am one of those travellers for whom the railway
bookstall does not cater. Whenever I start on a journey, I find that my
choice lies between well-printed books which I have no wish to read, and
well-written books which I could not read without permanent injury to my
eyesight. The keeper of the bookstall, seeing me gaze vaguely along his
shelves, suggests that I should take 'Fen Country Fanny' or else 'The
Track of Blood' and have done with it. Not wishing to hurt his feelings,
I refuse these works on the plea that I have read them. Whereon he,
divining despite me that I am a superior person, says 'Here is a
nice little handy edition of More's "Utopia"' or 'Carlyle's "French
Revolution"' and again I make some excuse. What pleasure could I get
from trying to cope with a masterpiece printed in diminutive grey-ish
type on a semi-transparent little grey-ish page? I relieve the bookstall
of nothing but a newspaper or two.

The other day, however, my eye and fancy were caught by a book entitled
'How Shall I Word It?' and sub-entitled 'A Complete Letter Writer for
Men and Women.' I had never read one of these manuals, but had often
heard that there was a great and constant 'demand' for them. So I
demanded this one. It is no great fun in itself. The writer is no fool.
He has evidently a natural talent for writing letters. His style is, for
the most part, discreet and easy. If you were a young man writing 'to
Father of Girl he wishes to Marry' or 'thanking Fiance'e for Present'
or 'reproaching Fiance'e for being a Flirt,' or if you were a mother
'asking Governess her Qualifications' or 'replying to Undesirable
Invitation for her Child,' or indeed if you were in any other one of the
crises which this book is designed to alleviate, you might copy out and
post the specially-provided letter without making yourself ridiculous in
the eyes of its receiver--unless, of course, he or she also possessed
a copy of the book. But--well, can you conceive any one copying out
and posting one of these letters, or even taking it as the basis
for composition? You cannot. That shows how little you know of your
fellow-creatures. Not you nor I can plumb the abyss at the bottom of
which such humility is possible. Nevertheless, as we know by that great
and constant 'demand,' there the abyss is, and there multitudes are at
the bottom of it. Let's peer down... No, all is darkness. But faintly,
if we listen hard, is borne up to us a sound of the scratching of