scenes and sounds suggested by such images.
Then I try to do what I never was able to do in
my life— repeat the multiplication-table all
through, and dodge myself in it. I stick at seven
times eight, and go back to the beginning, and
get more puzzled and less sleepy every minute.
Clearly all these are fallacies; let me try,
mental devices having failed, if there is anything
to be done by attacking the physical condition.
Somebody, I think, told me, at some time or
other, that drinking a glass of cold water was
efficacious in cases of insomnolence. I hate water
administered internally, but I'll try it; I'll try
anything; I can't be worse; and, as nepenthe
is not to be had, give me water. Bah! Tepid!
Standing all the summer day in the room, it is
like drinking liquefied swansdown, or any soft,
warm, tasteless, sliding thing that gives no
marked sensation of any kind to the palate.

Well, it's gone, and I go back to bed, and beat
up the pillows, and place them (as somebody
else, at some other time, has advised), not under
the head only, but under the neck and shoulders
too, and again I shut up my eyes tighter than
before, and set to work to make my mind a total
blank— to exclude all ideas, feelings, recollections,
and impressions whatsoever.

      Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade.

Oh, Keats, Keats! Gracious powers, Keats!
have you forgotten that I have to get up early?

              Regal his shape majestic——

I must find out where the line is, or where
lines like that, are, if I die for it.

I get up and take Milton from the shelf, and
begin turning over the pages of Paradise Lost
by the night-light, but somehow I feel it isn't
there. Well, then, where is it? That's the next
question. Shakespeare? Pooh, nonsense! not
a bit like Shakespeare. Dante? No, it's not
Dante. Spenser? Ah, may be! I think it is
Spenser. I seize The Faerie Queene with the
vigour of hope, and turn from canto to canto. I
have it!—

           And hid in his own brightness.

Rather like it? Some of these days I mean to
publish a chapter or two on plagiaries, wilful or
accidental. Well, well, never mind now; you've
satisfied yourself on that point, so do go to bed,
for you know you have to get up early.

So I go to bed again; but going to sleep is
quite a different thing, and I never felt further
from it in my life. Turn how I will, lie how I
may, the one thought that I have to get up early,
is ever before me, and as the night waxes and
wanes, and I know the dreaded hour draws near
and more near, I am worked up into the state
of desperation that you sometimes see in nursing
mothers when they can't get their babes to sleep
— a state which induces them to try to do it by
force, and makes them carry the refractory imp
up and down the room in a frenzied manner, and
rock it violently in their arms, and sing aloud to
deaden its shrieking.

At last— is it possible? yes I am losing the
clearness of my perceptions— that last thought
was very dreamy. I don't recollect the train of
ideas that led to it; I was very nearly asleep.
I am so glad that in my joy I wake up broad,
broad, and find that

                 —— day is breaking,
         And I have not slumbered yet;

and, slumber or no slumber, I have to get up
early.

At last, towards five o'clock— I am to rise at
six— I go off into a profound, balmy, dreamless,
perfect sleep, and am buried deep, deep in the
downy bosom of the delicious goddess— I know
Sleep was a goddess—the notion of any influence
so sweet, and soothing, and loving, and tender
being masculine!— when at my room I hear the
hot water and the announcement— twice delivered
— " Just gone six."

I start up in bed and gaze about me blankly.
"Gone six," indeed! and what's that to me?
How dare that woman— how dare anybody—
come to my door and wake me with the terrific
statement that it has " gone six," when everybody
knows that I never dream of allowing myself
to be disturbed before half-past eight, in order
that I may have time to get wide awake by a
quarter to nine?

Suddenly, however, the sense of my calamity
bursts upon me with overwhelming force, and
I, blind and drunk with sleep, blunder out of bed
into the middle of the room, and stand there for
a moment dazed, bewildered, striving to collect
my senses, and think what I am to do next. A
bright idea strikes me. I will reverse the order
of my ablutions, and instead of keeping my bath
for their crowning joy and glory, I'll take it first.

Br-r-r— how cold it is! Not laving me with a
gently stimulating freshness, not lending me new
life and vigour, as it is wont to do, but striking
into my very vitals with a sudden shock of cold.
Well, it has wakened me, at all events. Let
us see what the morning looks like. Ah! fine, I
see; sunshiny— a very pretty sight, indeed, to go
back to bed and dream about. But I can't go
back to bed; I must go on with my dressing, for
am I not getting up early? Water, instead of
screeching hot, tepid— just one degree warmer
than that I drank last night. Ha, pleasant— hot
cold water, and cold hot water! Well, well, it's
no use to grumble :  once having made up your
mind to get up early, you must make your
account for every possible discomfort that can be
heaped on your devoted head.

Well, now I am dressed, and what next awaits
me? To think that I, who am wont to
make my appearance in the breakfast-room
at what hour it suits me, in what costume
it suits me, in what mood it suits me, sure
to find some little dainty dish prepared for
me, crisp watercress, nice bread-and-butter, hot
tea— I, accustomed for years to this mode of
preparing for the labours of the day, am now, in full
morning dress, to sally forth at half-past seven,
and to walk three miles before breakfast!

I go down stairs; the shutters in the hall are