of our acquaintance? Those whose existence revolves in the smallest possible circle—men whose daily horizon is bounded by their dinner—women whose hope extends not beyond their knitting needles. We should endeavour to forget that we are alive; instead of that, we keep renewing the mournful remembrance in every possible manner. We aggravate our miseries by mocking them with the name of pleasures. We insist upon disappointment by the pure force of unreasonable expectations."
"Well," interrupted Buckingham, "honour to the system which Pythagoras discovered in a bean-field! Pray, believe in it with all possible haste and fervour. They say faith works miracles; and the doctrine of transmigration holds out a prospect of future felicity to you, as an oyster or a dormouse."
"Or a stick, or a stone," said Charles.
"No, no, the oyster for me," replied De Joinville. "Let me have the consciousness of repose. Happiness is nothing, unless we know it."
"And hence it is nothing," rejoined Buckingham; "for who knows that they are happy?"
"We are much happier than we like to admit," said the Comtesse; "but complaint is too gratifying to our complacency. We love to talk of our-
