Another type of public correspondence is the letter which is
intended for publication in some periodical. This is usually
written by elderly gentlemen with whiskers and should be cast in
the following form:
A Correct Letter from an Elderly Gentleman to the Editor of a
Newspaper or Magazine
To the Editor: SIR:
On February next, _Deo volente_, I shall have been a constant reader
of your worthy publication for forty-one years. I feel, sir, that
that record gives me the right _ipso facto_ to offer my humble
criticism of a statement made in your November number by that worthy
critic of the drama, Mr. Heywood Broun. _Humanum est errare_, and I
am sure that Mr. Broun (with whom I have unfortunately not the honour
of an acquaintance) will forgive me for calling his attention to what
is indeed a serious, and I might say, unbelievable, misstatement. In
my younger days, now long past, it was not considered _infra dig_ for
a critic to reply to such letters as this, and I hope that Mr. Broun
will deem this epistle worthy of consideration, and recognize the
justice of my complaint.
I remember well a controversy that raged between critic and public
for many weeks in the days when Joe Jefferson was playing Rip Van
Winkle. Ah, sir, do you remember (but, of course, you don’t) that
entrance of Joe in the first act with his dog Schneider? That was not
my first play by many years, but I believe that it is still my
favorite. I think the first time I ever attended a dramatic
performance was in the winter of ’68 when I was a student at Harvard
College. Five of us freshmen went into the old Boston Museum to see
_Our American Cousin_. Joe Chappell was with us that night and the
two Dawes boys and, I think, Elmer Mitchell. One of the Dawes twins
was, I believe, afterwards prominent in the Hayes administration.
There were many men besides Will Dawes in that Harvard class who were
heard from in later years. Ed Twitchell for one, and “Sam” Caldwell,
who was one of the nominees for vice president in ’92. I sat next to
Sam in “Bull” Warren’s Greek class. _There_ was one of the finest
scholars this country has ever produced—a stern taskmaster, and a
thorough gentleman. It would be well for this younger generation if
they could spend a few hours in that old classroom, with “Bull”
pacing up and down the aisle and all of us trembling in our shoes.
But _Delenda est Carthago—fuit Ilium—Requiescat in pace_. I last saw
“Bull” at our fifteenth reunion and we were all just as afraid of him
as in the old days at Hollis.
But I digress. _Tempus fugit_,—which reminds me of a story “Billy”
Hallowell once told at a meeting of the American Bar Association in
Minneapolis, in 1906. Hallowell was perhaps the most brilliant
after-dinner speaker I have ever heard—with the possible exception of
W. D. Evarts. I shall never forget the speech that Evarts made during
the second Blaine campaign.
But I digress. Your critic, Mr. Heywood Broun, says on page 33 of the
November issue of your worthy magazine that _The Easiest Way_ is the
father of all modern American tragedy. Sir, does Mr. Broun forget
that there once lived a man named William Shakespeare? Is it possible
to overlook such immortal tragedies as _Hamlet_ and _Othello?_ I
think not. _Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum._ Sincerely, SHERWIN G.
COLLINS.
A Correct Letter from an Indignant Father to an Editor of Low
Ideals
To the Editor: Sir:
I have a son—a little fourteen-year-old boy who proudly bears my
name. This lad I have brought up with the greatest care. I have
spared no pains to make him an upright, moral, God-fearing youth.
I had succeeded, I thought, in inculcating in him all those worthy
principles for which our Puritan fathers fought and—aye—died. I do
not believe that there existed in our neighborhood a more virtuous,
more righteous boy.
From his earliest childhood until now Mrs. Pringle and I have kept
him carefully free from any suggestion of evil. We have put in his
hands only the best and purest of books; we have not allowed him to
attend any motion picture performances other than the yearly visit of
the Burton Holmes travelogues, and, last year, a film called _Snow
White and Rose Red;_ we have forbidden him to enter a theater. Roland
(for that is his name) has never in his life exhibited any interest
in what is known as sex.
Sir, you may imagine my chagrin when my Roland—my boy who, for
fourteen years, I have carefully shielded from sin—rushed in last
night to where Mrs. Pringle and I were enjoying our evening game of
Bézique, bearing in his hand a copy of your magazine which, I
presume, he had picked up at some so-called friend’s house. “Papa,
look,” said my boy to me, pointing to the cover of the magazine.
“What are these?”
Sir, I looked. Mrs. Pringle gave a shriek, and well may she have. My
boy was pointing to a cover on which was what is called—in barroom
parlance—a “nude.” And not _one_ nude but _twelve!_
Sir, you have destroyed the parental labors of fourteen years. I
trust you are satisfied. Yours, etc., EVERETT G. PRINGLE.
A Letter from a Member of the Lower Classes. Particular pains
should be taken in answering such letters as it should always be
our aim to lend a hand to those aspiring toward better things.
To the Editor: Dear Sir:
I am a motorman on the Third Ave. South Ferry local, and the other
day one of the passengers left a copy of your magazine on my car and
I want to ask you something which maybe you can tell me and anyway it
don’t do no harm to ask what I want to know is will it be O. K to
wear a white vest with a dinner coat this coming winter and what
color socks I enclose stamps for reply. Yrs. ED. WALSH.
A Correct Letter to the Lost and Found Department of a
Periodical, inquiring for a Missing Relative. This should be
referred to the persons mentioned in the letter who will probably
take prompt and vigorous action.
Literary Editors: Dear Sirs:
I have been very much interested in the clever work of Nancy and
Ernest Boyd which has been appearing in your magazine, and I wonder
if you could take the time to give me a little piece of information
about them. You see there was a Nancy Boyd (her mother was Nancy
Kroomen of Beaver Dam) and her bro. Ernest, who was neighbors to us
for several years, and when they moved I sort of lost track of them.
You know how those things are. But it’s a small world after all,
isn’t it? and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if this was the same
party and, if it is, will you say hello to Nancy for me, and tell
Ernest that Ed. Gold still comes down from Akron to see E. W. every
Saturday. He’ll know who I mean. Ever sincerely, MAY WINTERS.