6 Degrees of Seperation

19th Century Letters of Endearment

S. G. Lacey

January 18th, 1807 – Warsaw, Poland

After the stimulating dancing last night, I feel compelled to write my new love interest. Granted, I’ve got no shortage of women in my stable, but this young lady looks, and acts, different. I’m intrigued, and aroused.
Though I prefer to wield a sword with my left hand, I wield a pen with my right.
The priests who conducted my adolescent schooling in France forced me away from my dominant hand. As a result, my cursive French letters are not precise, often angling downward across the page, with each line of text varying slightly in height. My sloppy penmanship is much less exacting than my refined military tactics.
Usually, my correspondences are sent on official paper, with the Republic of France letterhead, and my Emperor title, which I’ve held for over 3 years now, emblazoned across the top. Also, on formal documents, I often enlist one of my underlings to execute the writing, while I dictate.
However, this note requires more discrete tact.
As dark black ink hits coarse white paper, made from recycled linen rags, I think back to our initial meeting only a few weeks ago. Since first laying eyes on this woman, I have barely been able to get her out of my mind. Granted, now that my army is holed up here in our winter quarters, I have more down time to reflect than usual.
We’ve forced the combined Prussian and Russian troops out of Warsaw, the former capital of the war-tattered Polish state, and are now entrenched around the city. Here we will wait for better weather, and a better plan of attack, to materialize.
Looking down, I realized that though my pen has paused its motion, thin liquid continues to flow from the tapered quill, an elegant peacock feather, leaving a growing dark splotch on the page. Apparently, the tip of my writing instrument needs to be sharpened.
Blotting the spot, I simultaneously remove a small knife from the inner pocket of my ornate, royal blue, silk waistcoat. I reshape the end of the feather pen with a methodical, practiced, motion, while my mind focuses elsewhere.
How can I coax this young lady into my arms?
I’m worried this damsel will not be interested in me, considering she can’t be more than 20 years old, and already married, though judging by his appearance last night at the party, the husband is old enough to be her grandfather. Her youthful beauty is too much for me to resist, and shouldn’t be wasted on the elderly goat. Yes, I must see that face, and body, again.
I’ll have to solicit the help of my political connections within the Polish government to facilitate a more private meeting. They should be accommodative, as they don’t have many options to defend themselves. The fact that the lavish soiree last night was hosted by the Polish Minister of Foreign Affairs was not a coincidence.
Poland needs our military support, after being decimated by war and strife over the last decade. This reliance should help me form a bond with the enchanting Warsaw countess. Of course, I would never marry this girl, as her status and lineage are not sufficient to pair with mine, as the leader of Europe, and beyond. As such, our relationship, like others I’ve had recently, must remain discrete.
Considering my wife’s inability to provide me with an heir, and her own infidelity in recent years while I’ve been away at war, I have no qualms about bedding other women. However, as Emperor, I am particularly discerning about my fancies. The delectable lady I danced with last night fits the bill perfectly.
Short, and to the point, is always best in these matters. I scrawl a few simple lines, the recently adjusted tip of the quill pen helping to execute the accents and flourishes common in the French language. Hopefully she is familiar with this beautiful dialect of my home country. The language of love.
Realizing its safest to not sign my name, in case this correspondence falls into the wrong hands, I close the short message with a single initial. Cryptic, and anonymous, for the casual reader, but my woman will immediately know who this note is from. Hopefully, I see her again soon.

“I saw no one but you, I admired no one but you, I want no one but you.
Answer me at once, and assuage the impatient passion of N.”

From: Napoleon Bonaparte – 37 years old
To: Marie Walewska – 20 years old

Marie Walewska married a 68-year-old Polish Count and nobleman in 1804, at age 18, to secure her family’s financial future. She birthed her first child with this older man, who was already twice widowed, in 1805.
Napoleon Bonaparte exchanged several additional letters with Marie in early 1807, before finally convincing her to meet him privately in Warsaw. The affair was facilitated by coaxing from both Polish and French nationals.
The couple met again discretely in Paris in 1808, and Vienna in 1909, after which Marie became pregnant with Napoleon’s son. She quickly returned to her home in Poland, and did not tell her elderly husband, or the infant boy, about the real father.
Despite divorcing and remarrying in 1810 for political alliance reasons, while also managing a sprawling military campaign across Europe, Napoleon Bonaparte continued to subtlety support Marie and his exiled son with money and land.
The last time Napoleon and Marie met was in the summer on 1815 at his Malmaison in France, after his defeat in the Battle of Waterloo. Unfortunately, Marie Walewska died in Paris at the end of 1917 from complications due to childbirth. She was only 31 years old.
Throughout his life, the illegitimate child maintained that his father was the old Count Walewska, not Napoleon Bonaparte, despite the gentleman’s success in French politics as a diplomat throughout the 19th century.

July 7th, 1812 – Teplice, Czech Republic

Still in my bedclothes, I sit at the desk in my simple room. The spa’s accommodations are basic, but comfortable. My doctor has convinced me this retreat will help with my recurring headaches and fever. Right now, those ailments are the least of my worries.
My hand is shaking so much I have trouble completing each carefully chosen word. The graphite of the pencil smears when my flabby palm clumsily brushes against the page. This is the third time in the past 24 hours I’ve tried to get my thoughts down on paper.
Tearing another small sheet from my pocket notebook, I continue on. Several times, I struggle for the correct phrasing, crossing off text so aggressively that the pointed tip of the pencil breaks off. Resharpening the writing instrument with my letter opener, chips of wood piling up on the top of the desk, I continue on my lengthy diatribe.
I know I’ll never be able to send this letter, but need to document my feelings, and actions, to preserve some form of sanity. I am leaving the city today, and do not know when I will have the opportunity to see the object of my affection in private again.
We consummated our love last week in Prague, a sin, as she is married. Sort of. The cruel husband has abandoned her, leaving the woman poor and alone, with 6 children to tend to.
It’s probably inappropriate to take advantage of a lady is such a fragile state, but we have been yearning for each other for years. At least I have, ever since giving her that first piano lesson more than a decade ago.
I’ve always found German to be a guttural, functional language, not delicate enough to communicate intimate thoughts. However, when I write to my beloved, it seems like my emotions just pour out onto the page, passionate and powerful. My hand is now moving as if possessed, translating the beating of my heart, to characters on the page. I would prefer to convey my feelings via song. It is my best skill, the one thing in life I am truly gifted at. I know how passionate she is about music. Closing my eyes, I can envision her delicate, pale fingers moving over the keys of the piano, musical notes which I’ve carefully arranged filling the air.
However, absent the ability to compose and play her a melody, this abstract script will have to suffice.
As I reach for another page, the tenth of this increasingly long letter, my emotions crescendo. The writing become erratic, almost illegible, as I pour myself out onto the paper. My enlarged and flourished script only allows a few words to fit across each line of the page.
My entire body is shaking with excitement, fear, and most importantly, desire, as I close the monologue with three short inscriptions, reinforcing my eternal love, and commitment to, my lady.
Glancing up and out the window at the rising sun, I realize I’ve lingered too long writing, and missed the mail post for the day. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to send this passionate letter. Hopefully I don’t come up with anything else to add during another 24 hours of mental and emotional restlessness.

“Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved,
here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us.
I can only live, either altogether with you, or not at all.”

From: Ludwig van Beethoven – 41 years old
To: Josephine Brunsvik – 33 years old

There is rampant speculation about who the “Immortal Beloved” in Ludwig van Beethoven’s writing refers to. This long letter was never sent, and found in Beethoven’s estate up his death.
It is known that Ludwig and Josephine Brunsvik had some sort of romantic relationship over the years, as she possessed 15 other love letters from him, with similar content and dates, to this anonymous, unaddressed one.
Beethoven purportedly began his lust for Brunsvik while serving as her piano teacher starting in 1799. She was originally married to a Bohemian Count 48 years her senior, who she birthed 4 children with. After his death in 1804, Josephine could still not consent to marry Ludwig, since he was a commoner, and despised by her family, so she married an Estonian Baron in 1808.
It is further speculated that the two consummated their love in Prague in early July 1812, after she had a falling out with the Baron, and Josephine’s 7th child, a daughter named Minona, was birthed out of wedlock.
Several of Beethoven’s more passionate works like “An die Hoffnung” and “Andante Favori” were composed during this time, and are attributed to his relationship with Brunsvik, though he was never able to publicly dedicate a song to her.

[Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3, written in 1803, was inspired by Napoleon Bonaparte’s battle efforts as part of the French Revolution. However, Ludwig rescinded the dedication a year later, when Napoleon became self-proclaimed Emperor of France, which he considered a tyrannical action.]

October 11th, 1841 – Concord, Massachusetts, USA

I glance around quickly, making sure the room is still clear. All I see are bookshelves lining every wall, crammed to the brim with various tomes. Some covers are old and dusty, others shinny and new, with all manner of shapes, sizes, and shades represented.
Where they don’t fit in neat vertical alignment on shelves, they are piled in abstract stacks on any available flat surface: the desk, the windowsill, even the floor. This is an impressive collection of literary prowess, assuming you can find what you’re looking for. However, I snuck into this library not to read, but to write.
Content with my privacy, I continue on with my secretive note.
I’m fluent in 5 languages, starting with Latin at the age of 6, so sometimes it takes me a few seconds to get my mind into the right context. I’ve got limited time before being discovered, so this letter needs to be concise and clear. However, nothing is simple about the topics, and feelings, I need to convey. Life rarely is.
My writing position is slightly awkward, but manageable. A heavy book placed on my lap atop the coarse fabric of my navy-blue skirt provides as fairly smooth and stable base. The hard cover is just large enough to accommodate the sheets of loose-leaf paper that I have brought with me from the study.
Since the ink well is balanced on the cushion next to me, I have to be careful when shifting my weight. This vessel contains a dark concoction of soot, turpentine, and oil. Great for writing, but this dark liquid would leave a permanent stain if spilled on the upholstery.
Despite all these encumbrances, my penmanship is precise. I was well taught, and studious, as a young girl.
   While we’ve exchanged countless written philosophy works for editing, and debated on an unfathomably wide range of complex topics, I still have a hard time quantifying my relationship with the man I’m writing to.
   There are so many different ways in which we interact daily, however none of the traditional societal titles fit. Mentors, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, neighbors, lovers. Sure, many of these words would apply from a dictionary sense, but our mental, spiritual, and physical connection is much deeper, and infinitely more dynamic.
In many respects, we are kindred spirits. Our May birthdays are only 2 days apart, though he is 7 years my senior. It’s clear based on our honest, telling, conversations, as well as my keen observations of physical mannerisms, that he and his wife, though legally bound, have a much shallower bond.
I feel like we both benefit from each other’s knowledge; I’ve learned to accept his views on the inherent goodness of nature and self, and, in turn, have helped to steer him into focusing on reality, rather than theory, in his own writing.
Often, I wonder if his thoughts are as conflicted as my own. Usually he seems so distant, though it’s hard to tell if he finds safety in the solitude, fearing what may happen if he opens up, and lets others in. Instead, he apparently wishes to travel solo, avoiding the established social norms, boldly charting his own course in life.
Granted, self-reliance is one of the fundamental tenants of transcendentalism, but it’s a lonely way to live.
I make my case carefully, a jumbled mess of complex thoughts in my head being translated to elegant, simple English words on the page. The curved arcs of each black letter track cleanly along the thin blue lines on the paper, occasionally plunging below briefly for a lowercase “f”, “g”, or “y”, before looping back to their correct placement.
These flowing script letters are a microcosm of our relationship, exhilarating highs and sinking lows, each temporary, while the general path progresses relentlessly forward, generating new insights, and divulging more information, over time.
Considering the continual focus on intuition to guide decision making that is espoused by the transcendental movement, you would hope he could be a little more spontaneous with his own actions.
Now freer of mind, and with the ink well safely capped, I leave the two loose sheets of lined paper on the padded arm of the settee. My partner will find this note in due time; he’s the only one in the family with the intellect and motivation to frequent the house’s library space.

“When I come to yourself, I cannot receive you, and you cannot give yourself: it does not profit.
But when I cannot find you the beauty and permanence of your life, come to me.”

From: Margaret Fuller – 31 years old
To: Ralph Waldo Emerson – 38 years old

Ralph Waldo Emerson met Margaret Fuller in 1836, just as he was finishing his manuscript for “Nature”, his seminal work outlining the philosophy of transcendentalism. Their frequent interactions stemming from that first encountered shaped much of Emerson’s thoughts, and published works.
In 1940, Emerson hired Fuller to edit “The Dial”, a transcendentalist themed, independent magazine designed to provide readers with knowledge on a wide range of intellectual topics. Margaret worked as the editor for nearly 2 years, collaborating with Waldo on pieces, as well as penning many articles on her own.
Fuller went on to become a well-known staff writer at the New York Tribune. The complex relationship between Margaret and Waldo continued to evolve in fits and starts until 1846, when she moved to Europe for the Tribune, as their first female foreign correspondent. Here she met and married an Italian revolutionist; they had a son shortly thereafter.
On July 19th, 1850, the ship that Margaret and her family were on ran around and sank off Fire Island, NY. While many of the passengers swam to safety, the entire Fuller family drowned, and Margaret’s body was never recovered.
Waldo was very distraught by the untimely, early death of Margaret. Having lost potentially his one intellectual equal, this event profoundly impacted many of his later writings and thought, especially with regards to the role of life and death in the world.
Though not as well-known or celebrated as others of the era, Margaret Fuller was one of the pioneers of the feminist movement. She published “Women in the 19th Century” in 1845; this seminal work is considered one of the motivators for the Seneca Falls Convention on women’s rights in 1848.

[Margaret Fuller, a lifelong music lover, was one of the first to write critical reviews on entertainment shows for the general public. She attended some of Beethoven’s first symphonies on American soil in Boston in 1840. At the time, Ludwig van Beethoven’s composition style was considered innovative music for the conservative and religious Puritan Northeast region, much like the feminist views which Fuller championed.]

February 8th, 1852 – Amherst, Massachusetts, USA

   It’s Sunday morning, and I should be in church, but I can’t seem to motivate myself. Despite the religious revival in our town over the past few years, I seem to have better luck finding my spirituality beyond a church pew.
Outside my westward facing bedroom window, snow is falling; light, fluffy flakes which pile up on the sea of white that already covers the ground below. I smile, thinking back to frolicking in the snowy yard with my siblings. As the middle of three children, separated by a total of just 4 years in age, I’ve always been close with my older brother, and younger sister.
However, the fond memory quickly fades, as the realization of the current situation sets in. I shiver, not just due to the chill emanating from the thin glass pane, but also from the pain I feel inside.
I have already seen much death in my young life. The rawest, and most recent, is the loss of my mentor, the principal at Amherst Academy, where my formative learning years were spent. However, it’s not just this poor gentleman’s passing ahead of his time, but also a general loneliness.
Not having my most important confidant around to help console, and cope with, this loss, has hit me hard. My best friend departed for a teaching position in Baltimore last fall, so now writing is unfortunately the only way we can stay in touch.
Though just 9 days apart in age, we are quite dissimilar. My family’s hearty lineage traces back several centuries to the original Puritan colonization. Meanwhile, she was orphaned when both parents died just after her first decade on earth. Her mind is mathematically precise, while mine is abstractly imaginative. Physically, I’m rail thin and plain, while she is more developed, full of gentle curves.
However, we have been inseparable since the day she arrived in town just 18 months ago. Our bond is a love of the English language, and all that can be presented through this elegant dialect.
Last summer, before my better half departed, we spend countess sunny days documenting the vast array of colors the wildflower-filled fields have to offer, and many a starry night counting the innumerable bright points of light in the sky.
Now that we are 350 miles apart, I’m still trying to maintain that close bond through static words, as opposed to verbal communication. We connect over literature, sharing poems, books, stories, letters, and musings constantly. It’s certainly not the same as face-to-face, physical interaction.
Though the room is brisk, my hand moves quickly across the page, laying down a flowing line of short, elongated cursive. Writing in one of my specialties, once I get into a zone, it feels like I can transcribe faster than I can talk, the elegant words pouring out onto the page.
Especially when I’m passionate about the content, as I am today.
Realizing I’ve reached the bottom of the page, I take a break to rest my cramping hand. There is no sheet of paper large enough to house everything that I have to say; even with all the wood pump resources available in the vast and beautiful Northeast. If only we were together, this conversation would be so much more efficient, and intimate.
My association with my soul mate is complicated, as she’s currently dating my brother, though I’m convinced she fancies my company to his. If even I don’t know how to classify our relationship, then how can the rest of the world understand?
Three additional pages later, I realize if I don’t put a limit on this message’s content, I will write forever. I squeeze a few last sentimental notes in, wedging the small text in vertically along the edge of the blue-tinted paper. The steel tip of the pen, a relatively modern innovation produced locally in Massachusetts, allows for increased precision, though I still need to dip the point into the oil well frequently.
Convinced the ink is dry, I fold the paper three times, first widthwise, then lengthwise twice, to allow accommodation of the weighty parcel into a standard envelop. That venting session should tide me over for a few hours.
If I can’t have my best friend here with me, then I might as well curl up with a blanket, a cup of tea, and some Shakespeare prose. Soon enough, I’ll be drifting off to the European Renaissance. Maybe I’ll even get inspired to write some poetry of my own later today.

“Come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing,
and the preacher whose name is Love — shall intercede for us!"

From: Emily Dickinson – 21 years old
To: Susan Gilbert – 21 years old

In the fall of 1853, Susan Gilbert and Emily Dickinson’s brother, Austin, became engaged. Two years later, they were married, and living in the Evergreens, a house built for them on the Dickinson’s family land, the front door just steps from the Homestead, where Emily lived her entire adult life.
Over the next 25 years, Emily and Susan exchanged over 250 letters, poems, and other written communication, while also interacting in person daily. The politics of the time made it difficult to have an open relationship, and the exact manner of their bond is still unknown. Dickinson wrote some of her most influential poetry pieces at this time, while Gilbert served as her editor.
Emily often wrote using cryptic phrases. Family members who published works after her death changed many of her poems, adjusting the content to depict more traditionally accepted male-female interactions. Still, Emily wrote a dozen poems which call Susan out by name, and numerous others which hint at the complex nature of their relationship.
Susan designed the robe for Emily’s funeral, and wrote her eulogy, when Dickinson died in 1886 at 55 years old. This is a testament to both of their beliefs in spirituality, immortality, and the afterlife, where they planned to reunite, a theme that is common in their correspondence.

[Both Margaret Fuller and Ralph Waldo Emerson grew up in Massachusetts, spending most of their early adult years teaching in the same state that the Dickinson family lived. Emily Dickinson was inspired by Ralph Waldo Emerson’s first published book of poems, and Margaret Fuller was influential in sparking the Northeast feminist movement that took shape during Dickinson’s formative years.]

April 8th, 1862 – Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee, USA

I’ve been writing all day. Battle strategy, provisions approvals, diary entries, government documents, personal correspondence. The list never ends.
I took up the pen just after dawn this morning, and by now I doubt the sun is still in the sky. Not that I can tell, since I’m cooped up inside. The pile of completed paperwork is now knee high on the ground next to me. I’ve gone through three bottles on ink, and broken two metal pen tips. Even with the finest quality products the U.S. Army has to offer, we still have equipment issues.
Flexing my right hand, I try to regain feeling in the digits. My stomach growls, not satiated with just coffee and hardtack, the only sustenance I’ve had all day. I’m anxious to get up out of this folding chair, light up a cigar, and go for a walk. However, the perpetual drumming on the heavy canvas tent roof reminds me it’s still raining.
Of course, it is. It’s been raining steadily since I got here. Perpetual, pelting, precipitation.
I thought my days of military service were well behind me, after resigning amid alcoholism accusations nearly a decade ago. However, the noble cause of freeing all negro slaves throughout the country struck a patriotic nerve.
When I started out recruiting lads for the Illinois Volunteer ranks following the bombing of Ft. Sumter by the South Carolina militia, I never imagined I would be here, commanding the entire Union Army of the Tennessee, a force nearly 45k soldiers strong.
   I still have one more letter to write today, otherwise I’ll be in more trouble than I already am, with the relentless newspaper reporters, and my untrusting superior generals. I promised my wife I would write to her any time the opportunity presents itself. Going on 10 hours of correspondence already, I’m obligated to draft her at least a short note.
It’s hard to put into words how much I love, and miss, my spouse. Since our marriage back in 1848, it seems like we have been apart more often than together. Granted, that’s part of serving in the military, but I never thought it would be this lonely without my significant other.
Since the birth of my children, this emptiness of longing has become even more acute. Four young troublemakers between the ages 4 and 12 is a handful, but I know my wife can handle them. Putting the pen down and closing my eyes, I envision the little ones running around in the small yard of our Galena, IL home, as my partner and I sit on the porch in rocking chairs. Someday soon hopefully.
Currently, I’m well south of this peaceful location, a 4-day steamboat ride up the Mississippi River separating my encampment from my house, and my family within.
However, some sacrifices are necessary. Moving up the U.S. Army leadership ranks since the war broke out has proven quite lucrative. I’ve been able to send home nearly all of my salary, $200 per month, more money than I ever thought possible, as all my basic survival requirements like food, shelter, and equipment are readily provided by the government.
   Considering the debt I’ve racked up trying to support my family in recent years, this monetary windfall is a welcome relief. I finally feel like I’m able to serve my role as primary breadwinner again.
The punishing torrent of moisture outside, combined with the storm’s accompanying howl of wind, pulls me back to the brutal reality of the situation for the many soldiers less fortunate than myself.
The most recent battle, which I was primarily responsible for leading, has cost the lives of over a thousand Union men, with over 5 times as many more, injured or captured. Unfortunately, I’m sure the tally will rise in coming days, as our troops continue to scour the battlefield for additional casualties.
One of the best ways for me to cope with this immense loss of life is to write the chain of events down on paper. This cathartic process allows me to assess each military decision, and examine what could have been done differently to improve the outcome.
I’ve already written battle summaries to other key Union Army leaders today, but rehashing it one more time won’t hurt. Plus, my wife enjoys staying informed on combat details.
   I’m really hoping the hard-fought victory we just achieved around the Shiloh Church, combined with recent resounding battle wins throughout Tennessee earlier this year, will break the spirit of the Confederate troops. However, with each successive battle, I’m becoming less and less convinced that this war will be quickly, or easily, won.
Realizing I’ve already spent the entire page describing the military strategy and flow, I figure I should close up with some heartfelt commentary. The last three lines I was hoping to commit to the paper don’t quite fit, so I flip the note over, and bring it to a close. The ending is a little abrupt, but as long as I finish with the obligatory display of affection, I should remain in good standing with my better half.
Maybe soon, I’ll be stationed at an area with less violent fighting, so my family, or at least my spouse, can join on this adventure. She’s a better horse rider than I am, so I’m sure she’ll be able to hold her own in this rough military environment. Plus, my parents would love to take care of the kids.
I fold the note, deposit it into a standard military envelop, and scrawl the memorized address on the outside flap. I might as well walk over and drop this letter off, to make sure it gets on the next paddleboat headed north.
Standing, my weak legs, devoid of blood, remind me how long I’ve been sitting. Grabbing my rubber raincoat, I tuck the dispatch into the protected dry crook of my armpit, and duck outside into the relentless southwestern Tennessee climate.

“I got through all safe having but one shot which struck my sword but did not touch me.
I am detaining a steamer to carry this and must cut it short.
Give my love to all at home. Kiss the children for me. The same for yourself.”

From: Ulysses S. Grant – 39 years old
To: Julia Dent Grant – 36 years old

The Battle of Shiloh was the bloodiest engagement of the Civil War at the time, with over 23k casualties split between the opposing sides. Ulysses S. Grant estimated 20k casualties in various documents after the fighting ended, which was close to the actual totals; he considered this battle one of the largest ever on the continent of North America.
Grant went on to rise through the Union military ranks, eventually attaining the top General-in-Chief position, and leading the Northern forces to Civil War victory in 1865. His wife Julia Dent joined him later in 1862, and alternated between his various military camps, and their Galena, IL home. She logging over 10k miles of travel during the war.
In 1868, Grant was elected the 18th U.S. President, primarily on the back of his military leadership success during the Civil War. His wife stood faithfully by his side for both presidential terms, during which significant strides were made on civil rights. Ulysses focused on equal rights for blacks, while Julia was an advocate for women.
Despite the stressful challenges of life in both the military and politics, the couple remained happily married until Grant’s death in 1885. All four children grew up to become healthy, successful adults, serving the American public in various capacities.

[The month of April 1862 was also when the brutal reality of the Civil War came to roost for Emily Dickinson. The Massachusetts 27th Infantry Regiment, composed of several young men from Amherst, MA, sustained heavy casualties in battles with Confederate troops in North Carolina; the dead included a close family friend. By 1864, the remaining members of the 27th Massachusetts unit were part of the Army of the Potomac, participating on now General-in-Chief U.S. Grant’s Overland Campaign. Dickinson wrote extensively about the horrors of the Civil War, specifically Northerners who left and never came home. These 4 years of national conflict were her most prolific writing period, during which she composed nearly half of her famous poems.]

September 7th, 1868 – Elmira, New York, USA

   What do I say to the woman I hope will someday become my wife? I rarely struggle for words, but the tone of this note is critical. I need to elicit feelings, and a response, to keep the interaction going.
   We have agreed to enter into a casual communication, for now. I will refer to her as “sister”, lest the letters are discovered, and read by another party. However, my true intentions, and feelings, will be known to the target of my affection.
   They say love at first sign is for suckers. If so, then I am guilty as charged. I first laid eyes on the object of my addiction not in person, but in portrait, shared by her brother on a trans-Atlantic journey from Europe back to the America last year.
   My first in-person meeting in New York City at a New Year’s Day gathering did not disappoint. Her simple beauty was even more stunning than the picture foretold.
Alas, it was a long 6 months traveling throughout the Midwest before I was able to gaze upon her visage again. But now, here I am. It’s been a blissful few weeks here in the cozy woods of central NY, but unfortunately now I must hit the road, and get back to work.
My clear and direct request for her hand in marriage was rejected yesterday, though not forcefully, or completely, an act which would have permanently damaged my heart. The window of opportunity is still open, albeit just a narrow slit.
I know the hesitation from my lady is not based on physical attraction. When we are together, I can see the spark in her eye, and can hopefully capture the same thrill through these letters while traveling. Yes, she will come around to my whimsical, manly charms.
I’m more concerned about currying favor with her parents. They are rich, there’s no doubt about it, and clearly expect any suitor of their daughter to be able to provide the support, and lifestyle, she is used to.
Granted, I’m no successful businessman, but do have methods for generating cash. Sure, writing and lecturing may not be as refined a profession as a coal baron, the approach her dad used to generate their family money, but I have a steady income.
My first book, about a gambling frog, written a few years ago, has thrust me into the national spotlight, with subsequent works about my travels in Hawaii and Panama also being well received.
Plus, I can find speaking engagements pretty much any night of the week, anywhere in the country, at $100 per lecture. Sure, I need to learn how to manage and invest these various revenue streams, but that skill will come with increased time, and capital. I’m still young, and in love.
Over the past few weeks socializing with my target of betrothment and her family, I have realized I’ll need to make some personal changes if this courtship is going to work. Her and I are certainly different people.
I enjoy drinking, smoking, and swearing, habits reinforced by my time spent on the Western frontier. She is a teetotaler, with an innocent mind, and impeccable ladylike manners. My upbringing was defined by odd jobs, and variable living conditions, as our family struggled after my father died when I was only 11 years old. Her parents own most of this affluent, rural NY town, and have access to any comfort life may desire. Plus, there’s the polarizing topic of religion, or lack of it in my case, which I’m trying to avoid broaching.
Still, besides our love for each other, which I hope will fully materialize soon, we have a shared passion for the literary arts. Our only true date ever, was a reading by Charles Dickens, an event which has sparked many subsequent intellectually stimulating discussions between us.
Here in this massive mansion, they have an extensive library, where her and I have spent countless hours in over the past few weeks, reading interesting passages aloud, and sharing our views. It’s been some of the simplest, and most enjoyable, times of my life.
Looking down at the page, I realize my hand has been moving the entire time as my mind drifts, laying down florid sentences which summarize my feelings. I could write an entire novel dedicated to this woman.
However, regrettably, I must pack up and depart. I finish the letter reinforcing my sincere affection, a generic enclosure that can be construed in a variety of different lights. Potentially a subscript that siblings would exchange, though my intent is much deeper, and more primal.
I can hand off this letter in person before I depart this majestic house, allowing the opportunity for one more glimpse at her beautiful, pale-skinned face, framed by flowing locks of dark hair. With any luck, this will be the start of a lively, fruitful correspondence. And eventually marriage.

“My honored sister, you are so good and beautiful – and I am so proud of you!
Give me a little room in that great heart of yours – only the little you have promised me –
And if I fail to deserve it may I remain forever the homeless vagabond I am!”

From: Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) – 32 years old
To: Olivia Langdon – 22 years old

Over the next year, Mark Twain toured throughout the Northeastern U.S., lecturing for money, and often returned to Elmira on weekends as his schedule allowed. He wrote 180 letters over 17 months after his initial marriage proposal was rejected. Olivia Langdon finally consented at the end of 1868, though they kept the engagement secret for several more months until the Langdon parents could be convinced of Clemens’ worth.
Samuel Clements and Olivia Langdon were married on February 2nd, 1870. They moved to Hartford, Connecticut in 1871, building a house with Langdon’s family money, producing 4 children over the next decade, though their first child, a boy, died as a toddler.
The couple lived together happily for 34 years before Olivia died in 1904; she served as his primary editor throughout their time together. Twain also met many writing luminaries through his wife, including Harriet Beecher Stowe. At this time, upstate NY, where they returned each year for summer vacation, was a mecca for intellectual thought and artistic pursuits.
While Mark Twain was a very successful writer, Mr. Langdon’s worries proved true as Twain was a terrible investor. During his life, he squandered much of his book royalties funding obscure business ideas and inventions which rarely panned out. He eventually declared bankruptcy, then moved his family to Europe until he could get back on solid financial footing.

[Ulysses S. Grant started his Civil War military career in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, near where Samuel Clemens partook in his brief Confederate military career, on November 2nd, 1861. Grant initiated a variety of battles along the Mississippi River where Clemens served as a steamboat operator in his youth. Also, in 1884, with U.S. Grant on death’s door, and his family struggling financially, Mark Twain used his publishing company connections to help Grant complete and release his memoirs, which are still considered the best autobiographical works ever written by a United States President.]

January 9th, 1893 – Babbacombe, England

The grey blue ocean waves crash against the rocks with impressive force, the explosion of salty spray contributing to the precipitation already in the air on this rainy day. Fortunately, I’m sheltered from the elements by a floor to ceiling wall of glass, which yields this picturesque view of the English Channel.
While I’m protected from the moisture and temperature elements of the current weather, I can still hear the muffled boom of the water violently meeting the land. Turbulent times, much like my own mood.
My wife has just departed to visit friends up north for a few weeks. Strange, considering we recently arrived here from London for our annual winter holiday retreat. So much for family bonding.
Our relationship has been as rocky as these costal shores in recent years, really since the birth of our second son. Elements of her physical figure changed for the worse after that pregnancy, and her emotional state has clearly deteriorated as well.
As a result, my passions have drifted elsewhere. Hence the letter I’m currently crafting.
My counterpart is well versed in prose, like myself, so we enjoy the mental stimulation of exchanging elegant poetry, and other witty quips. He is of royal blood, well off financially, and just entering the prime of life. I’m lucky to have such a spirited and flamboyant confidant.
These shared passions are not surprising since we met at Oxford, one of the meccas of modern intellectual thought, just two years ago. As I’m nearly twice his age, my role as an aged, knowledgeable mentor serves both of us well.
During this vacation, I have been making great progress on my own writing, working on multiple plays simultaneously. Often a change of venue, and attitude, helps me focus. The surroundings here offer a soothing reminder of my youth, growing up in the Irish Iles.
However, staying in a huge house in a resort town, I need to take some time for leisure, even if it is the middle of winter. At ages 6 and 7, my boys can entertain themselves, especially with help from the multitude of servants.
I need some adult interaction to keep my scattered mind sharp and focused. Thus, the necessity to draft a summons for some city folk.
I choose my words carefully, each looping letter forming on the page standing alone, separate from its adjacent neighbors. Based on my studious work in Greek and Latin translation, along with my fluency in French and German. I like to let each character form on its own, thus offering versatility. However, this letter is in English, as it’s intended for a British scholar.
I’ve always had a way with words, be them spoken, or written, and currently I’m articulating one of my favorite topics. Love.
My fingers softly grip the ornate gold stem of the fountain pen, a new technology recently developed and patented by an industrious Englishman. This advancement allows the ink to be stored in the upper chamber of the pen, smoothly dispensing a uniform bead as I move the tip across the page. No ink well, or blotting needed. I don’t know how the writers of yore functioned without it.
My note is short and poignant, addressing my mark using the nickname he earned as a boy. Not very subtle, but discretion is not a key element of our relationship. Hopefully I can lure this young gentleman out to the coast. The views are beautiful, the amenities luxurious, and the service accommodative. All it lacks is a lad to keep me stimulated, in both mind, and body.
It’s a simple rail journey to access me, less than 200 km, and I can easily take care of the other logistics. Hopefully the focus of my intrigue will take the bait. Now, all I can do is stare out at the choppy ocean waters, and wait for a reply to my summons.

"Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours
should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing.
Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry."

From: Oscar Wilde – 38 years old
To: Lord Alfred Douglas – 22 years old

In winter of 1892-93, the Wilde family stayed at a fancy, renovated house of a family friend on the Babbacombe Cliffs in England. During this time, Lord Alfred Douglass translated Oscar Wilde’s play “Salome” from French and English, and Wilde completed a new drama entitled “A Woman of No Importance”.
By the beginning of 1895, Oscar Wilde was famous throughout Europe for his writing prowess, having just released “The Importance of Being Ernest” in London, to rave reviews. However, his personal life was becoming increasingly dysfunctional, and a quarrel between Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas’s father escalated to a legal battle.
Initially Wilde charged the elder Douglas with libel, but the court proceedings revealed many intimate details about Wilde’s private activities. He was quickly tried and convicted for homosexual crimes, which resulted in a 2-year hard labor prison sentence. The letter referenced above was one of the pieces of evidence submitted at his trial.
After being released from prison, Oscar and Alfred reunited for a few months in Paris before their families forced the couple to separate for good. Wilde died poor, exiled, and alone from meningitis in 1900 at only 46 years old.
Wilde was posthumously pardoned for his homosexual acts by the United Kingdom in 2017. His tomb now rests in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France, where it attracts many supporters.

[Oscar Wilde and Mark Twain were two of the most quotable characters of the late 19th century. Both traveled extensively between North America and Europe, and randomly met in person at a hotel in Germany during the summer of 1892. Considering both were well-known for their quick wit, there’s no doubt a few spirited quips ensued.]