Your last letter was very jolly, and made me almost happy. Pip (the
dog) is yelping to write to you, and so is your little brother, St.
Valentine, the bird; but I greatly fear they will have to wait another
week, for, you know, I have to hold the pen for them, and I have
written so many letters, and to-day my hand is tired.
Don't you think it jollier to receive silly letters sometimes than to
get a repetition of sermons on good behaviour? It is because I desire
to encourage in you a vein of pleasantry, which is most desirable in
one's correspondence, as well as in conversation, that I put aside the
stern old father, and play papa now and then.
When I was learning to act tragedy, I had frequently to perform comic
parts, in order to acquire a certain ease of manner that my serious
parts might not appear too stilted; so you must endeavour in your
letters, in your conversation, and your general deportment, to be easy
and natural, graceful and dignified. But remember that dignity does
not consist of over-becoming pride and haughtiness; self-respect,
politeness and gentleness in all things and to all persons will give
you sufficient dignity. Well, I declare, I've dropped into a sermon,
after all, haven't I? I'm afraid I'11 have to let Pip and the bird
have a chance, or else I'11 go on preaching till the end of my letter.
You must tell me what you are reading now, and how you progress in
your studies, and how good you are trying to be. Of that I have no
fear. I doubt if I shall get to Philadelphia in June; so do not
expect me until school breaks up and then--"hey for Cos Cob" and the
fish-poles! When I was last there the snow was high above our knees;
but still I liked it better than the city ....
Love and kisses from your grim old father.