was Dr. Binns, just quoted, who gives the
following description of this mysterious
process. The sleepless sufferer having duly
tossed about his bed, as restless and unanchored
as a ship at sea, is directed to " turn
on his right side, place his head comfortably
on the pillow, so that it exactly occupies the
angle, a line drawn from the head to the
shoulder would form, and then slightly closing
his lips, take rather a full inspiration, breathing
as much as he possibly can through the
nostrils. This, however, is not absolutely
necessary, as some persons breathe always
through their mouths during sleep, and rest
as sound as those who do not. Having taken
a full inspiration, the lungs are then to be left
to their own action—that is, the respiration is
not to be accelerated or retarded too much,
but a very full inspiration must be taken.
The attention must now be fixed upon the
action in which the patient is engaged. He
must depict to himself that he sees the breath
passing from his nostrils in a continuous
stream, and the very instant he brings his
mind to conceive this, apart from all other
ideas, consciousness and memory depart;
imagination slumbers; fancy becomes dormant;
thought ceases; and sleep supervenes.
It will happen, sometimes, that the patient
does not succeed on the first attempt, but he
must not be discouraged. Let him persevere
in taking full inspirations and expirations
without attempting to count them, for if he
does, the act of numeration will keep him
awake; and even should he not succeed in
inducing very sound sleep, he will, at least,
fall into that state of pleasing delirium which is
the precursor of repose, and which is scarcely
inferior to it. Many trials have satisfied us
of this." We do not pledge ourselves, be it
observed, for the success of this experiment,
which reminds us of an observation once
made to us by a poor lunatic. " Ah! " said
he, " everything is now done by steam; we
live by steam,—breathe by steam,—and pray by
steam, which is the reason that my aunt, who
is a very devout woman, although she robbed
me of my snuff-box, has a turn-up nose. The
steam, always ascending, gave it an upward
twist." Poor fellow! he was full of fancies;
and we can easily conceive that if any person
could (which is the difficulty,) exhaust his
attention by watching his own breathing
until it emitted visible steam, he would fall
into a sound slumber long before the
phenomenon became apparent. The best
preparatives for sleep at night are healthy
exercise and occupation—bodily and mental,
during the day—but it should be remembered
that over-fatigue produces a state of irritability
and restlessness. Once, however, asleep,
wrapt in deep unconscious slumber, how is it
that we again awake?

This, we apprehend, may be accounted for
in the following manner:—As we have already
endeavoured to explain, sleep arises from
exhaustion of the nervous energy; and when
during repose, it is regenerated in sufficient
abundance, the nerves are stimulated to
renewed action. Hence, in the early part of
the night, our sleep is more profound than it
is afterwards; it becomes lighter and lighter
as this nervous power is gradually restored,
until at length we are awakened by its
stimulus. Ought then a person who is in a
natural placid and profound sleep to be
unnecessarily awakened? As a general rule,
we think not. We conceive that sleep is a
provision of Nature to restore the exhausted
energies of the animal system—physical and
mental—and as such it should be dealt with
kindly, gently, and gratefully. The mind,
too, as Sir Thomas Browne premised, should
compose and prepare itself for slumber by
proper discipline; "the virtuous thoughts of
the day lay up good treasures for the night."
But we are now touching upon the land of
Dream, and must pause 'ere we venture to
explore its mysteries. We shall return to it
anon; and then, as we draw aside the curtain,
it will be made manifest that " Our life is
twofold—Sleep hath its own World."

CHIPS.

THE INVITED INVASION

WHEN, O provincial or foreign visitor! you
look down at mid-day upon Ludgate Street
from the outer gallery of the dome of St.
Paul's, you behold four currents of hats
with a variegation of bonnets here and there,
(like flowers floating in an inky river) flanking
two more streams of vehicles. These trails
move in alternate rows eastward and westward
without intermission and without end.
Upon that gilded and giddy height, you get
an idea of a dense population. It is there
that you fully understand that two millions
and a quarter of us are congregated upon
this out-of-the-way corner of the earth,
which is on terrestrial globes labelled
"London." It is there that you smile at the
stories of ancient Babylon and its fabulous
census of Assyrians, and laugh the vaunted
population of Pekin to scorn. It is there,
that, straining your eyes to the right and to
the left, while circumambulating your airy
perch, you feel some hesitation in descending;
lest, there being no room even for your
moderate corpus, you should be pushed aside
like a straw in a torrent. Yet this traffic is
not so great as that which passes under the
ugly clock which protrudes from the elegant
spire of Bow Church, like a mis-shapen tumour
on the neck of a beauty. Into Cheapside are
disgorged, not only the east-going thousands
now passing under your eye; but an equal
multitude from Holborn and Newgate Street.
These concentrate and thicken at Bow
Church—to be born within earshot of
whose belfry constitutes a Cockney. Ethnologically
therefore Bow Church is the centre
of London.