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Letters And Letter-Writing
by
“I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned; which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me,
“W. C.”
At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex by saying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after, Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name, was “P. S. Who is right now, you or I?”
“We have met the enemy, and they are ours” is an example for naval letters. Commodore Walton’s letter, by which he gave information of his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:
“We have taken or destroyed all the enemy’s ships or vessels on the coast, as per margin.”
General Taylor’s letters are of the same class,–brief and to the point.
As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham’s letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:
“DEAR DAD AND GOSSIP,”
and concludes thus:–
“Your Majesty’s most humble slave and dog,
“STINIE.”
Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat more than Platonic:
“DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into one of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you are a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a Cupid; instead of an Apothecary’s Mortar, I make a Church Font for Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and Cornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity I build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks and Pyramids, to your generosity.”
As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fair off-hand epistle of love:
“ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist’s Affections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer’s Alarms, And Answer An Amorous Applicant’s Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An Awful Aspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attractive Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And Affectionate Adorer’s Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced Albert’s Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An Affectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer’s Aching Adieu. ALBERT.”