with the same care and circumspection that you prepare to meet your mistress for the first time. In this case the public is the object of your suit; and, in the opinion of an old admirer, she is far more capricious in her attachments than any idol to whom you can pay your addresses.

As this branch of authorship is the most perilous, so it is the most difficult. When a writer sits down to his task, after revolving his ideas, he generally discovers several ways by which he may enter on his subject. He is like a person at the crossing of different roads leading to the same place, each route possessing peculiar advantages for the developement of his thoughts. The more he meditates, the greater is the number of outlets he discovers, till at length he is bewildered by the diversity. Thus he is exposed to two evils, one of me. ditating too much, and the other of meditating too little; and it is not easy to determine the greater. In the former case, his ideas multiply to such an extent, he sees his undertaking in so many different lights, that he is perplexed in which point of view it will appear to most advantage; in the latter he is in danger of commencing at the wrong end, of pursuing his subject a considerable way, and then discovering that the path he has taken excludes many beauties which another route will embrace. No useful advice can be given to him on this part of his functions. He must be left to his own judgment and discretion, qualities as easily attained by faith and prayer as written instructions. Lest, however, I be deemed quite impotent on this part of the subject, I shall say, as a general rule, that he ought not to think too much, nor too little, but just enough!

Readers are not aware of the toil we undergo in their service; of the masses of thought and feeling wasted in providing a few pages for their amusement: how many bright ideas, touching sentiments, and brilliant images, are rejected by the fastidiousness of the author! When I see a neat essay, the quintessence probably of volumes of thought, I cannot help comparing the writer to the sculptor, who cuts a small statue from an huge block of marble: or his labours may be likened to those of the assayist, when the pure metal bears only a small proportion to the ore from which it is extracted. He is the intellectual machine, the mental laboratory of society, whose office saves the mass of mankind the trouble of thinking. He takes up the different questions which agitate the world in the gross state, clears them of impurities, disperses the shadows by which they are obscured, and conducts the reader in a clear and direct path to the few ultimate truths into which all disputes are resolvable,

There are those, no doubt, who act differently,-writers who darken instead of enlightening the path of knowledge, who, instead of clearing the avenues of truth, choke them up with the rubbish of their own thoughts; but these are bunglers in the profession, made by "Nature's journeymen." There are others too, a species of literary gossips, full of conceit and affectation, who use their pens with as little ceremony as their tongues,-scribes, who no sooner sit down than they begin to blot their paper-the first thought occurring is recorded-no previous reconnoissance of their subject

they are never a step in advance, and the unfortunate reader, after being dragged a long and weary way through every turning and winding of their thoughts, finds at length he is pursuing an ignis fatuus, or perhaps in the end obtains some faint glimpse of what he ought to have seen clearly at the beginning. Such talking-writers serve up the froth with the liquor; when we want only the prime meat, they give us the whole carcase. Were I their employer, I should deduct them for waste and offal.

The process by which the mind arrives at truth, in morals and criticism, is the same as in the exact sciences. In both, the investigation proceeds from truths that are obvious and admitted, to others more remote, till, by a kind of mental ladder, we reach the ultimate proposition to be demonstrated. Neither is there any difference in the certainty of the results; a question of taste or feeling being as susceptible of demonstration as a mathematical theorem. The former, indeed, appears less certain, because the elements on which it depends are less palpable to the understanding. In the demonstration of a problem in geometry, for example, our footing is sure, and we see the ground on which we rest; the language employed is precise, and has always some real prototype. But in questions in the abstract sciences, so many quantities enter into the solution, some evanescent, others which language only vaguely expresses, that the writer is not always sure he understands himself, much less is he capable of communicating his ideas to others; the subtlety of his subject escapes through the imperfection of his instruments. But though they thus differ, it is not in their certainty, but our means of investigation. There can be no doubt that the foundation of moral distinctions and of our judgment in matters of taste, depends as much on the immutable relations of nature as the properties of a triangle; and the only reason why mankind are not so unanimous in one case as the other, arises from the imperfection of language, and our consequent inability to communicate our ideas with equal precision.

But these are too grave matters for us, and, besides, it is time to conclude. Some, indeed, may think we are here giving a practical illustration of our own precepts, and shewing how, by commencing with a sparkling anecdote, the reader may be drawn into a dull metaphysical disquisition. Others may think, under the pretext of giving hints to young authors, we have really been exposing the tricks of old The latter opinion, however, we disclaim; for though we know that every calling has its artifices for catching the unwary, we have too much of the esprit de corps to expose those of our own.

ones.

W.

ON HEAD'S.

"Work with all the ease and speed you can, without breaking your heads, and be not so industrious in starting scruples." DRYDEN.

HEADS! a truly momentous name for the "front" of an article in the New Monthly! Oh, thou ambiguous word, in which so many ideas are comprehended! thou on which the greatest philosophers have philosophized, from whom all the philosophy has proceeded, and in whom all the philosophy is concentrated. Oh, thou box of knowledge! thou emporium of reason! thou bazaar of understanding! thou magazine of intellectuality! thou conglomeration of heterogeneous concoctions! how much is comprehended in thy trifling four letters! Thou art as deceitful as every thing else, because thou sometimes art large and fair-proportioned, and truly thou art worth nothing; and again, thou art small, and truly thou art great in value. How multifarious are thy shapes! how wonderful are thy organizations!-and how many more miraculous things could be said about thee! But as I hope my paper will appear in the New Monthly Magazine, here must I pause, or I undoubtedly shall be pronounced to have thee peculiarly thick.

Truly these reflections have been called to my mind by lately hearing of nothing but thee; and it was only the other day that I wished from my heart that men had been born without thee, for which wickedness I afterwards was much grieved; nevertheless I have some reason for that wish, inconsiderate as it was.

It was only last Friday when, stretched upon a delightful sofa after dinner, having placed the footstool also upon it, I was endeavouring to take a siesta; and when I had flattered myself I had just lost my recollection, the door was hastily flung open, and in rushed a friend, (but who was any thing but one at that moment,) and Somnus, who had only paid me a visit on my most earnest entreaty, hastily snatched up his hat, and walked off without even bidding me good-bye. I certainly did not view Mr. Rwith complacency, nor was it regained by his vociferous address. "Ah, ha!" roared he with the voice of a fisherman, "C, I have it! I have it! as plain as that Alexander had a nose; it's certain! (applying his hand to the back of his head, and pushing off his hat)-feel it yourself. Didn't I, on our journey to Wales, walk off from the Cat and Tinderbox' without paying a farthing, because the landlord would charge for those pickles? Didn't I send back six pairs of hessians, and kick the man down stairs with the last, because the bootmaker did not give me sufficient room for my excruciating corn? Didn't I" "For God's sake," said I, amazingly out of humour, "tell me what you are talking about, R-" Talking about?" cried he, "haven't I been almost sure these two days, and an't I sure now? I—” “What the devil is it?" roared I, half rising up,

any man.

and kicking the footstool from the sofa. However, nothing could disturb his good-humour. "What is it ?" he said; "why I'm convinced I have the organ of firmness. Dr." "The what?” -"Only feel yourself; just put your hand there to the back of my head, and there-do you feel that bump?-no, not that one, that was given to me by the watchman that night, you knowanother proof of my firmness, by the by; no it's this one-that Sir-that's the organ of firmness, as much developed in me as in You may smile, but I have it. I could give you a thousand proofs; witness, when a child, my constant adherence to green apples and gooseberries, and my never tasting meat, merely because my nursery-maid told me it was good for me-all firmness, Sir. Then again, didn't I at school get beat till I was blind, and get flogged till I was flayed, before I'd learn my Cæsar? Didn't I fall in love with Miss T, and break off the match because she let Simperton hand her to her carriage instead of me? and have I ever seen her more? Didn't I the other night get pummelled by pickpockets, because, after they'd taken all the rest, I wouldn't give them the remaining shilling which I held in my hand? Didn't I the other day-hum !-and isn't this firmness? isn't this Alexandrian? Isn't" 66 Really," said I, now completely up, and getting into good-humour, "you have the organ of insanity very strongly developed. Drs. Gall and Spurzheim seem to have turned your brain!" "Ah," cried he, "you've no firmness, depend upon it. But good night; I'm afraid I've interrupted your nap. So saying, he took his hat, and was off like an

arrow.

My sleep was interrupted-I must pass my time in some other way. I determined on a visit to a young physician, who was entirely engrossed by the new theory of physiognomy. I knocked at his door-he was at home. I would not trouble the servant to announce me. I opened the parlour-door, but the occupant of the room was too busy to hear it. He was looking earnestly into the chimney-glass, with his hand on his forehead, and his finger and thumb on his temples. Just as I entered, he soliloquized thus: "It won't do! No, I have it not. Dr. Spurzheim- He turned round-he saw me-he looked rather foolish. "Pray, Doctor," said I, "what were you doing?" "Doing? why-he stopped. "What!" said I, casting my eye on a book with the engraving of the heads of Sterne and Shakspeare, "still at physiognomy?" "Yes," said he; "and if you must know, I was trying to develope my organ of imagination a little more than it is. It is not " (with a sigh) "sufficiently large; but I am still young -only twenty-three last December. I must have it; only witness my puns. I'll give you a few of them. The other dayI assured him, I had heard and admired them. "Ah!" said he, evidently pleased, "you, C, you know what a good pun is;

positively I hav'n't seen you,-You must dine with me. You hav'n't tasted my Muscadelle, I think. Zooks, your friendship is extraordinarily developed, upon my soul, too; and the organ of amativeness is confoundedly large. I see you're a sad dog. What a cerebellum !" (I suppose this was intended for a compli ment.) "But, my dear fellow," said he, "did you ever see my wrinkles of thought!" (making his eyebrows meet, and putting on the most formidable frown I ever saw.) "There, do you see those? Feel that! there, those going up to the forehead-they say that Byron has been screwing up his forehead these five years, but can't get them. No, they don't belong to every one, Šir.--Very strong in me! are they not?"-I could bear it no longer. I shook hands with him, and departed, in spite of his begging me to let him examine my cranium, and declaring, as I ran to the door, that "I'd as much veneration as the Archbishop of Canterbury."

I hastened home; I had to take my tea with a family. I dressed myself, and proceeded to the house. Most of my readers will know what sort of party I mean, when I say that I was asked to take a quiet cup of tea. "Quiet," in that way, is generally synonimous with "dull." Two or three fathers and mothers bring their "young folks," drink tea, and depart: they are things that, unluckily, must happen in the best-ordered family. It was too early in the season to dance (for these parties are as formal as others), and the only resource was singing Canadian boat-songs,' and

6

"The pleasing whisper of a lady's tongue."

The party consisted of five old gentlemen, who were entirely taken up in discussing the politics of the day; as many old ladies, who were entirely taken up in discussing any body's business but their own; four young men, who were entirely taken up in talking about themselves; and five young ladies (their pardon for mentioning them last), who were entirely taken up in thinking about themselves.

"Come now, my masters, is there not a score?"

I had the honour of being placed next to one of the latter. She was what is called a sensible young lady, i. e. she now and then read something else than " the last new novel." I found it so to my cost. We were unintroduced; and, according to English custom, remained silent. But on a sudden she turned round to me with a "Pray, Sir, don't you think my philo-progenitiveness very strong?" "Your what, Madam !” said I, with rather a rueful face. "I suppose you read Gall and Spurzheim ?" rejoined she. have looked over it."-" Well, then, I think I've philo-progenitiveness very strong. I always have had a love for children. I'm sure I shall make a tender mother!" This was accompanied by a glance of the tenderest nature. A new way, thought I, of get

"I