As one who reads practically all the London papers daily
for business rather than pleasure I feel fairly well qualified to pass judgement on their outstanding features. This week, among some hundreds of published letters which I have had occasion to scan, I give pride of place without question or hesitation to one in Tuesday's Daily Telegraph from a retired bank clerk (writing from a seat in Greenwich Park) on the allegation that a bank clerk's life is drab. The writer in reply told how he had spent his holidays. The first one, sixty-five years ago, was apparently only a Bank-Holiday, and he spent it at Rosherville. The next year he got to the West Highlands ; then he tramped in North Wales, did Norway on ponies, voyaged from Wapping to Wapping via Gibraltar ; by collier from Swansea to Naples ; and by various other vessels to various other ports ; toured England by canal ; and a great deal else. He must, I suppose, be over eighty now, but the spirit behind his letter is well calculated to stimulate many of us for whom that milestone is still some decades ahead.
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