LETTERS TO NEWSPAPERS, MAGAZINES, ETC.
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.