that they were founding a nation, that they were led by a prophet, and, in
short, that they were going to be of some importance in the affairs of the
world.

Nor can the historical student fail to note that the French monarchy was
pulled down in August; and that August is a month in summer.

In spite of all this, however, I have some little difficulty myself in
accepting so simple a form of the Materialist Theory of History (at these
words all Marxian Socialists will please bow their heads three times), and
I rather think that exceptions might be found to the principle. Yet it is
not chiefly such exceptions that embarrass my belief in it.

No; my difficulty is rather in accounting for the strange coincidence by
which the shafts of Apollo split us exclusively along certain lines of
class and of economics. I cannot understand why all solicitors did not
leave off soliciting, all doctors leave off doctoring, all judges leave
off judging, all benevolent bankers leave off lending money at high
interest, and all rising politicians leave off having nothing to add to
what their right honourable friend told the House about eight years ago.
The quaint theoretic plea of the workers, that they were striking because
they were ill paid, seems to receive a sort of wild and hazy confirmation
from the fact that, throughout the hottest weather, judges and other
persons who are particularly well paid showed no disposition to strike.
I have to fall back therefore on metaphysical fancies of my own; and I
continue to believe that the anger of the English poor (to steal a phrase
from Sir Thomas Browne) came from something in man that is other than the
elements and that owes no homage unto the sun.

When comfortable people come to talking stuff of that sort, it is really