approved writer, will become popular, unless it has the charm of variety.
It must not be perfect in the old school, it must be daring in a new
one;--it must effect a through revolution in taste, and build itself a
temple out of the ruins of the old worship. All this a great genius may
do, if he will take the pains to alter, radically, the style he may have
formed already. He must stoop to the apprenticeship before he aspires to
the mastery. C'est un metier que de faire un livre comme de faire une
pendule."

"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,