and deep traces of premature decay. His cheek was hollow and hueless; his
eye dim, and of that visionary and glassy aspect, which is never seen but
in great mental or bodily disease, and which, according to the
superstitions of some nations, implies a mysterious and unearthly
communion of the soul with the beings of another world. From these
trances he would sometimes start abruptly, and renew any conversation
broken off before, as if wholly unconscious of the length of his reverie.
At others, he would rise slowly from his seat, and retire into his own
apartment, from which he never emerged during the rest of the day.

But the reader must bear in mind that there was nothing artificial or
affected in his musings, of whatever complexion they might be. Nothing
like the dramatic brown studies, and quick starts, which young gentlemen,
in love with Lara and Lord Byron, are apt to practise. There never,
indeed, was a character that possessed less cant of any description. His
work, which was a singular, wild tale--of mingled passion and reflection-
-was, perhaps, of too original, certainly of too abstract a nature, to
suit the ordinary novel readers of the day. It did not acquire popularity
for itself, but it gained great reputation for the author. It also
inspired every one who read it, with a vague and indescribable interest
to see and know the person who had composed so singular a work.

This interest he was the first to laugh at, and to disappoint. He shrunk
from all admiration, and from all sympathy. At the moment when a crowd
assembled round him, and every ear was bent to catch the words, which
came alike from so beautiful a lip, and so strange and imaginative a
mind, it was his pleasure to utter some sentiment totally different from
his written opinion, and utterly destructive of the sensation he had
excited. But it was very rarely that he exposed himself to these "trials
of an author." He went out little to any other house but Lady