neither the body nor the mind are at ease. In works of literature, when the soul is weaving her own web, and in a high state of action, there is excitement enough; nay, there is often too much, as authors experience, who are sometimes so wrought up by their subject, as to tremble with nervous excitement, and, in consequence, are compelled to lay down the pen.

Those who have no taste for literary composition, can have little conception of the effects of the mind on the body when so employed, whether on the blood, the animal spirits, or nervous system, we cannot say. Though the body be comparatively at rest, it developes all the signs of violent exercise; the perspiration flows as freely as if it had undergone some great physical effort. To prove that the result is no mere mechanical action, we shall find that no such effect follows upon the mere act of writing, as, for example, in copying or transcribing. Nor do we assume it happens in all cases, for we have noticed it only in those works that for the time deeply interested the mind, and engrossed all its faculties. This effect can only take place in spontaneous composition, when, as we have said, the mind is in a violent state of action.

Another marvel in writing or composing, more properly, is the speed with which time flies away: the day is gone, and the night overtakes us, when the labour of the day seems only begun. This rapid passage of time is a theme of perpetual regret to the student. He who most values time, to him it appears of shorter duration than to others. The sustained activity of the mind during so many hours, and the little fatigue felt by the body, prove how much real excitement exists.

5. The man habitually employed with literary works (as

many are, some from taste, some from necessity) finds it necessary to manage the mind. If temperance in eating were all that were wanted to give the mind an equable capacity, or equal action, the power would be within his reach. But, alas! the faculties of the mind are not so easily controlled. Perhaps if we knew the causes of the alternating brilliancy and obscurity, the causes of the apparent caprice and real uncertainty of its movements, we might perchance find a remedy. But of them we are ignorant. Nor has the will any power to force the mind to act in the same way at all times.

The different modes of overcoming this variable action by literary men, would form a eurious and interesting chapter to literary history. Another curious chapter might be compiled out of the habits of study adopted by different authors.

*This has been done in part in D'Israeli's Literary Character, from which the following is abridged. Gray never sate down to compose any poetry without previously reading the works of Spenser. The most fervid verses of Homer, and the most tender of Euripides, were often repeated by Milton. Cicero informs us how his eloquence caught inspiration from a constant study of the Latin and Grecian poetry. When Bossuet had to compose a funeral oration, he was accustomed to retire for several days to his study, to ruminate over the pages of Homer; and when asked the reason of this habit, he exclaimed,

magnam mihi mentem, animumque

Delius inspiret Vates.

Alfieri often, before he wrote, prepared his mind by listening to music. Lord Bacon had music often played in the room adjoining his study. Milton listened to his organ for his solemn inspiration, and music was even necessary to Warburton. A celebrated French preacher, Massillon, was once found playing on a violin to screw his mind up to the pitch preparatory for his sermon which he was to preach before the court. Curran's favourite mode of meditation was with his violin in his hand.

Hadyn would never sit down to compose without being in full dress, with his great diamond ring, and the finest paper to write down his mu

sical compositions. Rousseau has told us, when occupied by his celebrated romance, of the influence of the rose-coloured knots of ribbon which tied his portfolio, his fine paper, his brilliant ink, and his gold stand.

It is an unquestionable fact, that some profound thinkers cannot pursue their intellectual operations amidst the distractions of light and noise. In Plutarch's time they shewed a subterraneous place of study built by Demosthenes, and where he often continued for two or three months together. Malebranche, Hobbes, Corneille, and others, darkened their apartment when they wrote.

ON OBSCURE WRITINGS: STYLE; AND STRICTURES ON THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE.

Symbol XIIE.-Sepiam ne edito.

Never eat the cuttle-fish.

1. It is almost needless to say, there are writers who conceal their meaning under such a mass of words, or involve it in a style of expression so awkward, obscure, or confused, that their merit is wholly lost. Among some they pass for profound authors, but by all they are not understood. This is an error or a misfortune, whose punishment falls ultimately on the writer, because we can hardly expect, that, in this busy world, in which time is so short, that readers will take upon them the arduous task of making a patient inquiry for the meaning of a bad writer, who, perhaps, after all, has no distinct idea of his subject. Generally, men in reading a book are apt to indulge in the idea, that the author wrote for a purpose, and that the book, if understood, must contain his design; that, in a word, the writer has a meaning in what he writes. a production of this kind acts like a valve to an engine; it is supposed to carry off the expanding ideas of the mind; to give an escape to the effervescence and superfluities of a mind in a high state of action; for which, if there were no

For

provision made by society, man would betake himself to the woods and the banks of rivers, or become a pest to his neighbourhood, by orally holding forth on questions that, by being pent up, are to him a source of uneasiness. It is thus that poets especially, who are known to possess extreme modesty, are found echoing their verses to the desert air; and in this way conceive they are conferring a benefit on mankind, as well as relieving themselves of a burden too heavy to be borne. It is on the self-same principle that demagogues are so troublesome to society, for they are men who never write books.

It is obvious, however, that in the action of the mental valve, when the effect ends in a book, the expanding thoughts or emotions which escape are mere froth and empty bubbles, if the mind can generate nothing better. The expansive power is alike in the great, as well as in the small, machine, but the latter is often mistaken by the hissing and noise it makes for the former; that is to say, the mind overflowing with froth and useless matter, is as proud of its production, as if something great had come into being. It has all the signs of mental greatness, and the author willingly believes, therefore, that the valve is not open without good to man.

2. We may say with some truth, that an obscure writer resembles the cuttle-fish, which possesses a peculiar faculty, noticed by Plutarch, of emitting a black liquid from under the neck, by which it perturbs the water, conceals itself from view, and escapes its adversaries. It was this property which, no doubt, swayed our great moralist to make it the foundation of a symbol. The cuttle-fish becomes typical of deceivers of secret enemies-of mystical writers, or sophistical reasoners; and of that great