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strong a sensation of physical fatigue as the exercise of the imagination. The pulses beat too rapidly; and how cold, how depressed is the reaction!"
"And now Walter Maynard at the midnight hour is bending over a little table, while the rapid pen is slow in putting down the thoughts that crowd upon him; his cheek is flushed with eagerness, and the red lip is curved with triumph. It does not suit the scene around, but from that the mind of the young poet is far, far away. There was that desolate air about the chamber which is peculiar to an ill-furnished London room.***The young student was too much engrossed in his own charmed employ not to be insensible for a time to all external influences: he might suffer afterwards, but now his mind was his kingdom. Solitary, chilled and weary, yet the young poet hung over his page, on which was life, energy, and beauty; and under such or similar circumstances have been written those pages to which the world owes so much. A history of how and where works of imagination have been produced would be more extraordinary than the works themselves. Walter Maynard is but a type of his class."
"The life of the most successful writer has rarely been other than one of toil and privation; and here I cannot but notice a singularly absurd popular fancy that genius and industry are incompatible. The one is inherent in the other. A mind so constituted has a restlessness in its powers which forces them into activity. Take our most eminent writers, and how much actual labour must have been bestowed on their glorious offerings at the altar of their country and their fame! What a noble thing that fame is! Think what it is to be the solace of a thousand lonely hours,—to cheer the weary moments of sickness,—to fling a charm around even nature! How many are there to
