It is astonishing that we should know so little about the mysterious state in which nearly one third of our life is passed. Even the few writers who have concerned themselves with the subject of sleep have confined their attention almost altogether to its physiological phenomena. Having told us that the brain needs rest and sustenance, that in sleep all the vital processes are retarded, that the first sleep is deepest; having described the premonitory symptoms of yawning, the drooping of eyelids and head, and the relaxation of all the limbs (with which we are pretty familiar); and having acquainted us with other uninteresting facts of the same order, these persons seem to think they have told us all we are entitled to know. The question what is sleep, or why it is necessary that the soul should be unconscious for six or eight hours out of every twentyfour, does not appear to occur to them, possibly because these are questions that cannot be answered.

And yet, admitting that the most abstract thought is accompanied by the waste of nervous elements, and that the brain, with other organs of the body, is subject to exhaustion and needs repletion, it does not follow as a matter of course that consciousness must be suspended and the whole activity of life cease for so considerable a proportion of time. The action of the lungs goes constantly on. The heart, which does more work than any other muscle of the body, rests profoundly between each two beats; and refreshed by these brief cat-naps, it requires no other rest from the moment when it begins to beat until its pulsations cease for ever. The common idea, therefore, that the substitution of new elements for those used up necessarily

requires long and frequently recurring periods of repose does not seem to afford a sufficient explanation of the phenomenon of sleep. If the mere repair of our bodily organs were the sole purpose of sleep, we might well suppose that Nature would have found a way to this end less costly than by the sacrifice of nearly one-third of our lives. Further, we may remark that if the restoration of brain and nervous substance were the sole purpose of sleep, it would follow that more intellectual persons, especially the great brainworkers, in whom the destruction of nervous substance is most rapid and continuous, would require the most sleep in order that their losses might be repaired.

On the contrary, it

is well known that it is the illiterate, the peasant, the man who hardly thinks at all, who sleeps most, and who can always sleep, while, as a rule, those whose brains are most active require and enjoy the least amount of sleep. To this rule there are exceptions. among whom were Montaigne, who relates that he was a great sleeper, and spent a large part of his life in bed; Descartes, who wrote, "I sleep ten hours every night"; and Immanuel Kant, who found it so difficult to get up in the morning that he ordered his servant to take him out of bed whether he complained or not. Perhaps the most conspicuous example of prodigious expenditure of intellectual energy on a minimum of sleep is that of the first Napoleon, who is said to have slept not more than four or five hours a day for years at a time. Napoleon, however, abused his marvellous organism. Only half of his brain seems to have been awake at the battle of Waterloo, and he made up for his former insomnia by sleeping inordinately at St. Helena.

We need not, then, ascribe the necessity of sleep to the crippling and incapacity of exhausted organs which in their normal capacity are the organs of consciousness. The healthier a man and his organs, the more easily sleep is induced, the longer, deeper, and more refreshing his sleep is apt to be. Nor does such a man a few moments before going to sleep exhibit any such crippling in diminution of energy as to make sleep for this reason necessary. On the other hand, when the faculties are really crippled, when in sickness and mental exhaustion sleep is most needed, it often fails, and when it comes it is apt to be troubled. Neither can we ascribe sleep to the mere rotation of the earth on its axis and the alternations of day and night. Although darkness, by cutting off the stream of sensations carried to the brain, helps to induce sleep, yet many animals habitually sleep by day and walk or hunt by night, and innumerable human beings who are compelled by the circumstances of their occupations to imitate the nocturnal habits of animals learn to sleep in the day without the least prejudice to their health.

Remembering such facts as these, we may believe that the soul's unconsciousness in sleep is necessary to our wellbeing. Our soul came out of unconsciousness, and to that great world of silence and darkness, where God alone thinks for all, it must often return. In sleep, in which our vegetative life alone goes on, the Great Architect, the Great Physician, works undisturbed by the frettings and interference of human consciousness. Accordingly in sleep all healing, all beneficent crises take place. "Lord, if he sleep, he shall do well." The embryo, which has its whole body to build, sleeps constantly. The child, whose body is still imperfect, sleeps most of his time. The old person who is nearing the state when sleep will no longer be necessary usually

sleeps least. In this sense sleep may be said to be the original condition of man. In sleep God relieves us of the heaviest burden and the most precious He has entrusted to us, the burden of self-consciousness. In sleep God takes

oil.

back the lamp of consciousness, not to extinguish it, but to replenish it with Therefore sleep is not a mere pause in our mental life: it is a preparation for a new life. Sleep and waking are related as the trough of a wave is related to the crest of a wave. The lower we descend into unconsciousness, the higher we rise into consciousness. The deeper the sleep the more perfect the waking, and the more perfect the waking the deeper the sleep. Let us thank God, then, for these sweet depths of oblivion into which we may plunge and forget all. Only God is righteous enough to be eternally awake. Sleepless Himself, He giveth others sleep. Is there a greater instance of the goodness of God? For us no more terrible punishment could be devised than that we should be confronted for ever with an unsleeping conscience. When for a little while we are robbed of that merciful draught of forgetfulness, how quickly we exhaust ourselves, how sadly we explore every corner of the house of the soul, ransacking present, past, and future for some bright object on which our poor heart may rest. How the plant of life withers at the root! What a destroying flame licks up the fairest landscape, leaving only the charred and blackened ruin of our home:

What, then, is sleep? There is nothing we should like to know so much. We have consulted the learned, but we have not learned. They tell us of reduced respiration and increased activity of the skin, of anæmia of the brain, and an accumulation of carbonic acid. Sleep, they say, is not the twin brother of death, for in death all the vital exchanges cease, whereas in sleep they are only retarded. Very interesting! But it is not what we want to know. What is that world in which we spend nearly one-third of our lives? Through what gate does that happy soul pass when, released from all its burdens, it enters a paradise all its own, whither no human being can ac company it, where the beggar is king, and for which the king begs in vain? Whence arise the bright images that come to us in our dreams? What miracle clothes the dead with flesh, and lends them for a few brief moments to our society, to our embrace? What insane weaver takes up the broken and tangled thoughts of our waking hours and weaves them into that strange tapestry, the fabric of a dream? Whence come those unexplained terrors, those unreasonable fears so wonderfully described by Job? "In thoughts from visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men, Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up." Whence those dark transformations of character that cause us in our sleep cheerfully and without the least remorse to commit actions we shudder to think of when we are awake? Can it be that in returning to this forgotten past of mankind, this abyss of listening silence, haunted by The Spectator.

all the spirits of the old world, the old soul, sternly repressed by consciousness, comes to life and shudders once more before the unknown terrors of the universe, and feels again all the wild and savage joys of the animal man going forth on the old errands of violence? Is it this soul, the old epic singer, that tells us the wonderful stories of our dreams? We do not know, but certain it is that all ancient nations with much reason have associated sleep with divinity. Perhaps no better account of this phenomenon has ever been given than that of the poet-philosopher of the Upanishads when he wrote: "What is this soul, this Brahman? He is the highest person who wakes while we sleep, shaping one lovely sight after another. That, indeed, is Bright, that is Brahman, that one alone is called Immortal." And again:-"The King said to Yagnavalkya: 'O Yagnavalkya, what is the light of man?' And Yagnavalkya said: "The self alone is his light, for having the self alone as his light, man sits, goes about, does his work, and returns.' The King said: 'Who is this self?' And Yagnavalkya replied: 'He who is in the heart surrounded by the senses, the person of light, consisting of knowledge. He who remains the same, wandering along two worlds, sleeping and waking as if thinking, as if moving. During sleep he transcends the world and all the powers of death. In sleep guarding with his breath the lower nest, that immortal one goes where he likes, the golden person, the lonely bird. Going up and down in his dream the god makes wonderful shapes for himself, either joyous, laughing with women, enjoying himself with his friends, or seeing terrible sights.'"

After lengthy negotiations the Keats House at Rome is likely to become the property of the Keats-Shelley Memorial Association. Support has been privately secured, but more is needed. The actual purchase of the house will cost over $20,000. It is hoped to make the building the centre of a representative collection of relics of the poet.

Lovers of Trollope will note with interest the fact that the publication of "Barchester Towers" in Everyman's Library is attended with an intimation by the publishers that it may be followed by other of Trollope's stories until it is possible to possess a complete edition of the author in this delightful form. Trollope was so voluminous a writer that the acquisition of his works in the only editions now available, in which two or three volumes are taken up with a single story, is a serious matter. But if the books should be issued in this format, with each story complete in a single volume at a moderate price, there would be an eager demand for the series.

As to the current supply and demand for poetry The Academy remarks:

If there is a "slump" in poetrywhich, having regard to the number and the quality of the books of verses that reach us, we are quite unable to believe-the fault lies not with critics or publishers' readers, but with the public, which never did and never will read poetry. If only it would! At no period of our history, save perhaps the middle years of the eighteenth century, has the leaven of poetry been more urgently needed than it is now. Book after book of very good verse is published: so far from buying or reading them, the public will not even read the very greatest of acknowledged masters. But we question whether the sale, in reality, much affects the pro

duction of poetry. The poet who looks to make a living of his work is introducing an element into his aim which has no right to be there.

An anonymous writer in the Scottish Review writes a slashing article on "The Decline of Mr. S. R. Crockett" and remarks that, although he trod a sure literary path with a firm step while he dwelt among the Galloway hills, the freshness and spontaneity of his earlier years seem now to have vanished. Of Mr. Crockett's latest book "Kid M'Ghie," the critic says:

The plot is forced, the writing is forced, the humor is forced. Mr. Crockett has ransacked the Newgate Calendar for episodes, and the whole thing seems to be designed for the syndicates that purvey wildly sensational serials at cheap rate for the weekly newspapers. Mr. Crockett has been pot-boiling with a venegance . . . He has evidently labored hard, almost frantically, at his task; but he has given us little to be set by the side of his earlier and healthier work. Only one character in the whole book seems clothed with flesh and blood... the rest is leather and prunella of a sadly inferior quality.

The ninth volume in the "First Folio" edition of Shakespeare, published by T. Y. Crowell & Co. is "Twelfth Night or What You Will." Like the others in the series, it is fully furnished with notes, literary illustrations, a glossary, variorum readings, bits of selected criticism, etc. The editors, Charlotte Porter and Helen A. Clarke, have done their work with painstaking thoroughness and discrimination; but the distinctive quality of the edition, as suggested in its designation, is that it reproduces the First Folio text of 1623, with the original spelling and punctuation, untouched by the guesses and emendations of generations of editors. To the ordinary reader therefore it

brings what hitherto has been accessible only to the favored few, the plays as Shakespeare wrote them. The dainty typography of the De Vinne Press gives the books a setting worthy of their unique intrinsic value.

The nineteenth and twentieth volumes of the reprints of Early Western Travels, of which Dr. Reuben Thwaites is the editor and the Arthur H. Clark Company of Cleveland the publishers, are mainly devoted to Josiah Gregg's "Commerce of the Prairies" originally published in 1844: though this is preceded by two briefer narratives, that of George W. Ogden, contained in his "Letters from the West" describing his journeyings in Ohio, Missouri and Kentucky in 1823-5, and William Bullock's "Sketch of a Journey Through the Western States," made in 1827. Dr. Josiah Gregg's work is by far the most important as it is the longest of the three. It recounts a series of journeys, made partly for health and partly for the pleasure of exploration during the fourth decade of the last century, mostly along the famous Santa Fé Trail,-which the people of Kansas are about to mark with posts before it has become wholly effaced by the progress of civilization. Dr. Gregg added to an adventurous taste the faculty of keen observation and an admirably direct literary style. The account of his adventures attracted wide attention when it was first published, and it has not lost its charm with the passage of years. It may almost be regarded as a classic of the period in which it was written.

Mr. William B. Weeden's "War Government Federal and State" (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) is a fresh and curiously interesting study of the relations of the national and state governments as they were affected by the Civil War. While that great struggle was in progress, highly important questions relating to the interplay of the two forms of government were being worked out. Less attention was given to them at the time than they deserved, for interest was concentrated upon the great contest for the preservation of the Union. But it was highly desirable that some one should go over the records of the period, and study with some care and pains the cooperations and conflicts, the disputes and agreements which arose between the authorities at Washington and the executives of the Northern states. Mr. Weeden is well fitted for the task, for he was an acute observer of these conditions as they developed, and has reflected long upon the results which were reached. He has wisely taken as typical states Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Indiana, whose great "war governors" held continuous service throughout the period, and New York where conflicting conditions assumed the most critical form. But his study is a general one, and it constitutes a new and extremely interesting chapter of the national history. Mr. Weeden states his conclusions with force and pungency: and if the reader is not inclined to accept them all, he will recognize their sincerity and the broad grounds of experience and observation on which they are based.