The chord this relic strikes in
me is not one of curiosity as to that old quarrel, but (if you will
forgive me) one of tenderness for my first effort to write, and for my
first hopes of excellence.
`HOW SHALL I WORD IT?'
1910.
It would seem that I 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.
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