Brandon Taylor

For the past few months, I’ve been editing a digital edition of the letters of John Chamberlain, a relatively obscure English gentleman who wrote hundreds of long, careful, and astonishingly regular letters during the early seventeenth century. He had no office, no official title, and yet he became a trusted relay point for news, opinions, gossip, and updates, especially for friends navigating court politics or foreign affairs.

His correspondence has taught me a lot. But most unexpectedly, it’s taught me how to write better emails.

Chamberlain’s letters weren’t dashed off. They weren’t transactional. They were sometimes long, often legible legible, and surprisingly reflective. Each one begins with a formal salutation, sets the tone, moves through structured sections (news from court, foreign affairs, personal updates), and ends with a closing that actually closes. No hanging threads. No open-ended vagueness. Even his way of reporting delays or uncertainty is composed with style and restraint. In one letter, he writes of matters that “have hung so long in suspence,” capturing a poise that modern correspondence rarely attempts.

What’s striking is both his polish and rhythm. Chamberlain wrote on a near-weekly schedule. His recipients expected letters the way we now expect newsletters or calendar invites. And he didn’t just forward news; he filtered, synthesized, framed, and contextualized. Chamberlain’s letters were often more than informative, since they imposed a kind of structure on the flow of events. He makes the stories legible and now makes these small slices of history digestible for contemporary readers.

It’s hard not to compare this with how we email today—quick replies, scattered threads, and notes fired off between meetings. My inbox fills up fast, but it’s not the number of messages that can inspire dread. It’s how rushed they feel. So many emails come without rhythm or tone, and few seem built to be read with any real attention.

I’m not going to pretend we can return to Jacobean courtesies. But I have found myself slowing down when I write, thinking of Chamberlain’s letters not as quaint, but as oddly instructive. What would it mean to treat a routine message as a relationship rather than a reply? To set a tone? To open and close deliberately? To write like the person on the other end is someone you know, not someone you need something from?

Chamberlain signed many of his letters simply, “Your assured loving friend.” There’s something both generous and self-respecting in that signature. It’s not an affectation. It’s a reminder that correspondence is a form of care.

Email Tips from a 17th-Century Letter Writer (for Students)

• Start with a greeting. Even “Hi Professor” or “Dear Brandon” signals care and clarity.
• State your purpose early. Don’t bury your question or request in the third paragraph. Say what you need, simply and directly.
• Use line breaks. A wall of text is hard to read. Space out your thoughts like Chamberlain spaced out his news items.
• Close with intention. A simple thank you or sign-off (even just your name) helps signal the message is complete.
• Don’t apologize for writing. You’re allowed to ask questions, request extensions, or follow up. Just be clear and kind.
• Proofread once. Even Chamberlain crossed things out. You don’t have to be perfect, just legible and thoughtful.
• On second thought, proofread twice. Chamberlain crossed things out too, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try just one more time. Read it once for clarity, then once more to make sure you didn’t send it to the wrong Brandon. There are many of us.

Maybe we can’t all write like it’s 1610. But we can at least write like someone might want to read it.