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have been only calculated to raise them above it, and even make them dissatisfied with its laborious duties. Of late, however, many cheap productions, combining useful and amusing matter, free from politics, and fitted for their capacities, have sprung up; but it is surprising how few of them have yet made their way into the hands of the peasantry. Were they more generally diffused, it is very probable that the beer-shops with the weekly provision of penny republicanism, those inseparable companions the "Register," and the "Poor Man's Guardian," would lose a great portion of their attraction.

Some paradoxical philosophers have exercised their ingenuity in maintaining that knowledge is a source of misery, and that ignorance is bliss. Solomon himself was not insensible to the "delitias ineptiarum;" in the multitude of wisdom, says the wise man, is grief, and he that increaseth wisdom increaseth sorrow. The old Latin axiom will have no great genius free from a dash of insanity. Festus told St. Paul that much learning had made him mad; and Sophocles has lauded the beatitude of ignorance, nihil scire vita jocundissima. Machiavel forbade princes to addict themselves to learning. Martial recommends us to break our inkstands, and burn our books; and an ancient physician affirms that the common course of education doth no other than to make the student a learned fool, or a sickly wise man.

There is, however, an observation in the "Adventurer," which, although "a modern instance," is more to the purpose than any of the "old saws" we have just quoted. "If we apply to authors themselves for an account of their state, it will appear very little to deserve envy, for they have been in all ages addicted to complaint, and few have left their names to posterity without some appeal to

future candour from the perverseness of malice of their own times. We have, nevertheless, been inclined to doubt whether authors, however querulous, are in reality more miserable than their fellow-men."

The truth is, the abuses of study are its only disadvantages. St. Austin has well called it "scientia scientiarum, omni melle dulcior, omni pane suavior, omni vino hilarior." No wonder if the student, in the enjoyment of such a pleasure, forget the pangs which over application is sure to entail on the constitution. It is indeed so seductive a pursuit, that the wear and tear of mind and body produce no immediate weariness, and at the moment no apparent ills. But study has no sabbath, the mind of the student has no holiday, "the labour he delights in physics pain;" he works his brain as if its delicate texture was an imperishable material which no excess was capable of injuring. Idleness to him is the arugo animi, the rubigo ingenii; but the insidious corrosive of intense thought and incessant study is taken into no account, its certain effects are overlooked because its action at the time is imperceptible. Surely," says Ficinus," scholars are the most foolish men in the world; other men look to their tools-a painter will wash his penci's, a smith will look to his hammer, a husbandman will mind his plough-irons, a huntsman will have a care of his hounds, a musician of his lute-scholars alone neglect that instrument which they daily use, by which they range over the world, and which, by study, is much consumed."

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It seems, indeed, little short of madness to neglect that instrument on the condition of whose delicate chords the harmony of every tone of intellect depends, and which, once "jangled out of time and harsh," all

the sweet music of the settled mind is spoiled, perhaps, for ever.

And what is there in the sanctam insaniam of genius to enamour us of its gloom, and to walk in the paths of error which lead to it? error gratissimus mentis it may be, and seductive as the fascination of passion and poetry can make it, but what is there in the distempered visions of Tasso, Cowper, Collins, Sharpe, or Swift, to reconcile us to the ecstasies of the disordered mind, or to suffer us to persist in the same habits, or continue the same excessive exertions, which disturbed their reason?

So long as life is admitted to be the result of the coexistence of mind and body-so long as we are convinced of the intimacy of their union by the manner in which they reciprocally sympathise with each other—so long as we perceive the powers of the mind augmenting with health, and diminishing with disease-so long as we observe that the mind is incapable of occupation when the body is wearied by violent exercise, and in its turn unfitted for exercise, when the mental powers are fatigued by over exertion of the former-we can arrive but at one conclusion, that the balance of health can be maintained in its natural equilibrium only when mental exertion is proportioned to bodily activity. When this is not the case literary fame is dearly purchased; and all the glory that surrounds it cannot make amends for the health that has been sacrificed for its attainment. "On est trop savant quand on l'est au dépens de sa santé; à quoi sert la science sans le bonheur ?"

In conclusion, there are a few words of Tissot's which serve the purpose of a summary of the preceding observations. To comprehend the influence of mental labour on physical health, it is only necessary to remem

ber, in the first place, that the brain is in action when one thinks; secondly, that the tendency of continual action is to produce fatigue, and that fatigue deranges the functions, because every debilitated organ performs its duties imperfectly and irregularly; thirdly, that all the nerves proceed from the brain, and precisely from that part of it which is the organ of thought, the common sensorium; fourthly, that the nerves are one of the most important parts of the human machine, that they are necessary to every function, and that when once their action is deranged, the whole animal economy suffers from that derangement.

CHAPTER IV.

THE NERVOUS ENERGY.

But what is this subtle fluid which exerts so wonderful an influence over mind and body? Under how many names has the knowledge of its nature baffled human enquiry in all ages! and how ignorant still are we of its essence! still it is known to us only by its effects.

We feel when the nervous energy abounds that every thing is well with us; we find when it is deficient that we are depressed; we know if it is exhausted that we become debilitated; and if suddenly destroyed, that death must immediately ensue !

Is it then the vital principle, or the cause of it—or is it indeed the cause of that effect which Brown mistook for animation, when he asserted that irritability was life itself? Motion, no doubt, is the grand characteristic of life; but motion is only the consequence of irritability. The propulsion of the blood is immediately caused by the irritability of the muscular fibres of the heart and its channels; but nature accomplishes all her phenomena by physical agency. To what agent, therefore, are we to refer this irritability, before we arrive at the ultimate cause of life-that causa causarum which is God? Is it to electrical agency we are to look for the solution of the mystery? or is there any thing analogous to the principle of life in the phenomena of the electric fluid? The nervous energy, however, is so much a part and parcel of the vital principle, their union is so intimate, that whether they stand in the relation of cause and effect, or are dif ferent names only for the same essence, they cannot be

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