They had crowded one after another upon ‘Fancy’s ardent eye,’ bright and incessant like waves from the sun; and as he thought of their number and their futility, his mind was neither spent with weariness, nor darkened by regret. His feelings were still as vigorous and varied, as they were, before they went forth in quest of happiness and returned without even an olive-branch, as an earnest of security and peace. He had been thus vibrating between thought and revery for perhaps an hour, when he started from his waking dream, and remembered that he was not alone. Tristo was sitting at the other window, with averted face and eyes gazing on vacancy, while in his hand lay an open volume of the sensitive and melancholy Cowper. Nescio, I grieve to say it, is not always felicitous in his address. He lacks that quick tact, which may be denominated an instinctive sense of present propriety. He felt a reaction in himself, and wished to confirm the dominion of mirth in his own breast, by awakening it in that of others. He laid his hand on Tristo’s shoulder, and giving him a friendly shake, said “Wake up, man, what are you dreaming of? Come, sing us a song, _pour passer le temps_. Pray Heaven, no pretty girl has crossed your line of vision. If so, be not thou cast down--I can give you a charm, a very talisman to gain her, in the whiff of a cigar, _ut ait Apple_. Sigh and flatter, sit up late o’ nights so as to appear pale--seem for a time to prefer another, and then assure her that your heart is, was and will be all, all her own. In that moment of delighted conviction press hard--the fort is yours.” Tristo was too sad to be angry. He merely replied while his lip quivered with emotion--“Nescio, you know not how you wound me.” _Nescio._ “Indeed, indeed, I did not mean it, you _know_ I _could_ not. But why should you be always so gloomy? It vexes me to see you thus. Why should you not smile more often and more willingly?” _Tristo._ “Do I not smile?” _Nescio._ “O such a smile! ’tis worse than tears--’tis like the forced laugh in the play. ‘_Male qui mihi volunt, sic rideant._’ But why should your thoughts be so dark amidst the glittering activity of life?” _Tristo._ “And why should they not be _entirely_ dark? The breath of this vast world sounds in my ear as the up-going of one deep and universal sigh, and can the thought be other than a thought of pain. My grief is not for myself alone, though that were enough. But where is the man who is happy at all? unless, indeed, it be the happiness of _apathy_. Where is the man of open heart and aspiring mind, whose plans succeed even in the outline, or if the outline be realized, the filling up is not a mixture of care and vexings--and failure and regret? When we have reached some fancied goal of youthful promise, which shone to the far off eye like the battlements of Heaven, does not widowed hope put on her weeds, and mourn over her children, and refuse to be comforted because they are not?”