THE CHAIN-LETTER PRIEST

COREY FORD

An interview with Father Riddell, of the Shrine of the Little Epistle, latest ring-master of the American Circus

Father Riddell is best known as the Chain-Letter Priest. Having observed the successful methods of Father Coughlin —the radio priest of Detroit—our own Father Riddell decided to copy the eminent Little Shepherd of the Air. Inasmuch as he felt that Father Coughlin had the radio pretty well sewed up for his own purposes, however, Father Riddell decided to spread his gospel through a new medium which seemed to be sweeping America like a new broom. Instead of the Radio, he chose the Chain Letter.

"The newspapers have been called the Fourth Estate," Father Riddell stated, "and recently Father Coughlin termed the Radio the Fifth Estate. But in the Chain Letter, I have discovered the Sixth Estate, and personally, if you ask me, it makes those other Estates look like suburban lots."

Father Riddell's ecclesiastical title was another of those happy strokes of genius for which he is famous. Like Father Coughlin, whose clerical collar and cassock lend considerable dignity and weight to his pronouncements over the air, Father Riddell also decided to wrap himself in the sanction of the church. He improved upon Father Coughlin's method in one regard, however. He did not limit himself to a single sect. He played the field. In addition to the Catholic Church, Father Riddell joined the Protestant Church, the Methodist Church, the Baptist Church, the Lutheran Church, the Jewish Church, the Friends Church, the Christian Science Church, the Mormon Church, and several scattered sects of Mohammedans, Hindus, Buddhists, and Nudists.

"I believe in the right of liberty of religion; not permitting the state to dictate my worship to my God," stated Father Riddell. "And, furthermore, when it comes to choosing a church, one denomination's dime is just as good as another's."

This is the courageous voice of Riddell, the Chain-Letter Priest, whose fearless and forthright opinions dominate middleclass America today. From his sumptuous private post-office in the new marble tower of the Shrine of the Little Epistle, Father Riddell, each week, issues his bold doctrines.

Hear the Father speak: "My friends, I am in favor of social justice. I am in favor of a just and living wage. I am in favor of nice clear weather, particularly at picnics. I am in favor of pouring the cream over your cereal first and then putting on the sugar, rather than putting on the sugar first and pouring the cream over it afterwards. I am in favor of mother-love, prosperity, happiness, and babies. On the other hand, my friends—and it is my porpoise to spake out plainly from the shoulder even though the lyin' press shall blaspheme me and defame me—I do earnestly an' devoutly deplore international bankers, the foreign influences, common head-colds, spinach, and the man-eating shark. . . ."

The Father's epistles reach an audience of countless millions—"links" in his vast chain-letter parish. Here, from his Shrine, he dictates to Governors, bullies Senators and Representatives, insults Presidents, determines the economic policies of a nation. Small wonder that the Postal Pastor is generally conceded to be the most powerful man outside the White House today. Yet who is this Little Shepherd of the Mails? What manner of man is this exlaborer in God's vineyard who discovered, quite accidentally, the device that was to bring him (almost overnight) an audience greater than any radio leader had heretofore enjoyed? How does the Chain-Letter Priest spread the Gospel of his Sixteen Points, promote the National Union for All that he founded and that bears his name, and collect the funds to pay for it? For our answer, let us repair to his famous Shrine and visit Father Riddell, the first man to realize the vast possibilities of the Chain Letter in America.

We can still see, as we approach the Post Office of the Little Epistle, the humble Sub-Station in which the Post Office had its origin. Today, the tiny building seems neglected and bewildered in the shadow of the huge edifice of carved stone, the magnificent granite and marble and ivory tower, built by the dimes of subscribers to Father Riddell's National Union for All. In vain a timid parishioner approaches the tiny SubStation to mail a penny postcard; for the good Father has long since deserted his modest wicker-window for the busy multigraphs and printing-presses and stampingmachines of the new Post Office. Here, the lofty bronze gates are bolted and barred night and day—Father Riddell is much too busy with national affairs to bother his head about a single humble suppliant for a three-cent stamp—and the big guard at the door eyes us suspiciously as we approach the threshold of the building.

"Sorry, Father Riddell can't see anybody today, he's busy working on his next chain letter. He can't see any customers."

"But we are not a customer," we explain.

"Can't see nobody today," the guard insists. "Not even J. P. Morgan or Berney Baruch—"

"But we just thought," we explain, "that we might give the good Father a little free publicity—"

"Publicity?" The guard's face suddenly breaks into a cordial smile. "Sure an' why didn't you say so? Step right in. Father Riddell will be down in a minute. . . ."

But now, while we are awaiting the famous Postal Pastor, let us inspect for a moment this imposing edifice which he has built. Let us glance at the headquarters of the vast chain-letter organization of his followers, known as Father Riddell's National Union for All, or, to give its full title, Father Riddell's National Union for All He Can Get.

It is an efficient organization. Even while we mount the steps, a dozen more post-office trucks barge up, and an endless file of huskies in overalls carry the bulging sacks of fresh mail into the Shrine. Inside the vast edifice, row upon row of desks are placed in the space formerly occupied by the pews—apparently at one lime Father Riddell's Shrine was a church —and here innumerable girl clerks are belaboring typewriters, computing machines, multigraphing contrivances, addressing gadgets and card-filing devices. Behind them another tier of girls are opening and sorting the day's mail—nearly a million chain-letters were received by the good Father in a single mail, following his courageous attack on the boll weevil—and, behind them, a third tier of girls take out the enclosed dimes, ring them up in a huge cash-register, erected on the site where the church's altar formerly stood, and mail the letters out again. There is no waste motion about all this, no sentimental gibberish about religion or worship, no time out for singing hymns or reading the Bible. Here is Big Business going places in a hurry.

The origins of Father Riddell seem to be clouded in convenient mists of obscurity. Nobody seems to have heard of him until that fateful Day of Destiny when, a humble postal clerk in the Dead-letter Office, he chanced to open a mis-sent letter and a dime fell into his lap. This gave him the germ of an idea, an idea that was to make him overnight the greatest power in America today. He wrote out five copies of the letter, filled in his own name at the top of each, and a few days later five more dimes dropped in his lap. Thus encouraged, he sent out a new sheaf of five letters, asking each recipient in turn to send out five letters of his own, and to just fill in Father Riddell's name at the top. Within a week he received 15,625 donations, amounting to $1562.50. This money he spent in establishing a small staff of clerks and in enlarging the post-office. A scant six months later he had increased his staff to several thousand, bought the post-office, and embarked on the career that was to lead him to his present eminent position in the world of politics and finance.

From time to time there have been attempts to silence the Chain-Letter Priest. He has had a cold reception from the other Postal workers in America, and there are rumors that the Postmaster General would like to summon him for censure. Three times the Postmaster of Boston has criticised him, and denied him the right to use the mails, but Father Riddell has refused to be cowed. Instead, he has paraded the protection he has had from the Postmaster of his own district, and the Post Office Department has been powerless to remove him. Other silent enemies have tried to prove that he was not an American; but Father Riddell has shown that his mother was born in South Africa and his father in Northern Siberia, and consequently the geographical mean would place him in the center of the United States.

In spite of every effort to unseat him, Father Riddell has continued to send out the chain letters each week, and they are rapidly building him an audience (not to mention a bank-account) of millions.

The device itself is simple. Each week, the good Father's clerical staff sends out the following form, mailed to the subscribers on the Postal Pastor's extensive sucker-list. The subscribers do the rest:

Father Riddell's National League For All

In God We Trust

1. Father Riddell.

2. Father Riddell.

3. Father Riddell.

4. Father Riddell.

5. Father Riddell.

This chain ivas started in the hopes of bringing prosperity. Within Three Days, make five copies of this letter, leaving off Father Riddell's name at the top of the list, and adding Father RiddelFs name at the bottom of the list. Send same to five of your friends who wish Father Riddell prosperity, too.

In omitting Father RiddelFs name from the top of the list, send him Ten Cents (10c), as a Charity Donation.

In turn, as you mail out these letters to your friends, they will also send the top name on the list a charity donation of Ten Cents (10c). If this thing works out right, that ought to mean that Father Riddell should be receiving several hundred thousand dollars in dimes along about next Wednesday.

Kindly bear in mind that if you will have the faith that Father Riddell has, this chain will not be broken.

DON'T BE A MISSING LINK!

And now, what of the mammoth Organization which all these dimes have fostered? What are the tenets of the good Father's National Union for All? What are the tenets of this vast chain-letter following of the Little Shepherd of the Mails? Let us listen to the Postal Pastor as he expounds his famous Sixteen Points:

"Forrr-rrr-rst—" Father Riddell begins.

"I beg your pardon," we interrupt. "What did you say?"

"First," repeats Father Riddell a little irritably, "I believe in equality of liberty, liberty of freedom, and freedom of equality.

"Second, I believe in the standards of America. I stand foursquare for Americanism. I believe that America is a nation of Americans, Americans are people who live in America, and if it were not for the Americans living in America, Americanism would not exist. I believe in America.

"Third, I believe in public ownership of public property, private ownership of private property, and a Central Bank, located somewhere in the middle of the block, so I won't have to walk so far.

"Fourth, I believe in the abolition of the depression, and the substitution of prosperity instead.

"Fifth, I believe in a just and living wage, social justice, fresh air, happiness, love, the home, and a free ride on the merry-go-round for all the kiddies—"

"Just a minute, Father," we interpose. "There's nothing new about all this. These are the things that everybody believes in."

"Of course," he grins. "How do you suppose I keep my audience happy? I only tell 'em what they want to hear. Just give 'em plenty of the old-fashioned religion, a dash of class hatred, several rousing mixed metaphors, and a burst of good old patent-medicine oratory, serve it to 'em piping hot, and they'll always come back for more."

"But how about your economic theory?"

"That's where I play safe," smiles the Chain-Letter Priest. "My economics are completely incomprehensible. I don't understand them myself. Consequently, nobody can say that I'm wrong. If I ever make a slip of the tongue and offer a positive statement, moreover, I always manage to contradict it in the next few sentences. My economic theory is to take their dimes and say nothing."

"Do you believe in sharing the wealth?"

"Sure."

"Do you believe in paying the bonus with expanded currency? Do you believe in inflation?"

"Sure, both of 'em."

"But don't you realize, Father," we persist, "that if you share the wealth, and pay the bonus, and inflate the currency, you will lower the value of the dollar—"

"That's all right," nods Father Riddell. "Destroy the dollar. You can't make me sore. Do away with it entirely. Burn all the paper money. Bury the gold and silver. Let's start all over again with a brand new currency," he suggests, "based on wampum."

"But is there any wampum left in this country today?"

"Sure," says Father Riddell, "lots of it."

"By the way, Father," we ask, "do you know who owns all this wampum?"

"Sure," says Father Riddell, "I do."

"Just one final question, Father Riddell," we inquire. "Whom do you intend to support for President in 1936?"

"I'm waiting for offers," he replies.