The beasts, then, are happy, because they are wholly immersed in their proper businesses; they are fish altogether in the water; they are fishmongers, let us say, who do not even conceive the possibility of making a living by writing sonnets or painting pictures, much less desire such adventures. The bee gathers honey all the day, and would be completely wretched only if you prevented him from gathering honey all the day.
Now, our misfortune is that we are fish half in and half out of the water. We are fishmongers with an uneasy feeling that we ought to be writing sonnets for a livelihood—or, we are sonneteers who could have made a really good thing out of Billingsgate. We are not sure of our real business. We are something in the City; but we do not know which city—of London, or
