LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 437, 6 November 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A STORY ABOUT ILLEGIBLE WRITING. (From Chambers' Journal.) We were going to remove to another house, and my mother and I having lived for’ many years in the one we were about to Quit, papers and trifles of all descriptions had accumulated in such inconvenient qrßmtitles, that we determined to give up an evening to sort the lumber, and to make a bonfire of that which we did not wish to keep. As we emptied old writing-desks, and drew forth letter after letter, sorting bookcases and other receptacles which contained pamphlets, and odds and ends of that kind, we would now and then pause over our labors, to con some yellow scrap of paper, or to find a bit of writing, perhaps devoid of envelope, and then carelessly throw them into the general heap. As I was glancing over several letters which were packed away in a dear old workbox, now disused, I came on one which caused my heart to throb, I knew the writing so well; and all the other letters of the same writer, I treasured up in a particular casket, which on no account would I have pe. mitted mortal hands to touch. There they had all lain for many a quiet year. I had been a young merry girl when they reached my hands. The penmanship was so extraordinarily like hieroglyphics, that|Jl well remembered, in many instances, having impatiently thrown the letters down, exclaiming: ‘ If Gervase will persist in making himself illegible, I shall certainly not take the trouble to try and translate his epistles;’ yet how I was interested in them all the while, and how I tried to guess the meaning, whenit was impossible to make it out. ‘ I wonder,’observed my mother on such occasions, ‘ that a clever, highly educated man like Gervase Markham has not learned to write better. How he will ever be able to read his own sermons, when he is called on to preach them, I cannot imagine. ’ fco, in the old workbox, I found one of his strangely scrawled epistles, which caused my heart to throb, as I have said. I had been seriously ill at the time when the date of it was new, and it had been placed in my workbox, and scarcely thought of again; I never had attempted to decipher it, from long-con-tinned weakness. It was, however, the last I ever received from Gervase Markham; it had been a heart-break, and all was a dream of the past. What impelled me to open this old faded record of hopes and of fears, now ? what mysterious impulse urged me to scrutinise carefully the closely written pages ? chosely written, but with characteristic illegibility. Probably, I had greater patience and experience than when the ink was fresh, for now I read and understood; and with a faint sensation as of approaching death, I recollect holding the fatal document to my breast, and crying out: ‘ O mother, too late —too late!’

I suppose long insensibility succeeded, as, on recovering consciousness, I found the household assembled round me, and my dear mother, spectacles on nose, regarding the old letter which had caused such mischief, much as if it was a living thing, and. had power to bite.

Gervase Markham was the younger son of a Monmouthshire baronet, and intended for the church. We were boy and girl when we first met at his father’s house, and Gervase was a grave, sensitive youth, plain in person, but with intellectual abilities of the highest order. I often wondered how he came to like me so much, such a spoilt, thoughtless girl; but he did, and though we entered into no positive engagement, for our parents, owing to close kindred, would not hear of that, yet we both felt that our mutual future happiness was bound up in each other. Gervase was poor, as a younger son, and had no prospect of being able to marry, as his family had no livings in their gift, and no Church interest. But we were young, and lived in hope; and at length we were allowed to correspond. lam quite sure that my letters were written in a clear, legible hand enough, and I should not have cared if all the world had read them, for I had no secrets, and they were not a bit like foolish love letters, but only kind and friendly. I never was a demonstrative girl, and least of all in writing to Gervase. I have already alluded to the really shameful scrawl he wrote. Often used my dear mother to say : ‘ Well, Clara, have you got some hieroglyphics to pore over to day ?’ I really do believe the naughty fellow liked to tantalise me, and hear himself accused of bad penmanship; for he always laughed at our complaints, and declared that he wrote a beautiful hand, but that his sisters were stupid, and I was short-sighted.

Alas! short-sighted indeed. That last letter which I found in my workbox had been written after an interval of many months, when a coolness had arisen between the families ; the old baronet was dead, the daughters of the house married, and my mother greatly disliked the heir and the proud lady his wife. Consequent on these circumstances, Gervase and 1 were somewhat estranged; not in heart; I know that now when it is too late. On the evening of our rummagings I read every word of that ”»ow»,nra.ble. letter; .-.cver-V. word was, to m\ quickeuecTim J ___ large type; yet my mother said it mignt""“ have been Egyptian characters for her ! Gervase had written in haste to tell me that he purposed joining an Indian mission immediately; would I accompany him ? He was weary of waiting, and longed to be working among the heathen. ‘ You are-well adapted to be a missionary’s wife, and I think you will not disappoint me; but if you dislike the prospect of a long residence in Indian climes, then let me entreat you not to reply to this, and if I receive no letter from you, 1 shall consider that I am rejected; if so, this is a farewell—it may be the last; but in life or in death you will still be the first and fairest on earth to me.’ Alas ! I had never read this his last letter —there it had lain all these dreary years in my old workbox, and now what chance (so * called) brought it to light? Years had passed away since then; I had heard of Gervase Markham’s departure for India, and I had accused him of fickleness and coldheartedness. My own sisters had long been wives and mothers; and I the youngest, the

,, ■ n ■ ■ ■ ■■■ ■ ' ■■■■ 1 " ' "*" spoilt, merry Clara, continued to live in a secluded home with my beloved mother, who declared that I was her best earthly comfort. For this I was thankful. But then, poor Gervase, what must he have thought of me. on the supposition that I could so heartlessly reject him ? I wrote to his favourite sister, whose residence was in Florence, and begged her to give me some tidings of her brother, the missionary. She replied that Gervase meant to return to England as soon as spme one could be found to take his place; his health suffered greatly from the climate, but he seemed otherwise contented and devoted to his work. Now, if this were a fictitious narrative I should end it by bringing Gervase Markham home again, and making all things comfortable, by placing him in a pleasant parsonage in a small parish, where there was not much to do. He should continue faithful to my memory; and when my oversight was explained, mutual explanations would of course ensue, leading to orange blossoms and marriage joy-bells. Nothing oi the sort has happened. _ 1 know that Gervase is in Florence with his sister, because she wrote to say so, and that her brother sent his kind regards. How cold seem mere ‘kind regards,’ where warm affection was once given. I live in hope that we may yet meet, though I doubt if he would recognise the rather stout, middleaged lady, as the Clara whom he used to paint in such flattering colours. I long to tell him how much unhappiness arose from his illegible writing; and I hope my sad story will be a warning to all who wish to avoid misunderstandings, and to excel in caligraphy, which surely is as desirable an accomplishment as any other. I think that bad spelling and bad writing ought to go hand in hand. I mean that fatal letter to be placed on my breast in my coffin, and I hope that Gervase Markham may live to see it there.

It is announced that “ The Letters and Papers of Eajah Brooke,” edited by Mr Spencer St John, will shortly be published. At one of the sectional meetings of the British Medical Association in Edinburgh, a discussion of deep interest to members of Parliament (says the Fall Mall Gazette) took place on the subject of “ emotional aphasia,” It seems that persons laboring under this distressing and obscure ailment are either deprived altogether of the power of speech or, when they open their mouths, give utterance to only nonsense. The illness is brought on by over-fatigue, such as our legislators, no doubt, feel acutely towards the close of a session, and which accounts for much that is to the general public unintelligible. Professor Gairdner said he “ remembered a case personal to himself. When going through the wards of a Glasgow Infirmary, after a deal of hard professional work he lost command of his tongueand found himself talking nonsense—absolute nonsense. He knew it was nonsense, yet he could not help it; he felt that for the time being he must speak nonsense. At the same time he was attacked with ‘ dizziness,’ but after resting a little he regained the control of himself, and the thing never occurred again. That attack he could only attribute to the extreme fatigue he at the time experienced.” Another case was mentioned of a well known Scotch sheriff, who at one period of his life felt occasionally that he must speak nonsense, whether he liked it or not; in fact, this unfortunate gentleman, if he spoke at all. could not help speaking nonsense. Later in life, to his great relief, and doubtless to that of his friends, the tendency left him entirely. In fact, for this form of “ emotional aphasia” entire rest, even from speaking, is the best C «nce of cure.