The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Whether caused by the introduction and rapid adoption of e-mail, the decline in quality of our education, or sheer impatience, the art of the handwritten (or even typed l'havdil) great letter has disappeared.  One can purchase books of letters written by the greats where each word has clearly been carefully chosen, much like notes in a symphony which when read together form harmonious perfection.  Some of us even have years of correspondence written between grandparents while one served overseas.  What will our children have to read of ours?  "lol, gr8, btw 2nites gonna b insane, ttyl"?

My mother always insisted that we write handwritten letters to her.  When my parents had something to convey to us, we would receive a long, well-written and very well thought-out letter. To this day, I write handwritten thank you notes to my Shabbos hosts, and judging by the reaction that I most often receive, this is not common.  When it comes to e-mail, I am as guilty as the next man. I am busy and rushed, and I often dash out a line or two without giving much thought.  But I also recognize the value of a good letter, and there are certain people with whom I've shared correspondences for over a decade, and when I write them I often first peruse a classic letter from the past to put myself into the proper frame of mind.

With that as introduction, here is a condolence letter written by Benjamin Franklin to the young daughter of a friend who has lost a pet squirrel.  Would that we all put as much thought and time into writing actual condolence notes as he evidently did when writing a condolence note to a little girl for a squirrel.

London, September 26, 1772.

DEAR Miss,

I LAMENT with you most sincerely the unfortunate end of poor MUNGO. Few squirrels were better accomplished; for he had had a good education, had travelled far, and seen much of the world. As he had the honour of being, for his virtues, your favourite, he should not go, like common skuggs, without an elegy or an epitaph. Let us give him one in the monumental style and measure, which, being neither prose nor verse, is perhaps the properest for grief; since to use common language would look as if we were not affected, and to make rhymes would seem trifling in sorrow.

EPITAPH.
Alas! poor MUNGO! Happy wert thou, hadst thou known
Thy own felicity. Remote from the fierce bald eagle,
Tyrant of thy native woods,
Thou hadst nought to fear from his piercing talons, Nor from the murdering gun Of the thoughtless sportsman.
Safe in thy wired castle,
GRIMALKIN never could annoy thee.
Daily wert thou fed with the choicest viands,
By the fair hand of an indulgent mistress ;
But, discontented,
Thou wouldst have more freedom.
Too soon, alas ! didst thou obtain it ;
And wandering, Thou art fallen by the fangs of wanton, cruel RANGER!
Learn hence,
Ye who blindly seek more liberty,
Whether subjects, sons, squirrels or daughters,
That apparent restraint may be real protection ;
Yielding peace and plenty
With security.

You see, my dear Miss, how much more decent and proper this broken style is, than if we were to say, by way of epitaph,

Here SKUGG Lies snug, As a bug In a rug.

and yet, perhaps, there are people in the world of so little feeling as to think that this would be a good-enough epitaph for poor Mungo.

If you wish it, I shall procure another to succeed him; but perhaps you will now choose some other amusement.

Remember me affectionately to all the good family, and believe me ever,

Your affectionate friend, B. FRANKLIN.