"I must confess, for my part," said Lord Edward Neville (an author of some celebrity and more merit), "that I was exceedingly weary of those doleful ditties with which we were favoured for so many years. No sooner had Lord Byron declared himself unhappy, than every young gentleman with a pale face and dark hair, used to think himself justified in frowning in the glass and writing Odes to Despair. All persons who could scribble two lines were sure to make them into rhymes of "blight" and "night." Never was there so grand a penchant for the triste." "It would be interesting enough," observed Vincent, "to trace the origin of this melancholy mania. People are wrong to attribute it to poor Lord Byron--it certainly came from Germany; perhaps Werter was the first hero of that school." "There seems," said I, "an unaccountable prepossession among all persons, to imagine that whatever seems gloomy must be profound, and whatever is cheerful must be shallow. They have put poor Philosophy into deep mourning, and given her a coffin for a writing-desk, and a skull for an inkstand." "Oh," cried Vincent, "I remember some lines so applicable to your remark, that I must forthwith interrupt you, in order to introduce them. Madame de Stael said, in one of her works, that melancholy was a source of perfection. Listen now to my author-- "'Une femme nous dit, et nous prouve en effet, Qu'avant quelques mille ans l'homme sera parfait, Qu'il devra cet etat a la melancolie. On sait que la tristesse annonce le genie; Nous avons deja fait des progres etonnans, Que de tristes ecrits--que de tristes romans! Des plus noires horreurs nous sommes idolatres, Et la melancolie a gagne nos theatres.'" "What!" cried I, "are you so well acquainted with my favourite book?" "Your's!" exclaimed Vincent. "Gods, what a sympathy; [La Gastronomie, Poeme, par J. Berchoux.] it has long been my most familiar acquaintance; but-- "'Tell us what hath chanced to-day, That Caesar looks so sad?'" My eye followed Vincent's to ascertain the meaning of this question, and rested upon Glanville, who had that moment entered the room. I might have known that he was expected, by Lady Roseville's abstraction, the restlessness with which she started at times from her seat, and as instantly resumed it; and her fond expecting looks towards the door, every time it shut or opened, which denoted so strongly the absent and dreaming heart of the woman who loves.