It Is In His Pleasure That A

The Tourist May Complain Of Other Tourists; But He Would Be Lost Without Them. He May Find Them In His Way, Taking Up The Best Seats In The Motors, And The Best Tables In The Hotel Dining-rooms; But He Grows Amazingly Intimate With Them During The Voyage, And Not Infrequently Marries One Of Them When It Is Over.

[mary Wortley Montagu] Wrote More Letters, With Fewer Punctuation Marks, Than Any Englishwoman Of Her Day; And Her Nephew, The Fourth Baron Rokeby, Nearly Blinded Himself In Deciphering The Two Volumes Of Undated Correspondence Which Were Printed In 1810. Two More Followed In 1813, After Which The Gallant Baron Either Died At His Post Or Was Smitten With Despair; For Sixty-eight Cases Of Letters Lay Undisturbed ... 'les Morts N'écrivent Point,' Said Madame De Maintenon Hopefully; But Of What Benefit Is This Inactivity, When We Still Continue To Receive Their Letters?

If We Could Make Up Our Minds To Spare Our Friends All Details Of Ill Health, Of Money Losses, Of Domestic Annoyances, Of Altercations, Of Committee Work, Of Grievances, Provocations, And Anxieties, We Should Sin Less Against The World's Good-humor. It May Not Be Given Us To Add To The Treasury Of Mirth; But There Is Considerable Merit In Not Robbing It.

Friendship Takes Time.

In Those Happy Days When Leisure Was Held To Be No Sin, Men And Women Wrote Journals Whose Copiousness Both Delights And Dismays Us.