should be permitted to fall upon the eyes during sleep; otherwise they are liable to a dry burning heat in the day-time, and frequently to inflammation. Every one would be glad to know by what means sleep may be promoted; for nothing is more unpleasant than to be weary and yet have to wait for sleep. The best method is fatigue, either by bodily or mental labour, and this is not the lot of the great, but of the humble and the slave. Who but recollects the soliloquy to this effect, which Shakspeare has put into the lips of Henry IV.? That of his valiant successor, though less poetical perhaps, for which reason it has not been so often quoted, is equally to the point: "I know 'tis not the sceptre and the ball, Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night HENRY V. act iv. scene 1. There are other means of promoting sleep, most of which, however, ought only to be known in order to be avoided. Corpulent persons are, almost without exception, disposed to profound sleep, which may more justly be regarded as the forerunner of apoplexy than the invigorator of animal life. Dionysius, the corpulent tyrant of Heraclea, slept so soundly, that to awake him it was necessary to thrust pins through the fat into his flesh. Apoplexy at length carries off such drowsy persons, and as their sleep was an image of death, so death in them exactly resembles sleep. Too long watching also tends to promote an unnatural drowsiness. Soldiers, after passing several nights without sleep during sieges, have been known to be so overpowered as to fall asleep on the batteries amid the thunder of bombs and cannon. Persons who have been cruelly prevented from sleeping for several weeks, have, after the seventh week, become so insensible, as not to be roused from their stupor when beaten ever so severely. The wellknown soporific medicines, it is true, occasion sleep; but it is so restless and unnatural, that it ought rather to be termed a disease than wholesome rest. This effect is produced not only by opium and preparations from it, but by various plants; for instance, the different species of henbane, nightshade, &c., the use of which should of course be avoided. In Italy there is a kind of lettuce, which, if eaten, occasions a mortal sleep. In India there is an herb, called there dutroa, but in the Maldive Islands moetol, bearing a round green-spotted pod, full of small seeds. Wild sage, herminum, makes people drowsy who remain long on a spot where it grows in abundance; and it is well known that a stupor seizes those who sleep where beans are in blossom, or in a room where lilies are placed. Upon the whole, it is pernicious to sleep in an atmosphere impregnated with strong odours. They confuse the head, injure the olfactory nerves, and cause headach and dizziness. On this occasion it may not be amiss to warn the reader against the introduction of the vapour of coal or charcoal into bed-chambers. It produces restless and unrefreshing sleep, heaviness, stupor, nay, even death itself, according to the degree of its strength. For this reason I cannot approve the practice of warming beds with burning coals; for which purpose bottles of hot water are to be preferred. Care should also be taken to keep bed-rooms well ventilated and free from damp or humidity. Hence they should face the sun, and not be on the ground-floor of the house. Cold in the head, and loss of hearing, are frequent complaints with persons who sleep in damp, close rooms. Among the surest and most innocent means of promoting sleep, I can recommend wine and tobacco; but both must be used with moderation. A slight degree of exhilaration is soon succeeded by drowsi ness. These means and employment are sufficient to produce wholesome sleep; but at the same time we must avoid whatever is liable to disturb it, and among other things too profuse suppers, by which the stomach is overloaded. I should nevertheless not dissuade healthy persons, who are accustomed to the practice, from eating moderate suppers; for fasting also is found to prevent sleep. It is a bad habit to drink tea, coffee, or a great quantity of any thin beverage before retiring to rest: these things only defeat the object of those who are obliged to invite slumber. They will be much more likely to attain their end by drinking a glass or two of wine, smoking a pipe, and reading a few pages of some dull poet. SONNET. ALONG thy wooded banks, dear native Stream, On rapid wings my fruitless years have fled, THE ONE-HANDED FLUTE-PLAYER, Of Arques, in Normandy. "PENDS-TOI, brave Crillon! nous avons combattu à Arques, et tu n'y étois pas," was the laconic announcement which Henry IV. gave to his friend, of his most brilliant and almost miraculous victory. This memorable place is not more remarkable from its historical interest than it is rich in natural beauties. It has every charm that may retain its inhabitants on their native spot, or seduce a stranger to it. Pleasure in its possession, and pride in its recollections, must be sufficient to fill the mind of its villagers with all that can endear home; and its union of actual loveliness with associations of the past, forms a magical attraction to the idle traveller in its neighbourhood. From Dieppe to Arques is about a league in distance, and an hour's walk-to the common pedestrian of the world; but for him who pauses and ponders on his road, who picks up mental aliment at every step, who finds a moral in a ruin, or a lesson in the rustling of a tree, who reads nature that he may know men-for such a one, from noon to sunset may be scarcely sufficient for the lounge. Having strolled through the greater part of Normandy, eaten my fill of apples in the orchards which skirt its level highways, and drunk cider to my heart's content at the village inns, I found myself, on a fine evening in October, fast approaching the term of my pilgrimage— the aforesaid village of Arques. I left Dieppe behind me, reposing in the mixture of simple dulness and diminutive bustle of those little amphibious towns, which scarcely belong to sea or land, or which are rather common to both. As I struck into the fields I heard the murmur of the fishermen mixed with the flowing of the tide, a Brighton packet was nearing the harbour, with its cargo of curiosity, and, perhaps, care. Another had just sailed for England, freighted with joyous hopes of home and happiness, and no doubt with many a feeling of travelled triumph and importance. There was a fine breeze which, to these little vessels running so close up to the wind, answered very well for either passage ;-so I turned my back upon the sea, quite at ease for each buoyant adventurer. On clearing the town we come immediately into the valley of Arques, and enter on the scene of the celebrated battle fought in September 1589. If we reach the place prepared for its observance, we recall the description by Sully: "Au bout de la Chaussée d'Arques regne un long côteau tournoyant, couvert de bois taillis. Au-dessous est un espace de terre labourable, au milieu duquel passe le grand chemin qui conduit à Arques, ayant des deux côtés deux haies épaisses. Plus bas encore, à main gauche, au-dessous de ce terrain labouré, est une espèce de grand marais, ou terre fangeuse."* I could not make use of a clearer or better account, for every thing is precisely the same to this day, except that the marsh is changed into a fertile pasture, and, looking to old Sully's detail of the battle-field, we have now the prospect of a grazing herd of cattle, instead of the "escadron de lansquenets," a flock of sheep in lieu of the "batallion des Suisses," and that the * Mémoires, tom. I. p. 151. VOL. IV. No. 22.-1822. London, quarto edition, 1745. wooded eminence echoes no more to the advancing shouts of De Chartres, Palcheux, Brasseuse, and the other heroic companions of Le bon Henri. Rising above the trees which envelope the village on the right, the ruins of the castle catch the eye, and the vividness with which the scene of upwards of two centuries gone was brought before us, is checked by the sudden view of these crumbling fragments of the once powerful fortress-that strong-hold from whose embrasures the Hugonot cannon did, that day, such execution on the forces of the League. The illusion lasts no longer. The hand of Time is felt to be more powerful than the touch of Fancy, and we sink into the contemplation of the sober reality around us. I wound my way up the eminence on which the old towers totter to decay; and, passing under the broken archway which received the triumphant Henry after his victory, and then tracing the rugged path which marks the grand approach, I got on the summit of the mound 1 that forms the basement of the vast expanse of building. The immense extent of these ruins gives a fine feeling of human grandeur and mortal littleness; and the course of reflection is hurried on as the eye wanders over the scenery around. This may be described in one sentence, as the resting-place on which a guilty mind might prepare for its flight to virtue. While I stood musing" in the open air, where the scent comes and goes, like the warbling of music," and neither wished nor wanted other melody, the soft sounds of a flute came faintly towards me, breathing a tone of such peculiar and melting expression as I thought I had never before heard. Having for some time listened in great delight, a sudden pause ensued; the strain then changed from sad to gay, not abruptly, but ushered by a running cadence that gently lifted the soul from its languor, and thrilled through every fibre of feeling. It recalled to me at the instast the fables of Pan, and every other rustic serenader; and I thought of the passage in Smith's "Nympholept," where Amarynthus, in his enthusiasm, fancies he hears the pipe of that sylvan deity. I descended the hill towards the village in a pace lively and free as the measure of the music which impelled me. When I reached the level ground, and came into the straggling street, the warblings ceased. It seemed as though enchantment had lured me to its favourite haunt. The Gothic church on my right assorted well with the architecture of the scattered houses around. On every hand a portico, a frieze, ornaments carved in stone, coats of arms and fretwork, stamped the place with an air of antiquity and nobleness, while groups of tall trees formed a decoration of verdant yet solemn beauty. A few peasant women were sitting at the doors of their respective habitations, as misplaced, I thought, as beggars in the porch of a palace; while half a dozen children gamboled on the grass-plat in the middle of the open place. I sought in vain among these objects to discover the musician, and not willing to disturb my pleased sensations by commonplace questionings, I wandered about, looking in a sort of semi-romantic mood at every antiquated casement. Fronting the church, and al + Lord Bacon's Essays. most close to its western side, an arched entrance caught my particular attention, from its old yet perfect workmanship, and I stopped to examine it, throwing occasional glances through the trellis-work in the middle of the gate, which gave a view of a court-yard and house within. Part of the space in front was arranged in squares of garden; and a venerable old man was busily employed in watering some flowers. A nice young woman stood beside him, with a child in her arms: two others were playing near her; and close at hand was a man, about thirty years of age, who seemed to contemplate the group with a complacent smile. His figure was in part concealed from me; but he observed me, and immediately left the others and walked down the gravel path to accost me. I read his intention in his looks, and stood still. As he advanced from his concealed position, I saw that his left leg was a wooden one-his right was the perfect model of Apollonic grace. His right arm was courteously waved towards me-his left was wanting. He was bare-headed, and his curled brown hair shewed a forehead that Spurzheim would have almost worshipped. His features were all of manly beauty. His mustachios, military jacket, and tight pantaloon with red edging, told that he was not "curtailed of man's fair proportion" by any vulgar accident of life; and the cross of honour suspended to his button-hore, finished the brief abstract of his history. A short interlocution, consisting of apology on my part and invitation on his, ended in my accompanying him towards the house; and, as I shifted from his left side to his right, to offer one of my arms to his only one, I saw a smile on the countenance of his pretty wife, and another on that of his old father, and my good footing with the family was secured. We entered the hall-a large bleak anti-room, with three or four old portraits mouldering on the walls, joined to each other by a cobweb tapestry and unaccompanied by other ornament. We then passed to the right, into a spacious chamber which was once, no doubt, the gorgeously decorated withdrawing-room of some proudlytitled occupier. The nobility of its present tenant is of a different kind, and its furniture confined to two or three tables, twice as many chairs, a corner cupboard, and a secretaire. A Spanish guitar was suspended to a hook over the Gothic marble mantel-piece: a fiddle lay on one table; and fixed to the edge of the other was a sort of wooden vice, into which was screwed a flute, of concert size, with three fingerholes and eleven brass keys; but of a construction sufficient to puzzle Monzani, and the very opposite of those early instruments described by Horace, "tenuis, simplexque foramine pauco, Aspirare et adesse choris erat utilis, atque It is useless to make a mystery of what the reader has already divined-my one-legged, one-armed host was the owner of this complicated machine, and the performer on it, whose wonderful tone and execution had caused me so much pleasure. But what will be said when I tell the astonished, but perhaps incredulous public, that his "good right hand" was the sole and simple one that bored and polished the wood, turned the keys and the ivory which united the joints, and ac |