common.

And Maurice Mangan, in his aimless, desultory fashion, was inveighing
against the vanity of the life led by certain classes in the great
Babylon out of which he had just haled his rather unwilling friend; and
describing their mad and frantic efforts to wrest themselves free of the
demon _ennui_; and their ceaseless, eager clamor for hurry and
excitement, lest, in some unguarded moment of silence, their souls
should speak.

"It is quite a fallacy," he was saying, as he walked carelessly onwards,
his head thrown forward a little, his hands clasped behind his back, his
stick trailing after him, "it is altogether a fallacy to talk of the
'complaining millions of men' who 'darken in labor and pain.' It is the
hard-working millions of mankind who are the happiest; their constant
labor brings content; the riddle of the painful earth doesn't vex
them--they have no leisure; they don't fear the hour of sleep--they
welcome it. It is the rich, who find time drag remorselessly on their
hands, who have desperately to invent occupations and a whirl of
amusements, who keep pursuing shadows they can never lay hold of, who
are really in a piteous case; and I suppose you take credit to yourself,
Linn, my boy, that you are one of the distractions that help them to
lighten the unbearable weariness of their life. Well," he continued, in
his rambling way, "it isn't quite what I had looked forward to; I had
looked forward to something different for you. I can remember, when we
used to have our long Sunday walks in those days, what splendid
ambitions you had for yourself, and how you were all burning to
begin--the organist of Winstead Church was to produce his Hallelujah
Chorus, and the nations were to listen; and the other night, when I was
in your room at the theatre, when I saw you smearing your face and