Now his face is dark with some bitter remembrance--now softened by some tender thought--now lightened by some glorious purpose. Tristo is pure and passionate. But his thin, light frame is too weak for the agitations of his burning spirit. So far as I can learn, he has been from boyhood the child of the feelings--“chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies.” He has lived in an artificial world--a world of poetry and romance. In spite of his good taste, his excitable feelings and craving wishes lead him to dwell upon fictions of wild and outrageous extravagance. This is not a world for the gentle or wayward in heart, and Tristo’s plans and fancies are daily crossed and crushed. Indeed, I sometimes think that his heart-strings have been jarred by a terrible concussion, and will never vibrate more, save in tones of mournful music. When in society, he usually represses his moodiness, and his thoughts come forth with a fluent brightness, which is purified and enhanced by their melancholy tinge. In our company he is more frank and cheerful than elsewhere, and will, at times, by his eloquence of feeling, call forth our sympathies and excite our admiration. He never speaks heartlessly--his literary opinions, his views of society, are all colored by his feelings--and he will condemn a worthless publication, or espouse the cause of a favorite author, with as much earnestness as if he were a party in the case. His vehemence adds greatly to the life of our discussions, and his caustic, yet good-natured wit, to the merriment of our lighter moods. Thou hast by this time a clear idea of the room, _its_ occupants and _their_ occupation. Now do the amanuensis.---- “A fine essay that,” said Dumpling, as he threw down a volume of Elia, accompanying the movement with a prolonged emission of breath and smoke. “A masterly essay, that upon Shakspeare. (Puff.) Lamb is, or _was_, by far the best critic of the nineteenth century, not excepting Kit North himself. Wilson rants too much. He leads us all over creation for treasures which he might as well have given us at first. But the deep, quiet Lamb--(Puff, puff, puff.) By the way, how advances the coffee, Nescio?” Nescio roared, Pulito stroked his chin and laughed, while a quick, bright smile beamed over the face of Tristo, at the characteristic transition. “Why,” said Nescio, “I think it has reached its maximum of excellence.” “An excellent maxim that remark of yours,” said Apple, complacently, thinking he saw a handle for a pun. _Nescio._ “Oh! Dumpling, don’t be witty, at least in that line. Addison used to say that punning was the lowest species of wit.” _Apple._ “Addison was an ass. (Puff.) Infund some coffee _instanter_. How beautifully clear! ’Tis pure as Heaven.” _Nescio._ “Yes! I’ll wager my Kent’s Commentaries against Nat. Willis’s poems, that not the _ordinaires_ of London, the _restaurateurs_ of Paris, or the _cafès_ of Madrid, can furnish better.”