This sounds very nice on paper, you think. Well, we have over four thousand customers in Kansas. Mr. W. O. Clifford, who lives not so far from you, has used a Wilbur for three years. Ask him what he has to say about it.
Then you will want to know just what such an engine will cost you, and you will be tickled to death when you know how much money we can really save you. I don't mean that we will furnish you with a cheap machine at a high price, but a really high-grade machine at a low price.
I await with much interest your reply telling us what you want.
Very truly yours,
[Signature: L. W. Hamilton]
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The commonest cause of a lack of punch in a letter is the temptation to get away from the main idea—unity of thought. This is what a mail-order house writes:
"This is the largest catalogue of the kind ever issued, it will pay you to deal with our house. Every machine is put together by hand and tested, and we will ship the day your order is received.
"An examination of the catalogue will prove our claim that we carry the largest stock of goods in our line. Should our goods appeal to you, we shall be glad to add you to our list of customers."
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There is neither unity nor logic in a letter like this, although there is the suggestion of several good ideas. The fact that the house issues the largest catalogue of its kind might be so explained to me that it would convince me that here is the place I ought to buy. Or, the fact that every machine is tested and put together by hand, if followed to a logical conclusion, would prove to me that I could rely on the quality of these goods. But when the writer doesn't stick to one subject for more than half a sentence, my attention will not cling to it and my mind is not convinced by a mere statement without proof.