Full of
enthusiasm, he devoted to the subject of his thoughts, as was his custom,
the long sleepless intervals of his nights. Meditating in bed with his
eyes closed, he turned over his periods in a tumult of ideas; but when he
rose and had dressed, all was vanished; and when he sat down to his
breakfast he had nothing to write. Thus genius has its vespers and its
vigils, as well as its matins, which we have been so often told are the
true hours of its inspiration; but every hour may be full of inspiration
for him who knows to meditate. No man was more practised in this art of
the mind than POPE, and even the night was not an unregarded portion of
his poetical existence, not less than with LEONARDO DA VINCI, who tells us
how often he found the use of recollecting the ideas of what he had
considered in the day after he had retired to bed, encompassed by the
silence and obscurity of the night. Sleepless nights are the portion of
genius when engaged in its work; the train of reasoning is still pursued;
the images of fancy catch a fresh illumination; and even a happy
expression shall linger in the ear of him who turns about for the soft
composure to which his troubled spirit cannot settle.

[Footnote A: One of the most extraordinary instances of inspiration in
dreams is told of Tartini, the Italian musician, whose "Devil's Sonata" is
well known to musicians. He dreamed that the father of evil played this
piece to him, and upon waking he put it on paper. It is a strange wild
performance, possessing great originality and vigour.--ED.]

But while with genius so much seems fortuitous, in its great operations
the march of the mind appears regular, and requires preparation. The
intellectual faculties are not always co-existent, or do not always act
simultaneously. Whenever any particular faculty is highly active, while
the others are languid, the work, as a work of genius, may be very
deficient. Hence the faculties, in whatever degree they exist, are
unquestionably enlarged by _meditation_. It seems trivial to observe that
meditation should precede composition, but we are not always aware of its
importance; the truth is, that it is a difficulty unless it be a habit. We
write, and we find we have written ill; we re-write, and feel we have
written well: in the second act of composition we have acquired the
necessary meditation. Still we rarely carry on our meditation so far as
its practice would enable us. Many works of mediocrity m