at the same time.

Morry's admiration of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiled being had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were such puffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could go my! Legs like that were great!

But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon was of common occurrence,

they were always telescoped then. And nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses, never legs. If Morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive knowledge that any expression of gratitude would embarrass Jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.

"Can you hunt up things?" demanded the small host with rather startling energy. He was commonly a quiet, self-contained host. "Because there's a word” —

But Jolly had caught up his cap, untelescoped the kind little legs, and was already at the door. Nothing pleased him more than a commission from the Little White Feller in the soft chair, there. "I'll go hunt, where'd I be most likely to find him?"

The Little White Feller rarely laughed, but now "You you Jolly boy!" he choked, "you'll find him under a haystack fast aslee- No, no!" suddenly grave and solicitous of the other's feelings, "in the dictionary, I mean. Words, don't you know ?"

"Oh, get out!" grinned the Jolly boy in glee at having made the Little White

Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had never dreamed there were so many words in the world, - pages and pages and pages of 'em! The prospect of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, but he plunged in sturdily, determination written on every freckle.

"Don't begin at the first page!" cried Morry hastily. "Begin at R,-it's more than halfway through. R-e, -r-e-c, that way."

Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously his little blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the red tip of his tongue endless times, wished 't was over. He had meant to begin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k, at Number Seven they spelled it that way. Had n't he lost a mark for spelling it without a "w"? But of course if folks preferred the r-kind

"Hi!" the blunt finger leaped into space and waved triumphantly. "R-e-c-k, - I got him!"

"Not 'k,' there is n't any 'k.' Go backwards till you drop it, Jolly, - you dropped it?"

Dictionaries are terrible, still, leaving a letter off o' the end is n't as bad as off o' the front. Jolly retraced his steps patiently.

"I've dropped it," he announced in time.

Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking up words with other people's forefingers is pretty tough.

"Now, the second story, - 'rec' is the first," he explained. "You must find 'rec-om' now, you know."

No, Jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted. "We'll tree him," he said cheerily, "but I think I could do it easier if I whistled"