cheese。
〃How foolish of you； Edward；〃 argued the fond lady； 〃to be eating
toasted cheese for supper。 You know it always affects your liver。
All day long to…morrow you will be complaining。〃
〃No； I shan't；〃 interrupted Edward； 〃not so foolish as you think me。
They are going to hang me to…morrowearly。〃
There is a passage in Marcus Aurelius that used to puzzle me until I
hit upon the solution。 A foot…note says the meaning is obscure。
Myself； I had gathered this before I read the foot…note。 What it is
all about I defy any human being to explain。 It might mean anything；
it might mean nothing。 The majority of students incline to the
latter theory； though a minority maintain there is a meaning； if only
it could be discovered。 My own conviction is that once in his life
Marcus Aurelius had a real good time。 He came home feeling pleased
with himself without knowing quite why。
〃I will write it down；〃 he said to himself； 〃now； while it is fresh
in my mind。〃
It seemed to him the most wonderful thing that anybody had ever said。
Maybe he shed a tear or two； thinking of all the good he was doing；
and later on went suddenly to sleep。 In the morning he had forgotten
all about it； and by accident it got mixed up with the rest of the
book。 That is the only explanation that seems to me possible； and it
comforts me。
We are none of us philosophers all the time。
Philosophy is the science of suffering the inevitable； which most of
us contrive to accomplish without the aid of philosophy。 Marcus
Aurelius was an Emperor of Rome； and Diogenes was a bachelor living
rent free。 I want the philosophy of the bank clerk married on thirty
shillings a week； of the farm labourer bringing up a family of eight
on a precarious wage of twelve shillings。 The troubles of Marcus
Aurelius were chiefly those of other people。
〃Taxes will have to go up； I am afraid；〃 no doubt he often sighed。
〃But； after all； what are taxes？ A thing in conformity with the
nature of mana little thing that Zeus approves of； one feels sure。
The daemon within me says taxes don't really matter。〃
Maybe the paterfamilias of the period； who did the paying； worried
about new sandals for the children； his wife insisting she hadn't a
frock fit to be seen in at the amphitheatre； that； if there was one
thing in the world she fancied； it was seeing a Christian eaten by a
lion； but now she supposed the children would have to go without her；
found that philosophy came to his aid less readily。
〃Bother these barbarians；〃 Marcus Aurelius may have been tempted； in
an unphilosophical moment； to exclaim； 〃I do wish they would not burn
these poor people's houses over their heads； toss the babies about on
spears； and carry off the older children into slavery。 Why don't
they behave themselves？〃
But philosophy in Marcus Aurelius would eventually triumph over
passing fretfulness。
〃But how foolish of me to be angry with them；〃 he would argue with
himself。 〃One is not vexed with the fig…tree for yielding figs； with
the cucumber for being bitter！ One must expect barbarians to behave
barbariously。〃
Marcus Aurelius would proceed to slaughter the barbarians； and then
forgive them。 We can most of us forgive our brother his
transgressions； having once got even with him。 In a tiny Swiss
village； behind the angle of the school…house wall； I came across a
maiden crying bitterly； her head resting on her arm。 I asked her
what had happened。 Between her sobs she explained that a school
companion； a little lad about her own age； having snatched her hat
from her head； was at that moment playing football with it the other
side of the wall。 I attempted to console her with philosophy。 I
pointed out to her that boys would be boysthat to expect from them
at that age reverence for feminine headgear was to seek what was not
conformable with the nature of boy。 But she appeared to have no
philosophy in her。 She said he was a horrid boy； and that she hated
him。 It transpired it was a hat she rather fancied herself in。 He
peeped round the corner while we were talking； the hat in his hand。
He held it out to her； but she took no notice of him。 I gathered the
incident was closed； and went my way； but turned a few steps further
on； curious to witness the end。 Step by step he approached nearer；
looking a little ashamed of himself； but still she wept； her face
hidden in her arm。
He was not expecting it： to all seeming she stood there the
personification of the grief that is not to be comforted； oblivious
to all surroundings。 Incautiously he took another step。 In an
instant she had 〃landed〃 him over the head with a long narrow wooden
box containing； one supposes； pencils and pens。 He must have been a
hard…headed youngster； the sound of the compact echoed through the
valley。 I met her again on my way back。
〃Hat much damaged？〃 I inquired。
〃Oh； no；〃 she answered； smiling； 〃besides； it was only an old hat。
I've got a better one for Sundays。〃
I often feel philosophical myself； generally over a good cigar after
a satisfactory dinner。 At such times I open my Marcus Aurelius； my
pocket Epicurus； my translation of Plato's 〃Republic。〃 At such times
I agree with them。 Man troubles himself too much about the
unessential。 Let us cultivate serenity。 Nothing can happen to us
that we have not been constituted by Nature to sustain。 That foolish
farm labourer； on his precarious wage of twelve shillings a week：
let him dwell rather on the mercies he enjoys。 Is he not spared all
anxiety concerning safe investment of capital yielding four per
cent。？ Is not the sunrise and the sunset for him also？ Many of us
never see the sunrise。 So many of our so…termed poorer brethen are
privileged rarely to miss that early morning festival。 Let the
daemon within them rejoice。 Why should he fret when the children cry
for bread？ Is it not in the nature of things that the children of
the poor should cry for bread？ The gods in their wisdom have
arranged it thus。 Let the daemon within him reflect upon the
advantage to the community of cheap labour。 Let the farm labourer
contemplate the universal good。
CHAPTER III
＇Literature and the Middle Classes。＇
I am sorry to be compelled to cast a slur upon the Literary
profession； but observation shows me that it still contains within
its ranks writers born and bred in； and moving amidstif； without
offence； one may put it bluntlya purely middle…class environment：
men and women to whom Park Lane will never be anything than the
shortest route between Notting Hill and the Strand； to whom Debrett's
Peerage gilt…edged and bound in red； a tasteful…looking volume
ever has been and ever will remain a drawing…room ornament and not a
social necessity。 Now what is to become of these writersof us； if
for the moment I may be allowed to speak as representative of this
rapidly…diminishing yet nevertheless still numerous section of the
world of Art and Letters？ Formerly； provided we were masters of
style； possessed imagination and insight； understood human nature；
had sympathy with and knowledge of life； and could express ourselves
with humour and distinction； our pathway was； comparatively speaking；
free from obstacle。 We drew from the middle…class life around us；
passed it through our own middle…class individuality； and presented
it to a public composed of middle…class readers。
But the middle…class public； for purposes of Art； has practically
disappeared。 The social strata from which George Eliot and Dickens
drew their characters no longer interests the great B。 P。 Hetty
Sorrell； Little Em'ly； would be pronounced 〃provincial；〃 a Deronda or
a Wilfer Family ignored as 〃suburban。〃
I confess that personally the terms 〃provincial〃 and 〃suburban；〃 as
epithets of reproach； have always puzzled me。 I never met anyone
more severe on what she termed the 〃suburban note〃 in literature than
a thin lady who lived in a semi…detached villa in a by…street of
Hammersmith。 Is Art merely a question of geography； and if so what
is the exact limit？ Is it the four…mile cab radius from Charing
Cross？ Is the cheesemonger of Tottenham Court Road of necessity a
man of taste； and the Oxford professor of necessity a Philistine？ I
want to understand this thing。 I once hazarded the direct question
to a critical friend：
〃You say a book is suburban；〃 I put it to him； 〃and there is an end
to the matter。 But what do you mean by suburban？〃
〃Well；〃 he replied； 〃I mean it is the sort of book likely to appeal
to the class that inhabits the suburbs。〃 He lived himself in
Chancery Lane。
＇May a man of intelligence live； say； in Surbiton？＇
〃But there is Jones； the editor of The Evening Gentleman；〃 I argued；
〃he lives at Surbiton。 It is just twelve miles from Waterloo。 He
comes up every morning by the eight…fifteen and returns again by the
five…ten。 Would you say that a book is bound to be bad because it
appeals to Jones？ Then again； take Tomlinson： he lives； as you are
well aware； at Forest Gate which is Epping way； and entertain