bler is good enough to say that the suggestion is inconceivable. I can imagine a decent Amœba saying the same thing.
THE PLEASURE OF QUARRELLING
Your cultivated man is apt to pity the respectable poor on the score of their lack of small excitements, and even in the excess of his generous sympathy to go a Toynbee-Halling in their cause. And Sir Walter Besant once wrote a book about Hoxton, saying, among other things, how monotonous life was there. That is your modern fallacy respecting the lower middle class. One might multiply instances. The tenour of the pity is always the same.
"No music," says the cultivated man, "no pictures, no books to read nor leisure to read in. How can they pass their lives?"
The answer is, as Emily Brontë knew, simple enough. They quarrel. And an excellent way of passing the time it is; so excellent, indeed, that the pity were better inverted. But we all lack the knowledge of our chiefest needs. In the first place and mainly, it is hygienic to quarrel, it disengages floods of nervous energy, the pulse quickens, the breathing is accelerated, the digestion improved. Then it sets one's stagnant brains astir and quickens the imagination, it clears the mind of vapours as thunder clears the air. And finally it is a natural function of the body. In his natural state man is always quarrelling—by instinct. Not to quarrel is indeed one of the vices of our civilisation, one of the reasons why we are neurotic and anæmic and all these things. And
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