Repose is the remedy which nature points out to tired mortals when exhausted either by mental or bodily fatigue. This is her prescription for refreshing man’s animal spirits, and enabling him to resume his labours. Stimulants are by no means congenial with her methods or her processes. They are like whip and spur to the weary steed; they may force him on indeed, but it is at the expense of his constitution and his powers. In medical science, the great art, as the doctors say, is to assist nature; and with this view, the skilful practitioner will sometimes order stimulants, and find them doubtless highly useful to his patient; but their habitual use is no maxim of the healing art, but much rather that of the destroying or disabling one, if I may use the expression. By the way, we are sadly prone to habits, and therefore it “stands us upon,” in a most serious degree, to consider well the nature and probable results of any custom before we adopt it. In this astute and intellectual age of ours it has been discovered that it is much easier to abstain altogether from a dangerous indulgence than to adhere strictly to moderation, and temperance has been superseded by teetotalism; and I would just add to this, by way of corollary, that it is much easier to slide into a bad habit than to get rid of it again. But to return to our theme. The effects produced by stimulants are all agreeable for the moment. Wine and opium raise men above earth and all its cares; and so long as the stimulant lasts, they sit as it were at the supper of the gods. Anacreon is then the only ballad-monger, and with him each is ready to sing, Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury’s dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet-boy, Folding his little golden vest, With cinctures, round his snowy breast; Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide! But when the influence of the spell is over, immediately they sink down as much below the level of ordinary mortals, as they were before raised above it. For a delightful exhilaration of body and mind, they now experience a sad reverse, in which they find much more pleasing music in the prudent advice of the apothecary, than in all the Odes of Anacreon. The cry is not then, Let us drain the nectar’d bowl, Let us raise the song of soul--&c. But, Let us drain the _saline dose_, Let’s expel these humours gross.