University of Virginia Library

POETICAL EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY, ON LETTER WRITING.

Most people in writing this method pursue,
I'm in good health, thank heav'n; how is it with you?
Then of weddings and funerals they make a black scroll,
And conclude with much love to their cousins and all.
Such letters as these little pleasure convey,
Which prove that the writers have nothing to say,
So 'twould seem by their writing—yet many there be
Whose words are well chosen, whose language is free,
Who can talk half a day in an elegant strain,
But whatever they write seems confin'd with a chain.
Since letters well written give exquisite pleasure,
But mangled, as usual, offend beyond measure;
Since daily occasion compels us to write,
Read these lines, my dear Clara, and learn to indite.
Here is then the great secret, to this you'll attend,
Write in just the same manner you'd speak to your friend;
Avoid all hard words and bombastical strain,
If your style be but chaste, it can scarce be too plain.
Many persons who've got a slight tincture of knowledge,
Young boarding-school misses, and students from college,
By high sounding nonsense endeavour to please,
And talk of their bright and their gloomy ideas;
Avoid all this stiffness, this troublesome toil,
And write to your friends in your every day style.
There are others who run on the opposite stump,
And affect so much ease, they write hop, skip and jump:
In one line a sad death puts in mourning the town,
In the next cousin Sue has a new-fashion'd gown.
This fault may be cured by a moment's reflection,
For letters, though free, yet require some connection;
And who, but a madman, in one fleeting breath,
Talks of funerals and weddings, and fashions and death?
I've known many persons who write very well,
Commit shocking blunders in attempting to spell:
To avoid this disgrace, a small Entick provide,
And whenever you write let it lay by your side;
As you happen to doubt, to the word you must turn,
And, spelling, you thus without trouble may learn.
In using great letters, remember that names
Of places and persons, as Boston and James,
I and O, when singly a word they compose,
Have capital letters, in metre and prose;
So each chapter and section, and every new line
In verse, as you'll see by this letter of mine.
Be sure to write straight, 'tis the mark of a clown
To suffer his lines to run up hill and down:
Rule your lines, as you write, with a pencil of lead,
And when done rub them out with a morsel of bread;
Always write by a margin, I never could bear
To see lines, like militia, stand hither and there.
If you make a mistake, as is often the case,
Blot not with the pen, let the penknife erase;
Rub next with the handle the paper quite plain,
And then you may write the word over again.
To wonderful hurry some ladies pretend,
They're always in haste, when they write to a friend;
All their letters conclude with complaining so sad,
Excuse haste, for my pen, ink, and paper are bad:
Such flimsey excuses but heighten the crime,
The busiest, if prudent, can always find time.
On business, when urgent, you may write in haste,
Otherwise you should stay till the hurry be past.
Neither paper nor ink, thank kind fortune, are dear,
And pens scarcely cost us one six-pence a year.
Since then 'tis so easy to keep a good store,
Why of pens, ink, and paper eternally poor?
Receive these directions, dear girl, in good part,
Read them o'er with attention, commit them to heart;
From numbers though artless, some good may accrue,
So with my best wishes, dear Clara, adieu.