A great writer (though it must be confessed scarcely an amusing one), who has recently reached his journey’s end, used to describe his animal spirits depreciatingly, as being at the best but vegetable spirits.  And that is now the way with us all.  When Charles Dickens died, it was confidently stated in a great literary journal that his loss, so far from affecting ‘the gaiety of nations,’ would scarcely be felt at all; the power of rousing tears and laughter being (I suppose the writer thought) so very common.  That prophecy has been by no means fulfilled.  But, what is far worse than there being no humorous writers amongst us, the faculty of appreciating even the old ones is dying out.  There is no such thing as high spirits anywhere.  It is observable, too, how very much public entertainments have increased of late—­a tacit acknowledgment of dulness at home—­while, instead of the lively, if somewhat boisterous, talk of our fathers, we have drawing-room dissertations on art, and dandy drivel about blue china.

There is one pleasure only that takes more and more root amongst us, and never seems to fail, and that is making money.  To hear the passengers at the Midway Inn discourse upon this topic, you would think they were all commercial travellers.  It is most curious how the desire for pecuniary gain has infected even the idlest, who of course take the shortest cut to it by way of the race-course.  I see young gentlemen, blond and beardless, telling the darkest secrets to one another, affecting, one would think, the fate of Europe, but which in reality relate to the state of the fetlock of the brother to Boanerges.  Their earnestness (which is reserved for this enthralling topic) is quite appalling.  In their elders one has long been accustomed to it, but these young people should really know better.  The interest excited in society by ‘scratchings’ has never been equalled since the time of the Cock Lane ghost.  If men would only ‘lose their money and look pleasant’ without talking about it, I shouldn’t mind; but they will make it a subject of conversation, as though everyone who liked his glass of wine should converse upon ‘the vintages.’  One looks for it in business people and forgives it; but everyone is now for business.

The reverence that used to belong to Death is now only paid to it in the case of immensely rich persons, whose wealth is spoken of with bated breath.  ’He died, sir, worth two millions; a very warm man.’  If you happen to say, though with all reasonable probability and even with Holy Writ to back you, ’He is probably warmer by this time,’ you are looked upon as a Communist.  What the man was is nothing, what he made is everything.  It is the gold alone that we now value:  the temple that might have sanctified the gold is of no account.  This worship of mere wealth has, it is true, this advantage over the old adoration of birth, that something may possibly be got out of