Young women are proverbially fond of playing with edged tools, and of
all such dangerous playthings a habit of promiscuous, careless
letter-writing is the worst; for in most cases the danger is not
obvious at the time, and the writer may even have forgotten her
imprudence when she has to meet the consequences. The romance, the
gush, the having nothing particular to do, the almost insane egotism
which makes some young women long to exploit their own hearts, caused
poor Madaline Smith to write those foolish letters to a man whose
every good quality she had to invent, and who afterwards tortured her
with these very letters into a crime which made her stand for months
within the shadow of the gallows. She had not patience to await until
the real lover came, and then when he did come these fatal letters
stood between her and her happiness, and her fair name.
The very instinct which leads to constant letter-writing, goes with a
constitutional want of caution, and therefore indicates a necessity
for intelligent self-restraint. If young women, when writing letters,
would only project themselves into the future and imagine a time when
they might be confronted with the lines which they have just penned,
many an ill-advised missive would go into the fire instead of into the
mail bag. Indeed, if letters at all doubtful in spirit or intent were
laid aside until "next morning" many a wrong would be left undone,
many a friendship would be preserved unbroken, and many an imprudence
be postponed and so uncommitted. If indeed a woman could say
truthfully, "This letter is my letter, and if mischief comes of it I
alone have the penalty to pay," expansive correspondence might be less
dangerous. But no one can thus limit folly or sin, and its consequence
may even touch those who were not even aware of the writing of the
letter.
The abuse of letter-writing is one of the greatest trials of the
epoch. Distance, which used to be a protection, is now done away with.
Every one cries out, and insists upon your listening. They write
events while they are only happening. People unknown intrude upon your
time and take possession of it. Enmities and friendships thousands of
miles away scold or caress; one is exacting, another angry, a third
lays upon your conscience obligations which he has invented. For a
mere nothing--a yes, or a no--idle, gushing people fire off continual
notes and insist upon answers. Now this kind of letter-writing exists
only because postage is cheap; if such correspondents had to pay
twenty-five cents for giving their opinions, they would not give them
at all. It is an impertinence also, for though we may like persons
well enough to receive from them a visit, or even to return it, it is
a very different thing to be called upon to retire ourselves with pen
and ink and note paper, and give away time and interest which we are
not inclined to give.
Plenty of girls write very clever letters,--letters that are an echo
of their own circle, full of a sweet audacity and an innocent swagger
of knowledge of the world and of the human heart that is very
engaging. And the temptation to write such letters is very great,
especially as both the writer and her friends are apt to imagine them
evidence of a large amount of genius. Indeed, some who have a
specially bright pen, or else a specially large circle of admirers and
flatterers, arrive speedily at the conviction that they can just as
easily write a book. So without reason and without results, they get
themselves heart-burning and heart-ache and disappointment. For there
is absolutely no kindred whatever between this graceful, piquant
eloquence _du billet_ and the fancy, observation, and experience
necessary to successful novel writing.
If a girl really has a vein of true sentiment, she ought not at this
day to give it away in letter-writing. There is a safer and more
profitable way to use it; she can now take it to market and sell it
for pudding, for the magazines and ladies' newspapers. Sentiment and
fancy have a commercial value; and instead of sealing them up in a
two-cent envelope for an acquaintance,--who is likely very
unappreciative, and who perhaps tosses them into the fire with a
contemptuous adjective,--she might send them to some long-suffering
editor. These men know the depths of the girlish heart in this
respect, and they have a patience in searching for the gold among the
dross that is not generally believed in. Therefore, if a girl must
write, let her send her emotions to the newspapers; an editor is a far
more prudent confidant than her very dearest friend.
Really, the day for letter-writing is past. As an art it is dead, as
convenience it remains; but it has lost all sentiment. Even Madame de
Sevigne could not be charming on a postal card, and for genuine
information the general idea is to put it into twenty words and send
it by telegraph. So, then, it is a good thing for young women to get
over, as soon as possible, the tendency of their years to sentimental
letter-writing. They will thus save themselves many a heart-ache in
the present and many a fear for the future. For if they do not write
letters they cannot feel hurt because they are not answered. They
cannot worry because they have said something imprudent. They will not
make promises, in the exaltation of composition, which they will
either break or hate to keep when they are in their sober senses. They
will also preserve their friendships longer, for they will not deprive
them altogether of that charm which leaves something to the
imagination.
Of course there are yet such things as absolutely necessary letters;
and these, in their way, ought to be made as perfect as possible.
Fortunately, perfection in this respect is easily attainable, its
essentials being evident to all as soon as they are stated. First, a
letter which demands or deserves the attention of an answer, ought to
have it as promptly as if we were paying a bill. Second, we ought to
write distinctly, for bad handwriting represents a very dogged,
self-asserting temper,--one, too, which is unfair, because if we put
forward our criticisms and angularities in a personal meeting, they
can be returned in kind, but to send a letter that is almost
unintelligible admits of no reprisal but an answer in some equally
provoking scrawl. Even if the writing is only careless, and may be
read with a little trouble, we have no right to impose that extra
trouble. Third, it is a good thing to write short letters. The cases
in which people have written long letters, and not been sorry for
having done so, are doubtless very rare. No one will ever be worse for
just saying plainly what she has to say and then signing her name to
it plainly and in full. For a name half signed is not only a
vulgarity, it indicates a character unfinished, uncertain, and
hesitating.
There is a kind of correspondence which is a special development of
our special civilization, and which it is to be hoped will be
carefully avoided by the young woman of the future,--that is, the
writing of letters begging autographs. A woman who does this thing has
a passion which she ought immediately to arrest and compel to give an
account of itself.
If she did so, she would quickly discover that it is a mean passion,
masquerading in a character it has no right to, and no sympathy with.
An autograph beggar is a natural development, though not a very
creditable one. She doubtless began her career of accumulation with
collecting birds' eggs in the country, where they could be got for
nothing. Butterflies were probably her next ambition. Then perhaps
that mysterious craze for postage stamps followed. After such a
training, the mania for autographs would come as a matter of course.
And the sole and whole motive of the collecting business is nothing at
all but the vulgar love of possessing, and especially of possessing
what costs nothing.
It is amusing and provoking to notice the air of complaisance with
which some of these begging epistles are suffused. The writers seem
incapable of conceiving statesmen, artists, and authors who will not
be as pleased to give as they are to ask. But in reality, a man or a
woman, however distinguished, who feels a request for his or her
autograph to be a compliment, is soaked in self-conceit, and the large
majority certainly do look upon such requests as simply impertinent
begging letters. The request, indeed, carries an affront with it, no
matter how civilly it may be worded, as it is not that particular
autograph that is wanted, for the beggars generally prefix as an
excuse the bare-faced fact that they have already begged hundreds.
Certainly no self-respecting woman will care to put herself among the
host of these contemptible seekers after a scrap of paper.
Speaking broadly, a woman's character may be in many respects fairly
gauged by her habits on the subject of letter-writing; as fairly,
indeed, as we may gauge a man's by his methods of dealing with money.
If we know how a man gets money, how he spends it, how he lends it,
borrows it, or saves it, we have a perfect measurement for his temper
and capabilities. And if we know how a woman deals with her letters,
how many she gets, how many she sends, how long or how short they are,
if they are sprawly and untidy, or neat and cleanly, and how they are
signed and sealed, then we can judge her nature very fairly, for she
has written herself down in an open book, and all who wish may read
her.