I might offer to you many plain precepts for the alleviation of the _light_ causes of sleeplessness; and while I dole them out to you in very dullness, you will fancy my gold-headed cane to my chin, and other essential symbols of an Esculapius of the olden time. Adopt, then, a free ventilation in summer, and airing in winter, of the chamber. This should never be a mere closet, always above the ground floor, neither very light nor dark, the window not being close to the bed, and, above all, not in the vicinity of stoves, ovens, and large kitchen fires. Do not allow the windows to be open throughout the night, to admit the cold dew or air; and, in winter, the basket-fire should be placed there for an hour before you enter your chamber. A slight acceleration of the circulation may be produced by gentle exercise before rest; and two or three wafer biscuits or spring water, to prevent the wakeful effects of both chilliness and hunger. A light woollen sock may be worn, which is unconsciously displaced when sleep comes on, and the night-cap should be little more than a net, except during the very cold months. The position of the body should be that which is the easiest, except the supine, which induces congestion and often “night mare;” and if there be much sensitiveness of the surface, the hydrostatic bed should be employed, but that not too long, as it will become heated by protracted pressure. Children should not be enveloped in clothes, nor crowded in bed; nor should infants be shaken, or tossed, or patted, as foolish nurses too often do. There are many simple modes of inducing slumber: I allude not to poppy and henbane, nor to the pillow of hops, which, in the case of the third George, was the charm that sealed up the lids of the king; but to other modes, such as a tedious recital, (something like my own dull prosing,) the gentle motion of a swing, a cot or cradle, the ripple of a stream, and the dashing of a waterfall, the waving of a fan, the caw of rooks, the hum of bees, the murmur of an Æolian harp— CAST. So gracefully wound up in that quaint _morceau_, the “Fairy Queen,” when Archimago sends the spirit to fetch a dream from Morpheus— “Cynthia still doth steepe In silver dew his ever-drooping head, Whiles sad night over him her mantle black doth spred. And more to lull him in his slumber soft, A trickling stream, from high rocke tumbling downe, And ever dringling rain upon the loft, Mix’d with a murmuring winde, much like the soune Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoune.” SUBLIMITY AND IMPERFECTION OF DREAMING. “We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded by a sleep.” TEMPEST.