WINK THE FOURTH. S-, a wealthy man, who was notorious for always sporting a shocking bad hat, was dining one day at a tavern with B snug clique. and a The waiter slamming-to the door, the well-worn beaver fell from the peg to the ground, when one of the party rose to replace it. "Don't disturb yourself, Jem; let it rest." "Ay, in charity, do!" cried B," for to my certain knowledge it has not had a nap for many months!" WINK THE FIFTH. THE wild and fantastic vagaries of Dreams-the misshapen offspring of Morpheus-sometimes assuming the ridiculous, and at others the terrible, are inexplicable, although there are some wiseacres who pretend to read and unravel these enigmas of the brain. In the words of Byron, we verily believe "it all depends upon digestion;" and, indeed, it is said that the painter, Fuseli, actually succeeded in producing some of his dream-drawn effects by previously supping on raw pork-chops !-delineating on the canvass, by the aid of his pigment, what his pig-meat had created!-and we dare say, for the sake of harmony, he painted with bristles. But, after all, the kaleidoscopic effects of these nocturnal visions (if we may term those visions which are seen when the eyes are closed!) are insignificant, when compared with the freaks of somnambulism; for therein not only the mind but the muscles are set in motion. We have heard so many facts respecting sleep-walkers, that we are almost convinced that the march of intellect may progress even in a snooze ;—that teachers may doze, and pupils "nap it," and still "keep moving." Certain it is that a bed-fellow with these peripatetic predilections would be anything but desirable; for what could be more disagreeable on a frosty morning than to find your partner eloped, and discover him or her, as the case (gender?) may be, promenading on the parapet of a four-storied house, or banqueting on bread and cheese in the pantry, like some poor ghost," or standing before a glass, shaving himself with the handle of a tooth-brush, with eyes, perhaps, wide open? Horrible! and yet more horrible, because "there is no speculation in those eyes!" WINK THE SIXTH. A GENTLEMAN, on whose veracity we can rely,* once narrated to us a curious incident which occurred during the Peninsular war. A young man in a cavalry regiment had his horse killed under him by a cannon-ball, which at the same time shattered both his legs. The poor fellow survived the amputation, and, in due course of time, recovered sufficiently to appear abroad (or rather at home) with a pair of wooden legs, and soon after retired to his native village on a pension. Supported by Government and his "pins," he went on tolerably well for one in his "walk" of life. In the cottage where he boarded and lodged the fare was homely and wholesome, and his daily rations by no means calculated to promote dyspepsia. On the Sabbath there was a standing dish, a pork-pie, of which the soldier was particularly fond. Being, however, of the circumference of a small copper-lid, there was usually about one fourth of the delicious morsel "put by" for the following day. But, whether cold or hot, the favourite dish received the unabated attentions of the gallant invalid. One Monday, seated at the lowly board, and armed with knife and fork, ready for action, he anxiously prepared for the attack, when lo! the cotter's wife announced, to his dismay, that the remnant of the choice pasty had disappeared-the dish was empty! In vain they sought the cruel depredator; there were none on whom their suspicion could fall with any colour of justice. A week passed away, and another corner of the esteemed delicacy was deposited in the closet. The whole household had retired to sleep, and had been hugged in the arms of Morpheus for some hours, when the cotter, who slept on the ground-floor as well as the soldier, was aroused by a noise. Half frightened, he crept from his pallet, and, gently opening the door, beheld, to his amazement, his wooden-legged lodger seated at the table with the pie before him, greedily devouring it. After finishing his repast, he replaced the dish, and stumped back again to his chamber. The cotter followed, and confronted him, and was about to upbraid him for his duplicity, when, to his horror, he found the soldier * Query: On whose mendacity we can re-lie ?—Editor. was fast asleep! He was a somnambulist! The next day, when he informed him of the night's adventure, the soldier laughed incredulously, and delicately hinted that "he might tell that to the marines," setting it down as a ruse on the part of his landlord; and, the latter finding it impossible to convince the sleep-walker, he made up his mind on the following Sunday to watch till he slept, and take away his wooden legs, (as a sort of leg-bail,) in which cunning feat he succeeded, and, retiring to his room, endeavoured to court sweet slumbers, but in vain; he had gone beyond his accustomed hour, and became restless. Presently he fancied he heard some one moving; he jumped bolt upright, and pushed his nightcap from his ears. The sounds became painfully distinct; he slipped out of bed, and, peeping nervously from his door, he actually beheld the soldier at the table standing on his stumps, and eating voraciously of the doomed pie! We only adduce this as one example of the disease, and can only say, "Se non è vero, è ben trovato." How sweet! how beautiful is sleep! The alderman, "with good capon lined," and a real Bandana thrown over his bald head, looks the very picture of plethoric placidity, when taking his snooze in his arm-chair! "His custom always of the afternoon." A pet puppy, with a blue riband round his neck, clean as a new pin, and hair as soft as floss-silk, sleeping on a velvet cushion at his mistress's tiny feet, is prettiness personified! A plump infant (the first), adorned with lace-cap and other innocent extravagances, whose whiteness is as pure as its sinless self, its dear little dimpled hands and arms pressing the coverlet of its bacinet, is, in the fond mother's eye, the very concentration of love and sweetness: and should a smile, transient as a sun's ray in April, irradiate its features, the maternal heart is elated with the purest joy; for she believes some guardian angel is hovering over her treasure, and whispering in its ear! * WINK THE EIGHTH. "We are a' noddin”.” WE read many marvellous accounts of great sleepers; but, undoubtedly, the soundest on record are the sleepers on a railroad. It is said that, in the event of any deficiency, a supply is furnished on some lines by the Board of Directors! "I know a bank—” The old woman of Threadneedle Street very frequently falls asleep; and of so much importance is the fact considered, that a bulletin of her "rest" is periodically issued! WINK THE NINTH. UPON an average, one third, at least, of a man's life is spent in sleep. Sleep is certainly one of the greatest boons bestowed on man in his weary pilgrimage. To enjoy this blessing in perfection, there are three things which are indispensably necessary, good health, good exercise, and agood conscience! Let the poor reflect on this, and envy not the wealthy; for the chance of attaining this enviable enjoyment is greatly in their favour. Health and exercise are thrust on the poor from the necessity of labour, while disease and indolence attack the wealthy in the absence of that wholesome stimulus; and, warring against the decrees of Nature by late hours and irregular habits, one third of their mortal career is wanting in that refreshing and life-renewing slumber which the poor enjoy! In the delicate matter of conscience the poor have, at least, less time and less temptation to err than the wealthy! It must consequently be conceded, if these premises be admitted, that in the enjoyment of one third of life the poor have the advantage; for the loss of which all titles, riches, honours, and luxuries offer no compensation. WINK THE LAST. SLEEP is like the summer dew which gently falls at eve, refreshing the parched verdure. Sleep is like a grindstone, which sharpens every blade blunted by the wear and tear of daily toil. Sleep-is like the snowy mantle which winter spreads upon the earth, and withdraws in the spring or morning of the year, when herb, and flower, and tree come forth in all the freshness and beauty of a new life. This is an Irish superstition, which that talented poet, painter, musician, and singer, Samuel Lover, has made the subject of one of his many beautiful songs. Sleep-is like the love of painting ;-it induces every man to take to a pallet. Sleep-is the infant's paradise (their parents', too, if they are noisy), and the old man's solace. Sleep-is like an extinguisher, which prevents the candle of life from burning down too rapidly. Sleep, although the Image of Death, is in fact the true Elixir of Life. Sleep is like-very like to set our readers nodding: we, therefore, wish you heartily "Good night." EDITED AND ILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED CROWQUILL. RICHARD SAVAGE. BY CHARLES WHITEH EAD. CHAPTER XXXVI. In which Richard Savage takes his farewell of London, and of one whom it had been well if he had striven to deserve. In conclusion, his good resolutions, and how their effect was anticipated. THE reader has probably inquired ere this what is become of Miss Wilfred? I will satisfy his curiosity. My rupture with Lord Tyrconnel had been long foreseen by me, but in no manner provided against; so that no sooner had I left his house than I was again flung back upon the world, without any available resource but such as the knowledge of my quarrel with my patron would immediately extinguish. Still I did not relax my endeavours to discover whither Elizabeth had flown. I continued my search with unabated perseverance for a month; but in vain. By this time I was reduced to great necessity. Tyrconnel, base beast! had seized upon my clothes, and I was compelled to lie hid in obscurity. As these necessities became extreme-a sense of utter abasement, of deep shame, overcame me. I heard at last that she was living with Lady Trevor, and shortly |