d sleeper.' 'Pray pardon
me,' said I, 'if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily.'
'If I did so,' said the individual, 'I am beholden to this meadow and
this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself. I am the
owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms part. Some
years ago, however, up started a person who said the property was his; a
lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most
unexpectedly, the suit was determined in my favour. Owing, however, to
the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for years, my nerves had
become terribly shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep
forsook my pillow. I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I
took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady. About
three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised
me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try and
read a page or two, assuring me, if I did that I should infallibly fall
asleep. I took his advice, and selecting this place, which I considered
the pleasantest part of my property, I came, and lying down, commenced
reading the book, and before finishing a page was in a dead slumber.
Every day since then I have repeated the experiment, and every time with
equal success. I am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I
made my will, in which, in the event of my friend's surviving me, I have
left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me the
most invaluable of all blessings--sleep.'

'Dear me,' said I, 'how very extraordinary! Do you think that your going
to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?' 'I suppose by both,' said
my new acquaintance, 'acting in co-operation.' 'It may be so,' said I;
'the magic influence does certainly not proceed from the meadow alone;
for since I have been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to
sleep. Does the book consist of prose or poetry?' 'It consists of
poetry,' said the individual. 'Not Byron's?' said I. 'Byron's!'
repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt; 'no, no; there is
nothing narcotic in Byron's poetry. I don't like it. I used to read it,
but it thrilled, agitated, and kept me awake. No, this is not Byron's
poetry, but the inimitable ---'s {138a}--mentioning a name which I had
never heard till then. 'Will you permit me to look at it?' said I.
'With pleasure,' he answered, p