might free his gallery from such degrading associations.

But now a social personage is hardly ashamed of writing a book, of
travels, perhaps, or even of literary appreciations, so long as it
is untainted by erudition; he is not averse to publishing a volume
of mild lyrics, or a piece of simple fiction, just to show how easy
it is, and what he could do, if only, as Charles Lamb said, he had
the mind. It adds a pleasant touch of charming originality to a
great lady if she can bring out a little book. Such compositions
are indubitably books; they generally have a title-page, an
emotional dedication, an ultra-modest preface, followed by a
certain number of pages of undeniable print. It is common enough
too, at a big dinner-party, to meet three or four people, without
the least professional dinginess, who have written books. Mr.
Winston Churchill said the other day, with much humour, that he
could not reckon himself a professional author because he had only
written five books--the same number as Moses.* And I am far
from decrying the pleasant labours of these amateurs. The writing
of such books as I have described has been a real amusement to the
author, not entailing any particular strain; the sweet pride of
authorship enlarges one's sympathies, and gives an agreeable glow
to life. No inconvenient rivalry results. The little volumes just
flutter into the sunshine, like gauzy flies from some tiny cocoon,
and spread their slender wings very gracefully in the sun.


* This sentence was, of course, written before the publication by
Mr. Churchill of the Life of his father, Lord Randolph Churchill.