New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1919-03-16
The Art of
Writing
Letters
Is Il Irrevocabiy EEoss,
Strayed or Stolen? And
Who's to Blame? You
Are Urged to Join the
TT ENRY DWIGHT sEDGwIck,
writing in "The Yale Review"
- rambles INTERESTINGLY.
rambles INTERESTINGLY:


rambles interestingly:
Everything that strays and is lost excites
our commiseration. A lostdog makes tragic
figure; lost jack knife, lost memento. a
lost opportunity, lost love, in their several
ways arouse our sympathics But on the
whole such losses are personal and concern
the owner more than others. In the case
of the lost arts we are all losers; whether
it be that the idea of their going astray
and being lost touches US, or whether orr
imagination fondly fances that, if these
arts were found, life would recover charm.
which would mitigate much that is stale and
common in daily pilgrimage, or what
ever the reason, we feel a sort of homesick.
ness for those vanished expressions of past
civilization. Who would not forsake tne
ninety and nine arts that are now safely
housed in the fold, and 60 hallooing throu
the wastes of history in hope of finding
hundredth that is lost?
In China, under the Mings, arts must
have been lost by the dozen, and also in
Crete under a degenerate Minoan dynasty
The art of colored glass persisted with the
fourteenth century; the glaze of della Rob-
bia ware has vanished away. In this coun-
try, too, within living memory, the art Of
diction has been lost. Edwin Booth, Horace
Furness the elder, Wendell Phillips, have
left no equals; President Eliot is the last
of their disciples.
at is often said that the art of writing
letters has been lost. And various reasons
for that losing have been assigned. Some
lay the blame upon the telephone, the type
writer, the telegraph, upon the railroad that
benumbs a letter writer with the knowl-
edge that his letter, which should rpen in
a postboy's bag, will be delivered thou
sand miles away at 2:45 tomorrow after
noon. Some say the art went out with the
goose quill. But most ascribe the loss to
the modern absence of leisure. I'VE have
no time to sit and write, they say. Nine
de Sevigne lived the year round in moated
grange, days journey from her nearest
friends, and protected from them by a will
derness of rough roads. To-day crowded
motors would be rolling up to the door of
Lies Rochers," and such part of Nine. de
Sevgne's leisure as was not nibbled by her
acquaintance would be gobbled up by her
friends
"1f this be true that there is no leisure,
Or immensely less leisure than in Nine. de
Sevigne's time, then one of the main uses
of riches has been thrown away. Hurry
has been set on a pedestal and scurry has
been set on pedestal, and the taste for
leisure has been snuffed out. Neverthe-
less, hustle or fashion, however, they MAJ
do their best, cannot wholly abolish leisul
There are and always will be convalesceni
crippes, confirmed idlers, guests maroonc
IN country houses on Sunday morning
AND, besides, it is quite possible that Il
wheel OF fashion may turn, restlessne
give place to repose, and leisure come into
her own again, bringing back with her
taste for letter writing. There are reasol
enough to be fshed up for holding on to thu
art OF letter writing, if it were only upon
the general principle that all arts help SUD
port one another; even the least can help
the greatest, by the wider diffusion and
cultivation of interest in those little nice
ties and last touches that constitute form.
Arts are like rebels; they must be loyal to
one another, one by one they will be
hanged drawn and CHARTERED at the com
mand OF that mighty autocrat, Homo VII
gd7as. Therefore, all of US who be-
lleve IN art-in the earnest submission 70
discipline of eye, ear or touch, for the re-
ward of perceiving where Homo Vulgoris
does not perceive should enroll ourselves
IN the guild of letter writer's