Year: 1861

| lying in the coveted shadow. l went to
work very severely but the next moment
found my eyes wandering and heart, feel
ing and fancy were going up and down the
earth in the most vagrant fashion. 1t was
hopeless dissipation to sit under the tree !;
and discovering a huge rock on the hillside,
| made my way to that, to try what virtue
there might be in a shadow not produced
by foliage. Seated under the brow of the
boulder, again applied myself to the dim
looking text, but it had become utterly
meaningless and musical cricket under
the rock would have put me to sleep if !
had permitted myself to remain. l found
that neither tree nor rock would lend me
help but down in the medow | saw the
brook sparkling, and little bridge where
had been accustomed to sit hanging nay
feet over the water, and angling for min
nows 1t seemed MS il the bridge and the
water might do something for me, and, in
few minutes, my feet were dangling from
the accustomed seat. There, almost under
my nose, close to the bottom of the clear
cool stream, lay huge, speckled trout
flaming the sand with bis slow fms, end
mindiDg nothing about me at all What
could a boy do with Colburn's First
Lessons, when living trout, as large and
nearly as long as his arm, lay almost with
in the reach of his fingers How long |
sat there | do not know, but the tinkle of q
distant bell startled the trout and fish and
vision faded before the terrible conscious
ness that | knew less of my lesson than |
did when left the school house


This las always been my fortune when
running after or looking for, moods. There
is popular hallunction that makes authors
a romantic people who are entirely depend
ent upon moods and movements of inspra.
tion for the power to labor in their peculiar
way. Authors are supposed to write
when they "feCl like il" and at no other
time. Visions of Byron with gin-botte
at his side, and beautiful woman hanging
over his shoulder, haShing off dozen stan
zas of Childe Harold at a sitting, fit
through the brains of sentimental youth.
We hear of women who are seized sudden
ly by an idea, as ifit were a collie, or flea,
often at midnight, and are obliged to rise
and dispose of it some way. We are told
Of very delicate girls who carry pencils and
cards with them, take the names and ad.
dress of such angels as may visit them in
out. of, the-way places We read of poets
who 20 on long sprees, and after recovering
retire to their rooms and work night and
day, eating not and sleeping little, and in
some miraculous way producing wonderful
literary creations. The mind of literary
man is supposed to be like shallow sum-
mer brook, that turns mill. There is no
water except when it rains, and the wealth
| er being very tickle it is never known when
there will be water. Sometimes, however
there comes afreshet, and then the mill runs
night and day, until the waters subsidies,
and another dry time comes on.


Now while L am aware, as every writer
must be, that the brain works very much
better at some times than it does at others,
[ can declare without reservation that no
man who depends upon moods for the pow.
er to write can possibly accomplish much.
for the disposition and the ability to write,
but they are, without exception, lazy and
inefficient men. They never have accom-.
plished much and they never will accom-
plish much Regulr eating, regular sleep
ing, regular working-these are the secrets
of true literary success. A man may throw
off single little poem by spasm, but
he cannot write poem of three thousand


lines by spasm. Spasms that produce po-
ems like this, must last from five to seven
hours day, through six days of every week
and four weeks Of every month, until the
work shall be finished. There is no good
reason why the mind will not do its best
by regular exercise and usage. The mow-
er starts in the morning with lame back
and with aching joints ; but he keeps on
moving, and the glow rises and the pers-
peration starts, and be becomes interested
in his labor, and at length, be finds himself
at work with full efficiency. He was not
in the mood for moving when he began.
The mind is sometimes lame in the morning.
1t refuses to go to work Our wills seem
entirely insufficient TO drive it to its tasks
but if it be driven TO its work and held to
it persistently, and held thus every day, it
will ultimately be able to do its best every
day. A man who works his brains for a
living must work them just as regularly as
the omnibus-driVer does his horses.


We sometimes 60 to church and hear
preacher who depends upon his moods for
the power 20 preach his best. He preach.
es well and We say that he is in the mood,
and then again he breaches poorly, and we
say that he is not in the mood A public
singer who has the power to move us at her
will comes into the concert room, aud gives
her music without spirit and without max
ing any apparent effort to please. We
say that Madame or Modemoiselle is mot
10 The mood, tonight" A lecturer has his
moods which, apparently, he slips on and of
as he would dressing-gown, charming the
people of one town by his eloquenee and
elegance, aud disgusting another by his dull
ness and carelcssness. We are in the hab.


it of saying that certain men are very un
equal in their performances, which is only
way of saying that they are moody, aud de.
pendent upon aud controlled by moods
think that, in auy work or wax of life, a
man can in o great degree become the mas
ter of his moods. so that as preacher or
singer or a lecturer, he can do his best every
time quite as regularly as writer can do
his best every time. Mr Benedict some
what ineleganty remarked, when in this
country, that the reason Of Jenny Linds
success was that she "made a conscience of
her art" IT we had asked Mr.. Benedict