The Corner of Harley Street: Being Some Familiar Correspondence of Peter Harding, M.D.Bashford, H. H. (Henry Howarth), Sir
General
The Corner of Harley Street: Being Some Familiar Correspondence of Peter Harding, M.D.
Bashford, H. H. (Henry Howarth), Sir
England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Epistolary fiction; Physicians -- Fiction
Meanwhile you need have no fears, I think, in leading your normal,
probationary life. You have the opportunity of University education
before you. And that, at any rate, can do you no harm, and will probably
be of extreme use to you, whatever your ultimate decision. You want to
find out the truth, to impart the truth, and to help your fellow-men to
lead better lives. Very well then, if there's a God, Tom, as you and I
believe, you must be just the material that He would most greatly care
to use. So why not leave it at that for a little while? Want to do the
right thing, and so do the next one; and you'll find, I think, that the
precise nature of your own particular right thing, evangelist or
engineer, will pretty certainly settle itself.
Your aff. father,
P. H.
XIII
_To Hugh Pontrex, Villa Rosa, Mentone._
c/o DR. ROBERT LYNN,
APPLEBROOK, DEVON,
_May_ 3, 1910.
MY DEAR HUGH,
I have just come back to read your letter from one of those super-days
of which even the happiest life can contain, I imagine, no more than a
handful. Of merely good days I can remember many enough--a sufficient
number, at any rate, to absorb very happily the memory of their less
favoured brethren. And several of them remain distinct by virtue of some
outstanding incident or emotion that they contained or inspired. But
most, I think, have become blended into a general peaceable impression
of past contentment. To use a popular Americanism, they were good times,
and usually real good times at that.
But of these super-days, these Olympians among mundane experiences, no
man can expect very many, and I have been, I suspect, as fortunate as
most--in any case so fortunate as to be more than grateful,
notwithstanding the tiny, struggling sense in me (a legacy of
superstition, I suppose, from some far-back ancestors) that so exquisite
an enjoyment must surely prelude some equivalent disaster. They are not,
as a rule, I think, critical days, at any rate in the ordinarily
accepted sense of the term, though I can remember perhaps a couple that
in a small fashion might answer this description.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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