The frequent repetition of these most unkind rebuffs, and the consequent delay in the fulfilment of his mission, had tended to depress the spirit (at no time an intensely ardent one) of John Dace Dackerel, and had induced a morbid habit of mind, through which, as through a yellow veil, he took a jaundiced view of society at large; and even the acquisition of the surname of Dace, and his accession to the glories of Roachpool, had scarcely sufficed to restore cheerfulness to this victim of a postponed destiny. Bracy, from his connection with Blunt’s Magazine, knew him well, and had rejected, only a fortnight since, a forlorn little paper entitled “The Curse of Genius, or the Trammelled Soul’s Remonstrance;” in which his own cruel position was touchingly shadowed forth in the weakest possible English. Accosting this son of sorrow in a confidential tone of voice, Bracy began-- “As soon as you can spare a minute to listen to me, I’ve something rather particular to tell you!” “To tell me?” returned the blighted barrister in a hollow voice, suggestive of any amount of black crape hatbands. “What ill news have I now to arm, or I may say, to steel my soul against?” And here be it observed that it was a habit with this pseudo-author to talk, as it were, a rough copy of conversation, which he from time to time corrected by the substitution of some word or phrase which he conceived to be an improvement upon the original text. “Perhaps it may be good news instead of bad!” remarked Bracy encouragingly. The blighted one shook his head. “Not for _me_” he murmured; then turning to Susanna, he continued, “Excuse my interrupting our conversation, but this gentleman has some intelligence to impart--or I may say, to break to me.” Mrs. Brahmin smiled sweetly such a sympathetic smile that it went straight through a black satin waistcoat, with a cypress wreath embroidered on it in sad-coloured silk, and reached the “crushed and withered” heart of J. D. D. . “You know,” continued Bracy, “I was obliged, most unwillingly, to decline that touching little thing of yours. The--what is it? the Cough of Genius?” “The Curse,” suggested its author gloomily.