Hence it comes, I think, or partly hence, that there is now no fun
in the world. Wit we have, and an abundance of grim humour, which
evokes anything but mirth. Nothing would astonish us in the Midway
Inn so much as a peal of laughter. 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