XVII 

 SLEEP 



AN enterprising journalist has recently published 

 the replies of a number of well-known men to 

 an inquiry as to how many hours' sleep they are in the 

 habit of taking, and what they find to be the best 

 remedy for sleeplessness. Such an inquiry naturally 

 leads on to further thoughts about " Sleep." What a 

 mysterious, yet sweet and lovable thing it is ! How 

 strange it is that we all regularly and gladly abandon 

 ourselves to it ! How terrible is the state of those who 

 cannot do so ! And then one is led to ask, what is it ? 

 and why is it ? Do all living things sleep for some part 

 of the twenty-four hours ? How does it differ from 

 mere resting, and in what does its virtue consist ? 



Shakespeare has said the most beautiful words that 

 have ever been uttered about sleep, and that because he 

 knew what it was to seek for it in vain 



" Methought I heard a voice cry, ' Sleep no more ! 

 Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep ; 

 Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, 

 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 

 Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, 

 Chief nourisher in life's feast." 



And again, when the strenuous life of the great 

 Bolingbroke has at last overtaxed his brain, and he can 



