self.
If you were fairly content in Arabia, I shall begin to consider it an
affair of climate.'

'No,' said Walstein, still very serious, 'not an affair of
climate--certainly not. The truth is, travel is a preparation, and we
bear with its yoke as we do with all that is initiatory--with the solace
of expectation. But my preparation can lead to nothing, and there appear
to be no mysteries in which I am to be initiated.'

'Then, after all, you want something to do?'

'No doubt.'

'What shall it be?' inquired Madame de Schulembourg, with a thoughtful
air.

'Ah! what shall it be?' echoed Walstein, in accents of despondence; 'or,
rather, what can it be? What can be more tame, more uninteresting, more
unpromising than all around? Where is there a career?'

'A career!' exclaimed Caroline. 'What, you want to set the world in
a blaze! I thought you were a poetic dreamer, a listless, superfine
speculator of an exhausted world. And all the time you are very
ambitious!'

'I know not what I am,' replied Walstein; 'but I feel that my present
lot is an intolerable burthen.'

'But what can you desire? You have wealth, youth, and station, all the
accidents of fortune which nature can bestow, and all for which men
struggle. Believe me, you are born to enjoy yourself; nor do I see that
you require any other career than the duties of your position. Believe
me, my dear Mr. Walstein, life is a great business, and quite enough to
employ any man's faculties.'

'My youth is fast fading, which I don't regret,' replied Walstein, 'for
I am not an admirer of youth. As for station, I attribute no magic to
it, and wealth I value only because I know from experience its capacity
of producing pleasure; were I a beggar tomorrow, I should be haunted by
no uneasy sensations. Pardon me, Madame de Schulembourg; your philosophy
does not appear to be that of my friend, the Doctor. We were told this
afternoon that, to produce happiness, the nature of a being and his
career must coincide. Now, what can wealth and station produce of
happiness to me, if I have the mind of a bandit, or, perhaps, even of a
mechanic?'

'You must settle all this with Augustus,' replied Madame de
Schulembourg; 'I am glad, however, to hear you abuse youth. I always
tell Sidonia that he makes his heroes too young, which enrages him
beyond description. Do you know him?'

'Only by fame.'

'He would suit you. He is melancholy too, but only by fits. Would you
like to make h