of a morning, and catch its rays in the Thames off Dewar's whisky monument,
and not shake with the joy of life? If so, you and Shakespeare
are not yet in communication. What! You pride yourself
on your beautiful edition of Casaubon's translation
of *Marcus Aurelius*, and you savour the cadences of the famous:

This day I shall have to do with an idle, curious man,
with an unthankful man, a railer, a crafty, false, or an envious man.
All these ill qualities have happened unto him, through ignorance
of that which is truly good and truly bad. But I that understand
the nature of that which is good, that it only is to be desired,
and of that which is bad, that it only is truly odious and shameful:
who know, moreover, that this transgressor, whosoever he be,
is my kinsman, not by the same blood and seed, but by participation
of the same reason and of the same divine particle--
how can I be hurt?...

And with these cadences in your ears you go and quarrel with a cabman!


You would be ashamed of your literary self to be caught in ignorance
of Whitman, who wrote:

Now understand me well--it is provided in the essence of things
that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth
something to make a greater struggle necessary.

And yet, having achieved a motor-car, you lose your temper
when it breaks down half-way up a hill!