Letters from a Victorian Father

Dear Dorothy,

My Landlady brought me with the morning milk a very gratifying letter from Ivor which sent me out to face the world with a smile. And I did have a modest slice of luck today. I got a message, where I dropped in after chess this afternoon, saying that a certain gentleman wished to see me, and I have just seen him off at Cannon St station (11pm).

He is an old “Spanish” pupil of mine (a Master of Arts at Edinburgh University), and he wants me to coach him in German as his work at the Bank of England is pointing a clamant (urgent) finger in that direction.

I had to jib a little at German as it is very rusty from want of practise. “It will be enough for me”, he said, “so make a date,” and we fixed things up.

Another old pupil came back to me unsolicited, on Tuesday. She is in a Fleet St (Newspaper) Office, and the “Powers that Be” have told her that by the end of October she must reach a certain speed in shorthand and typewriting.

The typing she takes at Pitman’s School, but she would like me for the shorthand. I can do it if she works to plan conscientiously; but, bless you, there are theatres, dances and boys to contend with. However, she promises to be very good; and so this afternoon I sat down and drew up a long (200-odd words) imaginary business letter in longhand with its equivalent, all neat and up-to-date, in shorthand. I have also posted on to her a long personal letter; the whole of this work taking a tremendous slice out of a quiet afternoon. The young damsel has a good grip of shorthand, but I have asked her to put the text books aside, with their elaborate and over-refined grammalogues, which no shorthand writer (for bread) ever bothers his head about; and to copy and go on copying my set example till I see her Thursday next. After that I shall know exactly where we stand, and what programme has the best chance of success.

You ask if you could make anything for me – I have puzzled my brains to answer yes to this, but I can think of nothing I want. What am I to say? I wish I could even say my bed-socks, but as I must not molly-coddle myself, I am beat there too. It is too bad: I wish I did want something.

If you are once more reading “Lorna Doone”, you are alright for the time being. The first time we read, generally, for the story pure and simple. If the book be great, we read it for the second time for its other and less obvious beauties. Read it slowly this time.

I have just dropped into the post “Nicholas Nickleby”. That priceless rascal Squeers, his amiable daughter, silly kind old Mrs Nickleby, that terrible Uncle Frank Nickleby, Gummles and his travelling Company of Players, Cheeryble Bros, Tim Linkwater, Newman Noggs, the poor fellow Smike, the old lady who did portraits, lovely sensible Kate Nickleby. If you forget these, read it once more.

Try “David Copperfield”; said to be the best of all, and at least my favourite.

And so to bed!

Love Dad.