I have often been asked: "You who are so much on the move, who have had so much train-travelling to do, what books would you recommend for a long railway journey?" I do not know that one man's likes and dislikes in reading are of value save as showing his own limitations, yet there are certain books of which I never tire. I never leave home without the following books handy for perusal: (i.) The _Odes of Horace_, (ii.) The _Sonnets of Shakespeare_, (iii.) A French novel and a few copies of the Paris _Matin_, (iv.) A Greek book of some kind, (v.) Pope or Addison, (vi.) Some Victorian classic. The list is varied enough, and has furnished me with much of the material for my speaking. HORACE. The pleasant thing about Horace is that his odes are so short: you can read one in a few minutes--shut your eyes and enjoy the mental taste of it--try to repeat it, and, if you fail, consult the original--then, finally (as Pope and many others have done), endeavour to find modern parallels. Suppose, _e.g._, you are reading, as is likely, the first Ode of the first Book, you might find present-day resemblances like the following:-- _Curriculo pulverem._ What mad attractions sway the world! Some are unhappy save when whirled In motor cars that madly race, To leave a stench in every place, And maim those foolish folk that stray Abroad upon the king's highway. _Tergeminis honoribus._ Yon babbling wight, of sense forlorn, Who thinks himself a Gladstone born, Although a bailie, still must strain To gain himself a Provost's chain. And, after that, the worthy prater Aspires to be a legislator; Dreams of St. Stephen's, where he sees Himself hobnobbing with M.P.'s. _Patrios agros._ But Farmer Bob is somewhat saner-- He minds his stock and is the gainer; Content to pass his life amid The scenes that his old father did. With hose in hand he cleans the byre, And saves himself a menial's hire; But gives his girls an education That may unfit them for their station. But don't ask Bob to tempt the tide, Even on a turbine down the Clyde; Neptune and Ceres don't agree, And farmers hate the name of sea. _Mox reficit rates._ When Skipper Smith (whose usual goal Is Campbeltown with Ayrshire coal) Is labouring thro' Kilbrannan Sound, He sighs for Troon and solid ground, And swears, if he were safe on shore, He'd never be a sailor more. But once on shore--he thinks it dull, And soon begins to tar the hull And caulk the timbers of his ship: "I'll try," he says, "another trip." _Lene Caput._