There are some quaint and pithy epistles on record. Quin, when offended by Rich, went away in resentment and wrote: ‘I am at Bath.’ The answer was as laconic, though not quite so civil: ‘Stay there.’
Sibbald, the editor of the Chronicles of Scottish Poetry, resided in London for three or four years, during which time his friends in Scotland were ignorant not only of his movements, but even of his address. In the longrun, his brother, a Leith merchant, contrived to get a letter conveyed to him, the object of which was to inquire into his circumstances and to ask where he lived. His reply ran as follows: ‘Dear Brother—I live in So-ho, and my business is so-so.—Yours, James Sibbald.’
Concise and to the point was the curious letter sent by a farmer to a schoolmaster as an excuse for his son’s absence from school: ‘Cepatomtogoatatrin.’ This meant, kep’ at ’ome to go a-taterin’ (gathering potatoes). A Canadian freshman once wrote home to his father: ‘Dear Papa—I want a little change.’ The fond parent replied by the next post: ‘Dear Charlie—Just wait for it. Time brings change to every one.’
Briefer than these was an epistle of Emile de Girardin to his second wife, with whom he lived on most unfriendly terms. The house was large enough to permit them to dwell entirely separate from one another. One day, Madame de Girardin had an important communication to make to her husband. Taking a small sheet of paper she wrote: ‘The Boudoir to the Library: Would like to go to Switzerland.’—M. de Girardin, imitating her concise style, responded: ‘The Library to the Boudoir: Go.’ That was all.
One of the most laconic wills on record ran thus: ‘I have nothing; I owe a great deal—the rest I give to the poor.’—A similar terse epitaph to the following would have suited that will-maker: ‘Died of thin shoes, January 1839.’
PARTED.
Once more my hand will clasp your hand;
Your loved voice I shall hear once more;
But we shall never see the land,
The pleasant land we knew of yore;