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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
146
"A
matter
of
temperament,
I
suppose,"
I
reflected,
in
cold
detachment.
"You
see,
I
belong
to
the
raw
meat
school.
You
prefer
life
cooked
for
you
in
a
book.
You
prefer
the
confectioner's
shop
to
cutting
down
the
wheat
with
your
own
scythe."
July
26.
The
B.M.
is
a
ghastly
hole.
They
will
give
me
none
of
the
apparatus
I
require.
If
you
ask
the
Trustees
for
a
thousand
pounds
for
the
propagation
of
the
Gospel
in
foreign
parts
they
say,
"Yes."
If
you
ask
for
twenty
pounds
for
a
new
microscope
they
say,
"No,
but
we'll
cut
off
your
nose
with
a
big
pair
of
scissors."
July
27.
To
a
pedantic
prosy
little
old
maid
who
was
working
in
my
room
this
morning,
I
exclaimed,--
"I'd
sooner
make
a
good
dissection
than
go
to
a
Lord
Mayor's
Banquet.
Turtle
Soup
ain't
in
it."
She
was
uninspired,
and
said,
"Oom,"
and
went
on
pinning
insects.
Then
more
brightly,
and
with
great
punctilio
in
the
pronunciation
of
her
words,
having
cleared
her
throat
and
drawn
herself
up
with
great
deliberation
to
deliver
herself
of
a
remark,
she
volunteered,--
"I
whish
I
had
nevah
taken
up
such
a
brittle
grooop
as
the
Stones
(Stoneflies).
One
dare
not
loook
at
a
Stone."
Poor
dear
little
old
maid.
This
was
my
turn
to
say
"Oom."
"Pretty
dismal
work,"
I
added
ambiguously.
Then
with
malice
aforethought
I
whistled
a
Harry
Lauder
tune,
asked
her
if
she
had
ever
heard
Willie
Solar
sing,
"You
made
me
love
you,"
and
then
absent-mindedly
and
in
succession
inquired,--
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