O antique humorist, quaint-mouthed Sancho Panza! with you, I say, "Blessings on the man who invented sleep!" Sleep, pleasant sleep!--that little airy nothing on the eyelids!--that little spell of thought which comes from no place and goes nowhere!--which comes upon us silently and splendidly, like a falling star, and trails its golden fancies on our waking hours. Sleep for the young--fresh, dewy sleep! Sleep for the sick! Sleep for the weary and disconsolate--sweet dreams and sweet forgetfulness for _them_! Smooth the white hairs of the old; place thy invisible fingers on their lips; close their eyes gently, gently. Sleep, and let them pass into nothingness! In a dreamy mood, half awake and half asleep, I filled sheet after sheet with my curious back-handed chirography. The white feathery snow came down cygnet-soft, and I wrote. I heard the wind ditties in the chimney, the merry wrangling of sleigh-bells, the sonorous clash of fire-bells, and the manuscript grew under my pen, as if by magic. I came to love the nurslings of my fancy as no one else will. I liked the cold, cynical features of Mr. Flint, with his undertaker's aspect; the child-spirit, Bell; Daisy Snarle's eyes; the heart-broken old sailor; the pale book-keeper; Tim, the office boy; Mr. Hardwill, the great publisher; Joe Wilkes, and all of them! Mrs. Muggins occasionally looked in on me. Mrs. Muggins' regard for me was increasing. She never left the coal-scuttle on the stairs for my benefit, as she used to; she was eternally hearing my bell ring when it didn't, and answering it so promptly when it did, that I began to think that she lived night and day just outside my door. Pleasant Mrs. Muggins! I tried not to feel elated at these little widowy attentions; but _los hombres son mortales_. She handed me my coffee with a motherly tenderness that was perfectly touching. She looked at me with the eyes of Solicitude, and spoke with the lips of culminating Respect; and once, in a burst of confidence, she told me that she had six orphan sons, who were "sealurs." _My_ respect increased for Mrs. Muggins. My novel might run through only one edition, but she,--she had six editions of herself afloat! And I thought that, after all, a woman like her who had produced a half a dozen Neptunes, founded perhaps a half a dozen races, was rendering more service to this apple-like globe, than one poor devil of an author prolifically pregnant with indifferent books. I spoke to Barescythe about it, and it was pleasant to have him coincide with me once. It is an agreeable fact, that "The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain."