schemes for murdering the Queen. We will not attempt to give their conversation, for it was such as blanched the brow of the brave Bridget, and drove the blood coldly back into her heart; for they hesitated not to argue over the methods taken to dispatch Clarence and the young princes, and entered into the details as minutely as an anatomist, only in language too horrid to be repeated. At length they decided upon first having the pit in readiness, in case they should not succeed in taking away her life without marked violence, and they retired for that purpose.

They were no sooner gone than Bridget entered the Queen's apartment, and acquainted her with what she had heard, advising her also to prepare for her escape by the private door; to which she readily consented, and was soon in readiness for her departure, refusing to take with her the least trifle that had been presented by the King, and only confining herself to a few necessaries, which were her own before her marriage with Glo'ster, together with her jewels. But an unforeseen accident presented their escape, for in closing the secret door,

Bridget had neglected to secure the spring outside; in vain she tried to force it open by main strength; she might as well have attempted to force down the massy walls. The door that led to the staircase in the garden had been secured by the murderers when they went out, this was done by their taking down a thick bar of iron which fell upon a staple; there was no means of securing the door inside to prevent their return, neither was there any fastening to the Queen's sleeping room. They consulted together for a few moments, and, finding that all means of escape were for the present cut off, again entered the bed room, and placed a table against the door, which would at least leave them a little time to parley with the murderers, who were not long in returning from the pleasance, and attempted immediately to force open the door

"What is your business with the Queen ?" said Bridget.

"We will acquaint her in person," replied Forrest," and in return might demand yours, for his Majesty said that she was alone."

"Mine is to protect her from the design of his majesty," answered Bridget, "and to bid you retire, or I will arouse the household."

"But you must first reach them," said Dighton, forcing open the door, and overturning the table.

"You would not murder your queen!" said Bridget, turning pale as she spoke, and gazing upon the hardened brow of the ruffians; "she has never injured either of you,-if it be gold that tempts you to this act, I will give you more than this deed will bring you; and methinks you have shed blood enough already."

By our Lady, the maiden speaketh fairly," replied Forrest. I am for the gold, and let the bloody-minded king do his own work. I have too much upon my hands already."

"So have not I," replied Dighton; "we are the king's subjects, and bound to his behests, which if we do not fulfil, our lives are not worth so much as a struggling kitten's in the Thames."

"Now, out upon thee," said Forrest, "hast thou forgot what vows thou didst make, after our last act, and swore by Holy Paul, thou never wouldst do the like again?"

"True, noble chicken-heart," answered Dighton, "but I have been shrived for that deed, and thus I do repent," saying which, he plunged a dagger into the back of the queen, who was kneeling before the crucifix, and she fell forward with the force of the blow, grasping the feet of the holy image in the agonies of death. Bridget flew to her assistance, and bent in mute sorrow over the bleeding form of the queen, for so unexpectedly had the blow been dealt, that even Forrest stood for a moment wrapt in speechless astonishment; then turning, he exclaimed, "remorseless villain!" and plunged a dagger up to the hilt in his bosom. "Thou wouldst have told the king of my willingness to have spared the lady, wouldst thou," continued Forrest, gazing upon his companion, who lay at his feet; "tell him when ye meet together in hell, damned fiend! It was thou who first steeled my heart to murder, first drew me from the path of honesty, and poisoned my ears with reports how gold was won in serving kings-making me peril my soul for filthy lucre, and when I refused to plunge deeper into crime, threatened to bring me to justice. Nay, grin at me wretch, and gnash thy teeth, thou greyheaded murderer, thou hast grown hoary in crime."

SLEEP.

Ir is known, that seven hours are the established allowance for the repose of an adult; but, do all persons require the same time? Cannot a temperate man do with less? It seems reasonable to conclude, that different minds and constitutions demand different degrees. A strong, healthy man, engaged in an agreeable business, which does not exercise any pernicious effect upon either his corporeal or mental system, can scarcely need the refreshment of his pillow as much as his less favoured fellow-creatures. This seems a natural supposition. Yet, it is equally certain that, for children, a longer slumber is necessary than for adults. Memoirs of distinguished persons furnish numerous extraordinary examples of the time stolen from their couch, by such as found the day too short for their avocations. Napoleon was often on horseback for days and nights successively; and, doubtless, caught flying naps in the saddle. Soldiers have been known to sleep soundly while actually on the march; and malefactors, it is said, usually do the same the night previous to their execution. One of the most exquisitely cruel tortures of the Inquisition, and that one most rapidly producing insanity, consists, in regularly awakening the exhausted sufferer at short periods. No

resolution can long withstand this simple, but terrible mode of attacking the mind, the spirits, and the health. Those maladies which preclude sleep, therefore, are the most dreadful. This blessing can only be appreciated by such as have suffered from being deprived of it, though habit and nature unite in bestowing it in the most extraordinary situations. Napoleon, and, most probably, millions of others as well, has been known to sleep soundly during a battle or siege, which lasted several days and nights, undisturbed by the roaring of the cannon around him.

Whatever may be the quantity of sleep required by nature, it is certain that much depends upon habit; and that, while we sometimes find a Sybarite so sensitively luxurious as to lie wakefully complaining that one of the leaves is doubled in his bed of roses, there are others upon whose hardier and happier frames the heavenly relief falls wherever they happen to be ready-in the storm at sea, during a battle, on the floor of the forest, or on a pillow of rock. A clever friend of mine has the happy faculty of falling asleep at any moment he pleases. If he has ten minutes to spare in the day from his various duties, he flings himself down upon a sofa, and is asleep in a few seconds, no matter by what exciting circumstances he may be surrounded. If he were about sailing for Constantinople, he possesses so curious a power of forcing his mind from any particular theme, that he could steal a short slumber during the fifteen minutes before his embarkation, or refresh himself with a nap while his seconds were loading the pistols for a duel. I consider this a most enviable privilege. My mind, alas! is not so thoroughly disciplined; but when anything extraordinary has occurred to me or is about to occur, it receives a kind of heavy impulse and commotion, like the sea after a storm, which long heaves its wave before it subsides into tranquillity. To one occupied in urgent affairs, and who finds himself perplexed by the multiplicity of demands upon his attention, early rising affords an obvious advantage. Most of us can very well do with less sleep than we are accustomed to claim; and, in a majority of cases, our health would be improved by enjoying less. The few additional hours of the morning spent in exercise or business, would soon exert a salutary influence upon our affairs.

Frederick the Great, who lived three

The

lives in one, and excelled in literature, in military knowledge, and in the qualities requisite for an enlightened statesman, was enabled thus to elevate himself above his fellow-men, in a great degree, by early rising. It will scarcely be going too far to say, that without this habit he would scarcely have been Frederick the Great. At the very commencement of his reign, this remarkable man made a rigid distribution of his time, to which he adhered with almost scrupulous exactness during the fortysix years of his administration. servants were ordered to wake him at four o'clock. For some time after the issuing of this command, he was accustomed to beg his early morning dis turbers for another hour; to which natural and earnest solicitation, the submissive domestics dared scarcely advance a negative. For this they were sure to be afterwards severely reprimanded; but on the subsequent morning, the perplexed menials and the somnolent monarch were each guilty of a repetition. What could he do? Not cut off their heads! "Beheaded for obedience," would sound ill in the state archives ! But the warrior, who intended to conquer Silesia, did not mean to be overcome in the commencement by sleep; so he finally determined, ere he undertook the dominion over others, to vanquish himself. He, therefore, now ordered an attendant, under pain of being made a common soldier for life, to put, every morning, upon his face, a towel dipped in cold water. The measure was perfectly successful. Frederick was ever after an early riser; and, upon my word, this conquest impresses me more effectively with an idea of his energy and mental power, than his boasted victories over Maria Theresa. Like other conquerors, however, he was so much elated by his success, that he carried ambition a little too far. Upon a subsequent period of his life, while with the army on the Rhine, he resolved to try the experiment if sleep could not be entirely dispensed with. In this extraordinary project, he united with several companions equally anxious for mastery, not only over men but over nature. For four days and four nights, they existed entirely without slumber, aided by frequent draughts of strong coffee. At the end of that period, their success would have been complete, had they not, accidentally, all

"

Life of Frederick the Second. By Lord Dover, vol. i. p. 202.

fallen into a slumber, much more profound from their previous exhaustion. It is rather curious, that this scheme could have found a place in the imagination of a man so sensible and enlightened. It almost tempts one to doubt the accuracy of the biography, or else the good sense of Frederick himself.

I should think Shakspeare must have been a lover of sleep, he continually apostrophizes it so feelingly. Every English reader knows, by heart, the soliloquy of Henry the Fourth, when the wakeful monarch complains with exquisitely tender melancholy in such poetic and magnificent murmurs. Per haps, in all the range of the poet's wonderful works, nature is nowhere more wonderfully and perfectly shadowed forth. The solitary, care-worn monarch, brooding, at midnight, over the rank diseases of his kingdom, invokes "Nature's soft nurse," with the pathos of true suffering. He envies the thousands of his subjects who, at that hour, enjoy her blessed embraces. He wonders how he has frighted her, for he longs to steep his senses in forgetfulness. What pictures his imagination conjures up as he proceeds! From simple longing, his disappointment assumes the anxiety of envy. He contrasts his own grandeur with the situation of his subjects'; gradually, from complaint, rises to accusation; and breathes out his kingly wonder:

"Why, rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hushed, with buzzing night-flies, to thy slumber,

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great?"

etc.

It is no longer "Nature's soft nurse." It is now a "dull god," and a "partial one, that gives its repose to the vile and the rude, and yet denies it "to a king."

The expressions of Macbeth are astonishingly fraught with meaning. It is interesting too, to remark the different shades of wretchedness which the poet imparts to his characters according to their degrees of moral turpitude. Henry and Macbeth are both kings, and are both wakeful; but what a frightful distinction between their misery! The English monarch complains with the conscious elegance of a philosopher, whom adversity, and, perhaps, rashness, has taught dignity and wisdom. He feels the hollowness of grandeur. He sees that ambition even in success is far from happiness, and that, in devoting himself to it, he has sacrificed the sim

pler and sweeter pleasures of health and freedom. But, in all this, there is no bitter compunction, nor writhing despair. His grief is that of age and reflectionstately, calm, contemplative, and sentimental. It is no more than what, in some degree, the great of every description must experience; and, in meditating upon the "ship-boy's" slumber, stolen upon the high and giddy mast," his sentimentality belongs, in fact, only to that plausible self-deception, the frequent companion of a cultivated and elegant mind, dwelling upon the cares of rank and opulence, which, in reality, it has no wish to abandon, and painting the poetic joys of those meaner stations in life which it is far from being anxious to enjoy. This is the regal moralizing of King Henry-mere idle interludes in the career of affluence and ambition. The prominent idea in his mind is, that the poor, and those who are obliged to achieve a large portion of bodily toil, sleep in spite of their many privations, while he, a king, in his perfumed chamber, "with all appliances and means to boot," is forced to be a watcher. He longs to taste the sweets of slumber, that he may be relieved from the burden of weighty public cares; and he muses, with a fond wonder, that such a necessary refreshment is not permitted him, while the most miserable and lowly labourer enjoys it.

The royal murderer of Scotland presents a different picture. He, too, in its full force, appreciates the blessing of that sleep which he shall know no more. It is not the labourer, that his turbid imagination beholds locked in the soothing insensibility denied to him. It is the guiltless. The "sea-boy" formed an appropriate contrast to Henry, because one was the humblest servant in the vessel; the other, the lofty chief at the helm of state. But the antithesis which flashes on the fancy of Macbeth-the one farthest removed from him in the scale of moral happiness-was the being unstained with blood. "The innocent sleep" is the terrible thought of the midnight assassin. To him, sleep was what he most wanted. "The death of each day's life." He would have annihilated each gloomy hour, which crushed his spirit with a sense of his baseness, He would have welcomed sleep as "its death." It would have "knitted up" his disordered and unravelled faculties.

To take a less serious view of the subject, however, I transcribe the account of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, which has

a peculiar claim on the attention of the rising generation, inasmuch as it is a curious parallel to the popular story of Rip Van Winkle.

"Among the insipid legends of ecclesiastical history, I am tempted to distinguish the memorable fable of the Seven Sleepers; whose imaginary date corresponds with the reign of the younger Theodosius, and the conquest of Africa by the Vandals. When the Emperor Decius persecuted the Christians, seven noble youths of Ephesus concealed themselves in a spacious cavern in the side of a mountain; where they were doomed to perish by the tyrant, who gave orders that the entrance should be firmly secured by a pile of huge stones. They immediately fell into a deep slumber, which was miraculously prolonged, without injuring the powers of life, during a period of one hundred and eightyseven years. At the end of that time, the slaves of Adolius, to whom the inheritance of the mountain had descended, removed the stones to supply materials for some rustic edifice: the light of the sun darted into the cavern, and the seven sleepers were permited to awake. After a slumber, as they thought for a few hours, they were pressed by the calls of hunger; and resolved that Iamblichus, one of their number, should secretly return to the city to purchase bread for the use of his companions. The youth (if we may still employ that appellation) could no longer recognize the once familiar aspect of his native country; and his surprise was increased by the appearance of a large cross triumphantly erected over the principal gate of Ephesus. His singular dress, and obsolete language, confounded the baker, to whom he offered an ancient medal of Decius as the current coin of the empire; and Iamblichus, on the suspicion of a secret treasure, was dragged before the judge. Their mutual inquiries produced the amazing discovery, that two centuries were almost elapsed since Iamblichus and his friends had escaped from the rage of a pagan tyrant. The bishop of Ephesus, the clergy, the magistrates, the people, and, as it is said, the Emperor Theodosius himself, hastened to visit the cavern of the seven sleepers; who bestowed their benediction, related their story, and at the same instant peaceably expired. The origin of this marvellous fable cannot be ascribed to the pious fraud and credulity of the modern Greeks, since the authentic tradition may be traced within half a century of the supposed miracle. James

of Sarug, a Syrian bishop, who was born only two years after the death of the younger Theodosius, has devoted one of his two hundred and thirty homilies to the praise of the young men of Ephesus. Their legend, before the end of the sixth century, was translated from the Syriac into the Latin language, by the care of Gregory of Tours. The hostile communions of the East preserve their memory with equal reverence; and their names are honourably inscribed in the Roman, the Abyssinian, and the Russian calendar. Nor has their reputation been confined to the Christian world. This popular tale, which Mahomet might learn when he drove his camels to the fairs of Syria, is introduced, as a divine revelation, into the Koran. The story of the Seven Sleepers has been adopted, and adorned, by the nations from Ben. gal to Africa, who profess the Mahometan religion; and some vestiges of a similar tradition have been discovered in the remote extremities of Scandinavia. This easy and universal belief, so expressive of the sense of mankind, may be ascribed to the genuine merit of the fable itself. We imperceptibly advance from youth to age, without observing the gradual, but incessant, change of human affairs; and even in our larger experience of history, the imagination is accustomed, by a perpetual series of causes and effects, to unite the most distant revolutions. But if the interval between two memorable eras could be instantly annihilated; if it were possible, after a momentary slumber of two hundred years, to display the new world to the eyes of the spectator, who still retained a lively and recent impression of the old, his surprise and reflections would furnish the pleasing subject of a philosophical romance. The scene could not be more advantageously placed, than in the two centuries which elapsed between the reigns of Decius and of Theodosius the younger. During this period the seat of government had been transported from Rome, to a new city on the banks of the Thracian Bosphorus; and the abuse of military spirit had been suppressed by an artificial system of tame and ceremonious servitude. The throne of the persecuting Decius was filled by a succession of Christian and orthodox princes; the union of the Roman em、 pire was dissolved: its genius was humbled in the dust; and armies of unknown barbarians, issuing from the frozen regions of the north, had established their victorious reign over the fairest provinces of Europe and Africa.”