that the earth is round, or something like that. And their tone says: "Would you mind very much if we leave this painful subject? My feelings on it are too deep for utterance." Lastly, I am impressed by their attitude towards the artist, which is mediaeval, or perhaps Roman. Blind to nearly every form of beauty, they scorn art, and scorning art they scorn artists. It was this class which, at inaugurations of public edifices, invented the terrible toast-formula, "The architect _and contractor_." And if epics were inaugurated by banquet, this class would certainly propose the health of the poet and printer, after the King and the publishers. Only sheer ennui sometimes drives it to seek distraction in the artist's work. It prefers the novelist among artists because the novel gives the longest surcease from ennui at the least expenditure of money and effort. * * * * * It is inevitable that I shall be accused of exaggeration, cynicism, or prejudice: probably all three. Whenever one tells the truth in this island of compromise, one is sure to be charged on these counts, and to be found guilty. But I too am of the sporting race, and forty years have taught me that telling the truth is the most dangerous and most glorious of all forms of sport. Alpine climbing in winter is nothing to it. I like it. I will only add that I have been speaking of the solid _bloc_ of the caste; I admit the existence of a broad fringe of exceptions. And I truly sympathize with the _bloc_. I do not blame the _bloc_. I know that the members of the _bloc_ are, like me, the result of evolutionary forces now spent. My hostility to the _bloc_ is beyond my control, an evolutionary force gathering way. Upon my soul, I love the _bloc_. But when I sit among it, clothed in correctness, and reflect that the _bloc_ maintains me and mine in a sort of comfort, because I divert its leisure, the humour of the situation seems to me enormous. * * * * * [_11 Feb '09_]