We cannot all of us be truly literary. Most of us lead busy lives and,
after all, is it of any real importance to be familiar with the world's
greatest writers? No doubt this may all depend upon our occupation, as
the following conversation reveals.

The slight man with the bulging brow leaned forward and addressed the
complacent looking individual with a look of almost human intelligence.
It was a monotonous railway journey.

"Wonderful transportation facilities to-day, sir," he ventured. "As we
have been bowling along, my mind has unconsciously been dwelling on
Jane Austen. Think of it, sir, only one hundred years ago and no
railroads. Have we really lost or gained? Marvelous girl, that, sir.
Masterpiece of literature when she was twenty-one, and no background but
an untidy English village. You've heard of Jane Austen, I presume?"

"Can't say I have."

The slight man smiled sympathetically.

"I get a great deal of pleasure from books," he went on. "Bachelor.
Marvelous solace. May know Wordsworth's famous lines, eh? 'Books we know
are a substantial world,' etc. Perhaps you have read something of Thomas
Love Peacock?"

"Never heard of him."

"Ah! Missed a great deal. Wonderful satirist, that. But still, I must
admit that neither he nor Miss Austen are common. Now there's Mark
Twain--for general reading, rain or shine, can't be beaten. American to
the core, sir. Smacks of the soil. Perhaps he missed any warm love
interest--but a delightful humorist, sir. You read him regularly, I
presume?"

"Can't say I do."

"Of course, sir, books are not all. I agree with our old friend,
Montaigne, about that. By the way, which do you prefer, Dickens or
Thackeray?"

"Can't say, sir. They're strangers to me."

"Perhaps you've heard of a man named Walter Scott. As his name implies,
he was born in Scotland. He wrote books, you know--novels, stories.
Rather good, eh? Human interest--wholesome reading--and all that sort of
thing."

"Don't recall him."

The slight man rose up in his seat. He bore down hard upon the stranger.

"Possibly," he suggested, "in the course of your deep and intimate
intercourse with men and affairs, you may recall the name of an
individual named Shakespeare."

"Yes, I think I remember."

"How about Macaulay, the greatest essayist in England, and Homer, the
prince of ancient poets, with seven birthplaces? Then there's Emerson
and Longfellow and Goethe and--"

He paused and grabbed the other