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insist upon this. In all instances a card and a stamped and directed envelope must be inclosed. I will never “add a sentiment” except in the case of applicants who can give me proof that they have read all my books, now some thirty or forty in number.
W. D. HOWELLS.
It need hardly be added that Mr. Howells’s good nature prevented his adherence to his rule!
Rudyard Kipling is another whose letters fairly vibrate with personality; few men can write more interestingly, or, incidentally, considering his microscopic handwriting, say more on a letter page.
Bok was telling Kipling one day about the scrapple so dear to the heart of the Philadelphian as a breakfast dish. The author had never heard of it or tasted it, and wished for a sample. So, upon his return home, Bok had a Philadelphia market-man send some of the Philadelphia-made article, packed in ice, to Kipling in his English home. There were several pounds of it and Kipling wrote:
By the way, that scrapple—which by token is a dish for the Gods—arrived in perfect condition, and I ate it all, or as much as I could get hold of. I am extremely grateful for it. It’s all nonsense about pig being unwholesome. There isn’t a Mary-ache in a barrel of scrapple.
Then later came this afterthought:
A noble dish is that scrapple, but don’t eat three slices and go to work straight on top of ’em. That’s the way to dyspepsia!
P. S. I wish to goodness you’d give another look at England before long. It’s quite a country; really it is. Old, too, I believe.
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