forcibly as possible; the bane of classical teaching is that the
essence of successful composition is held to be to "get in" words
and phrases; it is not a bad training, so long as it is realised to
be only a training, in obtaining a rich and flexible vocabulary, so
that the writer has a choice of words and the right word comes at
call. But this is not made clear in education, and the result on
many minds is that they suppose that the essence of good writing is
to search diligently for sparkling words and sonorous phrases, and
then to patch them into a duller fabric.

But I stray from my point: all paths in a schoolmaster's mind lead
out upon the educational plain.

All that you tell me of your new surroundings is intensely
interesting. I am thankful that you feel the characteristic charm
of the place, and that the climate seems to suit you. You say
nothing of your work; but I suppose that you have had no time as
yet. The mere absorbing of new impressions is a fatiguing thing,
and no good work can be done until a scene has become familiar. I
will discharge your commissions punctually; don't hesitate to tell
me what you want. I don't do it from a sense of duty, but it is a
positive pleasure for me to have anything to do for you. I long for
letters; as soon as possible send me photographs, and not merely
inanimate photographs of scenes and places, but be sure that you
make a part of them yourself. I want to see you standing, sitting,
reading in the new house; and give me an exact and detailed account
of your day, please; the food you eat, the clothes you wear; you
know my insatiable appetite for trifles.--Ever yours,

T. B.