a thrashing; but then he'd instruct his
father to take proceedings, with damages,
and the pair would like nothing better. I
give you my honour, colonel," added the
Doctor, earnestly, "I did everything mortal
man could do, to bring him to some sense
of decency, even t' invite the assault and
battery on his part. So I was obliged to
put up with an apology. But I have it in
writing, my boys. He calls it an explanation.
Ah! Poor old Ireland, with all her
backslidings, at her worst, she never came
to that. If there'd been no offence
previous, we'd create one out of compliment
to the visitor. Oh, for the old times, when
we were all gentlemen, and th' attornies
were scarce! Never fear, colonel. Don't
be down-hearted. We'll try something else
yet."

This affair of the Doctor's raised his
reputation prodigiously. Every one now
looked at him with curiosity, awe, and
respect; except, indeed, Mr. Ridley, who
"pished," and asked, "Wasn't it a fine
thing to have those fire-eating Irish bullies
among us?" The real effect — as our
Doctor intended it should be — was upon
young Mr. Leader, who now regarded his
friend with a sort of tremulous awe,
admiration, and alarm, mixed with a kind of
dependence and helplessness, which made
him consult the Doctor upon almost every
point.

SLEEP AS AN INSTITUTION.

ONE of the pleasantest places in the
world in which sleep can visit us is a
summer meadow, when the grass is in
flower. You nestle down among the tall,
pliant green stalks, with a canopy of great
white ox-daisies nodding over your head.
You lazily watch the big "bumble" bee,
in his velvet suit of black and orange,
bustling about from clover-top to clover-
top — a fretful lover, or a testy honey-
merchant, whichever he may be, for he will reply
to no questions. Presently he will come
bouncing at you, as if you were an interloper
whom he at once hated and despised;
and then he will make off in a sudden rage,
as hot and fiery as Blue Beard. Very soon
all sorts of quaint-shaped creatures will one
by one appear, and climb up into the golden
dishes of the buttercup flowers, or on to
the bending grasses, to look at you; little
demure beetles will nod their heads and
move their antennae suspiciously; then
will follow dainty ladybirds in their gay
shells, and stealthy timid insects, who will
keep down low in the grass, and peep out
at the intruder into their dominion, and
pugnacious red ants, who fear nothing. A
grasshopper is safe to vault over you
acrobatically. A moment after, a white
butterfly will career near you, reconnoitring
for the hidden fairies; and little blue
dragon-flies, with bodies like mere threads
of sapphire, will skim past with their gauzy
wings, wondering who on earth you are and
what you want. Swallows will dart by
with a curved flight, which is the poetry of
motion. Gusts of wild-rose leaves will
scatter over you from the neighbouring
hedges. All at once, as you lie half-asleep,
you will remember what it is you are like.
Why, of course, you are like Bottom the
transformed weaver of Athens, waited on by
the fairies. That lark above, almost out of
sight in the warm blue air, is, no doubt,
Titania herself, singing to you before she
descends at twilight and changes her shape
and transforms the creatures that surround
you into Peas-blossom, Cobweb, and the
rest. They will dance round you, and then
kneeling offer you refreshments, dew in
acorn-cups and honey in rose-leaves. They
will — but gradually the air gets stiller
and stiller, a balmy calmness benumbs
you, a sumptuous repose — you are asleep.
Probably, if you are a family man, the
clamour of many children will awake you,
and a romping cluster of urchins falling
on you, will drag you in to tea; or, if
you are newly married, even a pleasanter
form of awaking may arouse you, and two
soft little red lips may press yours, and
tell the "lazy, lazy fellow," in half a dozen
kisses, that supper is ready.

I have often thought how pleasant it
would be to go to sleep in the centre of
a corn-field—a corn-field where acres of
golden spears were swaying to and fro in
the wind, and every breeze ploughed
momentary furrows that close the instant the
breath had passed. That delicious
simmering sound would promote slumber; so
also would that ceaseless crackling as of
a fire running through straw, which shows
that the grain is ripe, and that the dry husks
are already parting. The languid poppies
would be pleasant drooping over one's head,
and fair would flutter the delicious blue of
the corn-flower. But then mother earth is
hard, and moreover Farmer Giles might
strongly object.

I once slept in a tree—that was
delicious. I was a boy then, fond of reading,
and to get time to myself I used to climb