Of course, I really know nothing about it, but I would be willing to
wager that the last words of Penelope, as Odysseus bounced down the
front steps, bag in hand, were: "Now, don't forget to write, Odie.
You'll find some papyrus rolled up in your clean peplum, and just drop
me a line on it whenever you get a chance."
And ever since that time people have been promising to write, and then
explaining why they haven't written. Most personal correspondence of
to-day consists of letters the first half of which are given over to
an indexed statement of reasons why the writer hasn't written before,
followed by one paragraph of small talk, with the remainder devoted to
reasons why it is imperative that the letter be brought to a close. So
many people begin their letters by saying that they have been rushed
to death during the last month, and therefore haven't found time to
write, that one wonders where all the grown persons come from who
attend movies at eleven in the morning. There has been a
misunderstanding of the word "busy" somewhere.
So explanatory has the method of letter writing become that it is
probable that if Odysseus were a modern traveler his letters home to
Penelope would average something like this:
_Calypso,_
_Friday afternoon._
DEAR PEN:--I have been so tied up with work during the last week that
I haven't had a chance to get near a desk to write to you. I have been
trying to every day, but something would come up just at the last
minute that would prevent me. Last Monday I got the papyrus all
unrolled, and then I had to tend to Scylla and Charybdis (I may have
written you about them before), and by the time I got through with
them it was bedtime, and, believe me, I am snatching every bit of
sleep I can get these days. And so it went, first the Læstrygones, and
then something else, and here it is Friday. Well, there isn't much
news to write about. Things are going along here about as usual. There
is a young nymph here who seems to own the place, but I haven't had
any chance to meet her socially. Well, there goes the ship's bell. I
guess I had better be bringing this to a close. I have got a lot of
work to do before I get dressed to go to a dinner of that nymph I was
telling you about. I have met her brother, and he and I are interested
in the same line of goods. He was at Troy with me. Well, I guess I
must be closing. Will try to get off a longer letter in a day or two.
Your loving husband,
ODIE.
P.S.--You haven't got that bunch of sports hanging round the palace
still, have you? Tell Telemachus I'll take him out of school if I hear
of his playing around with any of them.
But there was a time when letter writing was such a fad, especially
among the young girls, that if they had had to choose between eating
three meals a day and writing a letter they wouldn't have given the
meals even a consideration. In fact, they couldn't do both, for the
length of maidenly letters in those days precluded any time out for
meals. They may have knocked off for a few minutes during the heat of
the day for a whiff at a bottle of salts, but to nibble at anything
heartier than lettuce would have cramped their style.
Take Miss Clarissa Harlowe, for instance. In Richardson's book (which,
in spite of my personal aversion to it, has been hailed by every great
writer, from Pope to Stevenson, as being perfectly bully) she is
given the opportunity of telling 2,400 closely printed pages full of
story by means of letters to her female friend, Miss Howe (who plays a
part similar to the orchestra leader in Frank Tinney's act). And 2,400
pages is nothing to her. When the book closes she is just beginning to
get her stride. As soon as she got through with that she probably sat
down and wrote a series of letters to the London papers about the need
for conscription to fight the Indians in America.
To a girl like Clarissa, in the middle of the eighteenth century, no
day was too full of horrors, no hour was too crowded with terrific
happenings to prevent her from seating herself at a desk (she must
have carried the desk about with her, strapped over her shoulder) and
tearing off twenty or thirty pages to Friend Anna, telling her all
about it. The only way that I can see in which she could accomplish
this so efficiently would be to have a copy boy standing at her elbow,
who took the letter, sheet by sheet, as she wrote it, and dashed with
it to the printer.
It is hard to tell just which a girl of that period considered more
important, the experiences she was writing of or the letter itself.
She certainly never slighted the letter. If the experience wanted to
overtake her, and jump up on the desk beside her, all right, but,
experience or no experience, she was going to get that letter in the
next post or die in the attempt. Unfortunately, she never died in the
attempt.
Thus, an attack on a young lady's house by a band of cutthroats,
resulting in the burning of the structure and her abduction, might
have been told of in the eighteenth century letter system as follows:
_Monday night._
SWEET ANNA:--At this writing I find myself in the most horrible
circumstance imaginable. Picture to yourself, if you can, my dear
Anna, a party of villainous brigands, veritable cutthroats, all of
them, led by a surly fellow in green alpaca with white insertion,
breaking their way, by very force, through the side of your domicile,
like so many ugly intruders, and threatening you with vile
imprecations to make you disclose the hiding place of the family
jewels. If the mere thought of such a contingency is painful to you,
my beloved Anna, consider what it means to me, your delicate friend,
to whom it is actually happening at this very minute! For such is in
very truth the situation which is disclosing itself in my room as I
write. Not three feet away from me is the odious person before
described. Now he is threatening me with renewed vigor! Now he has
placed his coarse hands on my throat, completely hiding the pearl
necklace which papa brought me from Epsom last summer, and which you,
and also young Pindleson (whose very name I mention with a blush),
have so often admired. But more of this later, and until then, believe
me, my dear Anna, to be
Your ever distressed and affectionate
CL. HARLOWE.
_Monday night. Later._
DEAREST ANNA:--Now, indeed, it is evident, my best, my only friend,
that I am face to face with the bitterest of fates. You will remember
that in my last letter I spoke to you of a party of unprincipled
knaves who were invading my apartment. And now do I find that they
have, in furtherance of their inexcusable plans, set fire to that
portion of the house which lies directly behind this, so that as I put
my pen to paper the flames are creeping, like hungry creatures of some
sort, through the partitions and into this very room, so that did I
esteem my safety more than my correspondence with you, my precious
companion, I should at once be making preparation for immediate
departure. O my dear! To be thus seized, as I am at this very
instant, by the unscrupulous leader of the band and carried, by
brute force, down the stairway through the butler's pantry and into
the servants' hall, writing as I go, resting my poor paper on the
shoulder of my detested abductor, is truly, you will agree, my sweet
Anna, a pitiable episode.
[Illustration: "To be thus seized ... is truly, you will agree, my
sweet Anna, a pitiable episode."]
Adieu, my intimate friend.
Your obt. s'v't,
CL. HARLOWE.
One wonders (or, at least, _I_ wonder, and that is sufficient for the
purposes of this article) what the letter writing young lady of that
period would have done had she lived in this day of postcards showing
the rocks at Scipawisset or the Free Public Library in East Tarvia.
She might have used them for some of her shorter messages, but I
rather doubt it. The foregoing scene could hardly have been done
justice to on a card bearing the picture of the Main Street of the
town, looking north from the Soldiers' Monument, with the following
legend:
"Our house is the third on the left with the lilac bush.
Cross marks window where gang of rough-necks have just broken
in and are robbing and burning the house. Looks like a bad
night. Wish you were here. C.H."
No; that would never have done, but it would have been a big relief
for the postilion, or whoever it was that had to carry Miss Clarissa's
effusions to their destination. The mail on Monday morning, after a
springlike Sunday, must have been something in the nature of a wagon
load of rolls of news print that used to be seen standing in front of
newspaper offices in the good old days when newspapers were printed on
paper stock. Of course, the postilion had the opportunity of whiling
away the time between stations by reading some of the spicier bits in
the assortment, but even a postilion must have had his feelings, and a
man can't read that kind of stuff _all_ of the time, and still keep
his health.
Of course, there are a great many people now who write letters because
they like to. Also, there are some who do it because they feel that
they owe it to posterity and to their publishers to do so. As soon as
a man begins to sniff a chance that he may become moderately famous he
is apt to brush up on his letter writing and never send anything out
that has not been polished and proof-read, with the idea in mind that
some day some one is going to get all of his letters together and make
a book of them. Apparently, most great men whose letters have been
published have had premonition of their greatness when quite young,
as their childish letters bear the marks of careful and studied
attention to publicity values. One can almost imagine the budding
genius, aged eight, sitting at his desk and saying to himself:
[Illustration: "I must not forget that I am now going through the
'_Sturm und Drang_' period."]
"In this spontaneous letter to my father I must not forget that I am
now going through the _Sturm und Drang_ (storm and stress) period of
my youth and that this letter will have to be grouped by the compiler
under the _Sturm und Drang_ (storm and stress) section in my collected
letters. I must therefore keep in the key and quote only such of my
favorite authors as will contribute to the effect. I think I will use
Werther to-day.... My dear Father"--etc.
I have not known many geniuses in their youth, but I have had several
youths pointed out to me by their parents as geniuses, and I must
confess that I have never seen a letter from any one of them that
differed greatly from the letters of a normal boy, unless perhaps they
were spelled less accurately. Given certain uninteresting conditions,
let us say, at boarding school, and I believe that the average bright
boy's letter home would read something in this fashion:
_Exeter, N.H.,_
_Wed., April 25._