Chits
The practice of autobiography seems to be on the increase. Lord Reith, Mr. Gilbert Harding, Lord Pakenham, Miss Florence Desmond, Lord Norwich, Lord Grantley, Mr. David Garnett, Lord (" Power and Influence ") Beveridge, Mr. Leo Amery—these and others have recently attempted a task which must be extraordinarily difficult to discharge to one's own, let alone anybody else's, satisfaction. When reading works of this type I often find myself envying the filing systenis on which their authors seem able to place an extensive reliance. Where during all these years have they kept the letters from eminent men—or occasionally from obscure members of the public—which they cannot (as they sometimes rather coyly put it) forbear from quoting? I admire them for being so provident and methodical, for hoarding up these tributes, condolences, and exhortations. Yet I sometimes wonder whether it is not a mistake, save in rare and lapidary cases, to reprint these missives in extenso. They go further than the writer would himself dare in extolling his virtues; but the writer is after all responsible for their appearance upon the page, and for me they evoke the vision of an Indian bearer proffering his reliquary of tattered chits (" This one, sir, from Colonel Brown Sahib. Colonel Sahib very kind man, sir "). This is not what the autobiographer would wish.
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