hope. But it may at least be questioned whether the other inhabitants of Tartarus—none of whom, it will be remembered, are without their private grievances—do not occasionally weary of the dust and racket, and of the great ball forever thundering about their ears, as it rolls impotently down to the level whence it came.
The pessimist, however,—be it recorded to his credit,—is seldom an agitating individual. His creed breeds indifference to others, and he does not trouble himself to thrust his views upon the unconvinced. We have, indeed, an anecdote of Dr. Johnson, who broadly asserted upon one occasion that no one could well be happy in this world, whereupon an unreasonable old lady had the bad taste to contradict him, and to insist that she, for one, was happy, and knew it. "Madam," replied the irate philosopher, "it is impossible. You are old, you are ugly, you are sickly and poor. How, then, can you be happy?" But this, we think, was rather a natural burst of indignation on the good doctor's part than a distinct attempt at proselytizing, though it is likely that he somewhat damped the boasted
