Meyers has now recruited myself and Mr. Hubbard to sift through the enormous stack of paper to find any works that might be publishable. Leonard, Meyer's assistant is too engrossed in producing the plates that are needed to keep the printing business afloat. With all this activity there has been a visible neglect in the store portion, the original occupation of the old bookworm. Instead, as did Hubbard, Meyers is now employing the services of a young lady by the name of Agnes. Last name as of yet unknown, she won't divulge anything personal and keeps a safe distance from anything remotely human, including customers. In that respect she fills the position adequately. Bookstores would not do well with an overzealous salesperson, who would recommend a Faust to someone seeking uplifting prose. "But madam, Faust is one of our rapidly selling items, we received a new shipment this morning and they are simply flying out the door." Agnes relates more to the mood and temperament of people drifting in, in search of literary fulfillment. "Perhaps a short novel such as Candide by the French author Voltaire would suit madam's mood?" she would ask. "It is an ever delightful tale of unstoppable optimism." Agnes would peer through her half glasses and with her squinting eyes sold a considerably smaller volume than let's say Goethe's Faust, but she would sell many more in the course of a day and to customers who would surely return many times over.

Agnes was rummaging around behind one of the counters as our conversation around submitted manuscripts reached a new level when Meyers gave me some samples of prose that had come into his store just last week. On top of the stack of paper sorted into books were drafts by a lady who is using the pen name "Anna Christo". Miss., or perhaps Mrs. Christo writes detective novels or as can be read from the subtitles of her work: "Another sleuthing serial, featuring the famous detective Roger Morrison" In the stack were three such novels, each with what must be assumed to be sensational titles, such as there was: "The Library in Red", "Nobody left the House" and "The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker". Below those three fine examples of England's home brew literature was a manuscript submitted by the Reverend Masterly. I truly hope that is not his real name. The good Reverend writes romance novels. It is hard to believe indeed. Not only does the man write romance novels, he writes very very dubious ones. One wonders where he gets his knowledge from, certainly not the members of his parish. Perhaps he has been reading the Beatrice one too many times and felt compelled to introduce a modern version of this work. Chances are slim that any of these manuscripts will ever be turned into printed books, but nonetheless I do not want to keep these wonderful examples of passionate scribbling from you. Imagine if you can, an elderly man dressed in his habitual clergy costume, holding a pen, examining the last sentence he had just committed for eternity to the piece of paper in front of him. The line of text he just finished came out of a paragraph that read like this:

Muriel, the pious and pure sister from the nearby convent of St. Angelus was walking with sister Angela in the apple orchard adjacent to the village church. It was late morning and the sun had just driven all the moist and dew into the leaves and branches, leaving swollen and healthy vegetation all around as far as the eye could see. The two devout women were discussing the ripening of blossom into apples and blessed themselves for being allowed to witness this holy miracle. Amongst the heavily laden trees and soft grass they slowly strolled until they reached the Northern most edge of the convent's properties. The other side was farmland with a wide strip of wooded area, separating the farm from the holy land. Farm hand John noticed sister Muriel and sister Angela walk past unseen, still lost in their thoughts and admiration. John had stepped away from his father's reign to take his dog to the little stream that had plowed its shape into the prosperous land. "Sister Muriel, Sister Angela!" he shouted. "Why not join me for an early lunch by the stream? I brought a full picnic basket, but there is too much to eat for just myself and I hate to waste food" Both nuns were familiar with John and knew his passionate temper, a temper not always commensurate with church doctrine. Still, the poor mountain of a man deserved the same devout attention as any other parishioner and could surely be taught the ways of the Lord. Sister Muriel and sister Angelus greeted John and asked him if he had said his prayers. "Yes of course, I prayed for some companionship and see, the Lord has provided", said John.

Being shown so much faith, the two nuns could not refuse and crossed the little gate into the wooded area after having picked several apples and some strawberries to supplement the picnic. "Master John", sister Muriel began, "I have not seen you in church for quite some time." "T'is my master, farmer Collins, he keeps me in the field all week and will not even permit me to rest on Sundays", John said sheepishly. Both Muriel and Mabel were visible taken aback. "Surely Master Collins knows the Lord's wishes", said Mabel. "I can not disobey. I would lose my job you see", added John. Muriel, who was the more sensitive of the two, Mabel being the one who had worked in various hospitals and orphanages, felt her heart open towards the tall handsome farmhand. "I will go speak with farmer Collins this instant and cite him the appropriate paragraphs from the scriptures", Mabel said. She leapt up and briskly walked through the trees onto the farmer's land and could be heard muttering to herself in colorful, yet devout language. Muriel now found herself alone with the silent young man, who at this point was demolishing an apple. After only a small portion of the piece of fruit was left, did the man toss it amongst the trees and reached for something deep down in this trouser pocket. He took out a small knife and proceeded to peel and cut one of the remaining apples. Muriel all the while observed the movements and motions with a an embarrassing curiosity. Why would a man eating an apple be of any interest to her?

Perhaps I should not go on. What I have copied thus far is already sufficiently embarrassing, especially for the Reverend Masterly if this were ever published and if that were his real name. Many more closet romance novels in draft were littering the house and weeding through them would take weeks, if not months. Agnes, who had been collecting a small pile of these manuscripts in a corner of the store, was silently reading. If she suspected anyone observing her, she would pretend it was something of no interest and would flamboyantly discard it on a random pile of books. Moments later she would grab the volume again and continue reading, slightly flustered.

Miss Christo's manuscripts are more to my liking. After reading some of her work I must admit that it is actually quite good. Mind you I have only read through: "The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker", a detective novel in which a banker is murdered during regular banking hours, using some very unusual methods I might add. Perhaps I will make this work available to you, so that you may form your own opinion. Other books and manuscripts shown to me by Meyers were either of abysmal quality or of such a nature that it is really up to the public to decide if it merits wider publication. Currently there is no room for highly experimental works of fiction and these will sit on the shelves until the passing years are more agreeable to their subject matter. Perhaps I will also include some of these works for you, as you might be more open to subversive literature. Some of the writers are firmly in the grip of the Jules Verne novels and try to emulate and even outdo the master. The result? Compendiums of the most ridiculous inventions, used for even more absurd adventures. For your amusement I have listed here three such works with a description and and outline of the stories:

'A Trip to Paris and Back', by Ralph Westerly, the recounted adventures of Baron Rasmussen, who invented a submarine that maneuvers underground instead of underwater. The ridiculous machine resembles a large conical drill mounted on the front of a locomotive. In order to go 'underground', the vehicle lifts it's back portion by pneumatic pressure and points its entire structure towards the ground. The drill then both creates a hole in front of the machine as well as drags the contraption forward and downward.

'At the top of Mount Everest', written by Marlin Rochester, being an account of a daring investigative reporter who follows a madman on his attempt to climb the highest mountain in the world. For this adventure various devises were used to make the trip through high altitudes possible. Amongst the more outlandish machineries, is a suit that keeps the wearer warm. It is fueled by warm water trapped inside the suit and is pumped through a device carried on the back that resembles a small steam engine.

'The Lost Land", penned by a person calling himself 'R. J. Chesterfield', after many months of searching the desolate plains of Northern Russia, the expedition led by Arthur Brackenridge returns to London. It was the ultimate goal of the party to return with proof of the continuing existence of the Wooly Mammoths. Modern type vehicles, mounted on sleds were used to comb the barren wastelands of this mostly undiscovered country. If you want to know of the results of their efforts you will have to read the entire adventure!

The last abstract was actually included with the manuscript on the first page and was proposed to be used for advertising purposes. Most of the writing was actually of good quality, but the descriptions of the machines and inventions used; created a constant tendency to laugh out loud. Amongst the more boring as well as poorly written materials are works on the sciences, with for some reason a large number of books on birds and insects. For example, there were two books (volume I and II) about the flying power of a certain species of large beetle (Lucanus cervus). Apparently the male of the species can fly through a glass window and come through unscathed. An interesting fact you might say, and indeed I did not know this. But two entire books on the matter? When I showed these volumes to Hubbard they were immediately examined and added to the library, which technically means that the author sold one copy. "Did you know that these insects are directly related to dung beetles and scarabs?" Hubbard said after reading through some of the lesser dense text.

Not that all of the samples that Meyers gave me to read were of poor quality. Indeed, there were some magnificent works of prose that can stand up to any of the books by Dickens or Haggard Rider. A couple of these books should certainly be mentioned. There were five complete children's stories by Allister McMoran, each of the volumes containing  the continuing saga of a colony of field mice that is forced to migrate to the big city after their small meadow is turned into a factory. The mice, after many tribulations settle themselves in the center of a small square in the big city of London. A square, which is described as consisting of an enclosed area containing willows and poplars, not unlike our own alcove community. Below the vegetation they dig out and build a mouse city of admirable proportions. Perhaps at some point I should include excerpts of these tales for your and your children's entertainment. Meyers will not publish them as of yet, since he is looking for specific works that fits the 'milieu' he has in mind as he calls the customers of the soon to be printed high-quality literature. Children's stories are one of the more popular streams of incoming materials and we already sorted at least twenty five short stories and about 6 full novels. Most of the manuscripts are of a standard sort, being rather educational and of questionable entertainment value.

For now there is a large stack of assorted paper still to be sorted. Since last week, the builders who Meyer's hired to construct an extension to his house into the back yard, have finished to the point where the space can be used for storage. Most of the outside still needs to be put into place, but the inside is fully furnished and resembles the headquarters of the Oxford English Dictionary efforts. Stacks and stacks of large pigeon holes allow Meyers and Leonard to sort the large mass of incoming paper into rough categories. After a rigorous selection and reviewing process, suitable works are tagged by a yellow strip of paper and are placed into a higher pigeon hole. The lowest ranks are used for incoming manuscripts, who then proceed to either travel upwards or are thrown out if they remain in the same slot for more than a month. Occasionally I will ask Meyers if I can select some of the piles from the medium height holes. Those that are neither suitable for immediate publication and are not that bad as to insult the reader. Currently I am engrossed in the aforementioned The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker", a story I will provide soon for your reading pleasure.