The difference in the item of sleep is amusing. I know a poor, worn-out doctor who finds all health in early rising. Let us refer him to the following, by John G. Saxe:—

EARLY RISING.
“God bless the man who first invented sleep!”
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
And bless him also that he didn’t keep
His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it—as the lucky fellow might—
A close monopoly by patent right.
Yes, bless the man who first invented sleep
(I really can’t avoid the iteration);
But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,
Whate’er the rascal’s name, or age, or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off—early rising.
“Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,”
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl:
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray, just inquire about his rise and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all.
The time for honest folks to be abed
Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it’s fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks.
Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But then he said it—lying—in his bed,
At ten o’clock A. M.,—the very reason
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching wasn’t sanctioned by his practice.
’Tis doubtless well to be sometimes awake,—
Awake to duty and awake to truth,—
But when, alas! a nice review we take
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep!
’Tis beautiful to leave the world a while
For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free at last from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels’ sight,
In sleep’s sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin.
So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, “Served him right!—it’s not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising.”

Mother Goose.

“Gabriel Betteredge,” in “Moonstone,” was doubtless a true character from life, picked up by the author, Wilkie Collins, somewhere in his travels. I think the best authors seldom have made up so good a character “out of whole cloth,” but have gone to the highways and byways for them. Betteredge’s forte lay in Robinson Crusoe. That book was his guidance and solace in all his trials and perplexities. But what would you think of a doctor, a respectable graduate of a medical college, who sought, if not advice, recreation and solace in Mother Goose?

This M. D. resided a few years ago in A., New York State. He owned a large library, enjoyed the confidence of a large list of friends and patrons, and was a man of education and refinement. His eccentricity lay in his love of Mother Goose’s Melodies. He kept a copy of these nursery rhymes at his very elbow, and often turned from a perplexing case, and sought solace in the jingling rhymes of old Mother Goose!

Well, that was certainly better than relieving his brain by the use of narcotic stimulants, as opium, tobacco, or ardent spirits, which use can only be followed at the expense of nerve, tissue, and membrane.

I have here before me an account of another physician, whose solace and relief from business cares were in his cats, of which he had several, all of which answered to their names. His attachment to these creatures was only equalled by theirs for him. Sometimes one or two perched on his shoulders and sang to him while he rested in his easy-chair. He seemed to drink in Lethean comforts, as thus he would remain for a half hour or more at a time, or till business broke the spell. When a patient came, or a servant announced a call, he would arise and say, “Pets, vamose!” and the cats would all scamper away to their nests, and the doctor, seemingly refreshed in body and mind, would return to the reality of life and its labors.

One’s solace is in his children, another’s in his wife, a third in his flower-garden; and others’ in opium, rum, or tobacco.

The Tables turned.

Sometimes the doctor’s oddity seemed to be in his silence, again in asking “outlandish” questions. Often they get a good return; for instance,—