fects. Gibbon's well-known
story of the monks of Mount Athos and their contemplative practice is
often laughed over, but it has a meaning. They were to shut the door of
the cell, recline the beard and chin on the breast, and contemplate the
abdominal centre.

"At first all will be dark and comfortless; but if you persevere day
and night, you will feel an ineffable joy; and no sooner has the soul
discovered the place of the heart, than it is involved in a mystic and
ethereal light." And Mr. Braid produces absolute anaesthesia, so that
surgical operations can be performed without suffering to the patient,
only by making him fix his eyes and his mind on a single object; and
Newton is said to have said, as you remember, "I keep the subject
constantly before me, and wait till the first dawnings open slowly by
little and little into a full and clear light." These are different, but
certainly very wonderful, instances of what can be done by attention.
But now suppose that your mind is in its nature discursive, erratic,
subject to electric attractions and repulsions, volage; it may be
impossible for you to compel your attention except by taking away
all external disturbances. I think the poets have an advantage and a
disadvantage as compared with the steadier-going people. Life is
so vivid to the poet, that he is too eager to seize and exhaust its
multitudinous impressions. Like Sindbad in the valley of precious
stones, he wants to fill his pockets with diamonds, but, lo! there is
a great ruby like a setting sun in its glory, and a sapphire that, like
Bryant's blue gentian, seems to have dropped from the cerulean walls
of heaven, and a nest of pearls that look as if they might be unhatched
angel's eggs, and so he hardly knows what to seize, and tries for too
many, and comes out of the enchanted valley with more gems than he can
carry, and those that he lets fall by the wayside we call his poems. You
may change the image a thousand ways to show you how hard it is to make
a mathematician or a logician out of a poet. He carries the tropics with
him wherever he goes; he is in the true sense felius naturae, and Nature
tempts him, as she tempts a child walking through a garden where all the
finest fruits are hanging over him and dropping round him, where

The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon (his) mouth do crush their wine,
The nectarine and curious peach,
Into (his) hands themselves do reach;

and he takes