Famous last letters in history: what they teach us about writing our own

A Union officer sits in his tent outside Washington, writing to his wife by candlelight. He knows there's a real chance he won't come home. A novelist fills her pockets with stones and leaves a note on the mantelpiece. An explorer, freezing to death in Antarctica, addresses his letter "To my widow" — then crosses it out and writes her name instead.

These are famous last letters, and they've survived for decades (some for over a century) because they do something most writing never manages: they tell the truth under pressure. When someone knows they might be writing their final words, the filler burns away. What's left is the stuff that actually matters.

That's what makes these letters worth reading — not as historical curiosities, but as models. If you've ever sat down to write a legacy letter and stared at the blank page, wondering what to say or how to say it, these people figured it out under circumstances most of us can't imagine. Their letters teach us what belongs in a farewell and what doesn't.

Sullivan Ballou's letter to Sarah (1861)

A week before the First Battle of Bull Run, Major Sullivan Ballou of the 2nd Rhode Island Infantry sat down and wrote to his wife Sarah. He was thirty-two years old. They had two young sons. He knew the battle was coming, and he didn't pretend otherwise.

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

That first line is the one most people remember. But the letter gets better — and harder — as it goes.

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battle-field, it will whisper your name.

And then this, which might be the most beautiful passage in any letter ever written in English:

But, O Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day, and the darkest night... and, if the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air cools your throbbing temples, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sullivan Ballou was killed at Bull Run on July 21, 1861. Sarah never remarried. She lived another fifty-six years.

What this teaches us: Ballou didn't try to be brave in this letter. He admitted he was torn — between his love for Sarah and his sense of duty. He didn't resolve that tension neatly because it can't be resolved neatly. That honesty is what makes the letter work. When you write to someone you love, you don't have to have your feelings sorted out. You just have to tell the truth about them.

Virginia Woolf's note to Leonard (1941)

Virginia Woolf's suicide note is one of the most quoted letters in literary history, and people often get it wrong. They remember it as a tragic document, which it is. But it's also, line by line, one of the most loving letters ever written.

Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.

She doesn't dramatize. She doesn't explain at length. She states what's happening to her in plain, short sentences, the way you'd tell someone the news if you respected them too much to dress it up.

Then she turns to Leonard:

You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came.

And near the end:

What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it.

She left the note on the mantelpiece of their home in Sussex on March 28, 1941, then walked to the River Ouse.

What this teaches us: Woolf's letter does two things at once. It explains a decision, and it makes sure the person she loves most knows he isn't to blame. That combination — honesty about the hard thing, gratitude for the good thing — is the backbone of any farewell letter worth reading. If you're writing your own legacy letter, pay attention to how she never wastes a word. Every sentence carries weight because she's only saying what she means.

Vincent van Gogh's last letter to Theo (1890)

Vincent van Gogh wrote to his brother Theo constantly — over 600 letters across their lifetimes. The last one, written around July 23, 1890, was found in his pocket after he died six days later.

By this point, van Gogh was living in Auvers-sur-Oise, painting furiously, struggling with his mental health, and worrying about being a financial burden to Theo and his young family. The letter isn't dramatic. It reads like a man trying to work through his thoughts on paper, the way he always had.

Well, my own work, I am risking my life for it and my reason has half foundered because of it.

That line says everything about the cost of the thing he couldn't stop doing. He's not complaining. He's not asking for sympathy. He's naming what is true: that painting is destroying him, and he's going to keep painting anyway.

He also described his most recent work — vast wheat fields under troubled skies — saying he "did not have to go out of my way to express sadness and extreme loneliness." The paintings said it for him.

What this teaches us: Van Gogh's letter is a reminder that a farewell doesn't have to sound like a farewell. He wrote to Theo the way he always wrote to Theo — about his work, his worries, his daily life. The power of the letter comes from its ordinariness. If you're writing to someone you've talked to a thousand times, you don't need to suddenly become eloquent. Write the way you've always talked to them. That continuity is its own kind of gift.

Captain Scott's letter from the Antarctic (1912)

Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his team reached the South Pole on January 17, 1912, only to find that Roald Amundsen's Norwegian expedition had beaten them by five weeks. On the return journey, trapped by a blizzard, running out of food and fuel, Scott spent his final days writing letters. His body was found eight months later in the tent, his letters preserved by the cold.

The one to his wife, Kathleen, opens with a line that stops you cold:

"To my widow."

Dearest darling — we are in a very tight corner and I have doubts of pulling through...

He tells her what she already means to him:

You know I have loved you. You know my thoughts must have constantly dwelt on you and oh dear me you must know that quite the worst aspect of this situation is the thought that I shall not see you again.

But Scott doesn't just say goodbye. He parents from the grave. Their son Peter was only two years old, and Scott wrote specific instructions for raising him:

Make the boy interested in natural history if you can. It is better than games.

Peter Scott grew up to become Sir Peter Scott — one of the twentieth century's most important conservationists, an ornithologist, an artist, and the founder of the World Wildlife Fund. His father's letter, written in a freezing tent at the bottom of the world, shaped the course of his life.

What this teaches us: Scott did something that most farewell letters don't attempt: he gave practical instructions. He didn't just say "I love my son." He said what he wanted for his son, specifically. That's the difference between a sentiment and a legacy. If you're writing to your children, don't just tell them you love them — tell them what you noticed about them, what you hope for them, what you want them to know. Be as specific as a man writing by candlelight in Antarctica, who knew this was his only chance to say it.

What these letters have in common

Read enough famous last letters and patterns start to emerge. Not formulas — these aren't template-driven documents — but habits of honesty that show up again and again.

They're specific. Ballou doesn't say "I love you." He says his love binds him with cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break. Scott doesn't say "take care of the boy." He says make him interested in natural history. The specificity is what makes the emotion land.

They're honest about the hard parts. Woolf admits she's going mad. Van Gogh admits his work is destroying him. Ballou admits he's afraid. Nobody in these letters is performing bravery or pretending things are fine. They're telling the truth, and the truth is what the reader needs.

They name what the other person means to them. Not in vague terms, but directly. "You have given me the greatest possible happiness." "My love for you is deathless." These aren't cliches — they're people making sure the most important thing gets said before it's too late.

They look forward, not just back. Scott writes about his son's future. Ballou imagines his spirit visiting Sarah. Even in the act of saying goodbye, these letters reach toward what comes next for the people left behind.

Writing your own last letter

You don't have to be heading into battle or trapped in a blizzard to write a letter like this. You just have to be willing to sit with the same question these people sat with: if these were my last words, what would I want to say?

Most people who try to write a legacy letter get stuck because they're trying to say everything. They want the letter to be complete, to cover every feeling and every memory and every piece of advice. But look at the letters above. Woolf's note is barely two hundred words. Ballou wrote a few pages. Scott scrawled in a dying hand. None of them tried to be comprehensive. They just said the truest thing they could think of.

Start there. One true thing. One memory, one thank-you, one piece of honesty you've been carrying around. You can always add more later. But the first sentence — the one where you stop performing and start talking to the person you love — that's the one that matters.

These letters survived because the people who wrote them stopped worrying about getting it right and just said what they meant. Yours can do the same.

When I Die Files gives you a private, secure place to write the letters that matter most — and make sure they reach the right people at the right time.