"Nimbly, gayly, off they go, With sport above and death below;" but I really do think that all that is noble, generous, and intrepid in the male heart comes out in still more captivating colors in the Rink, the devotion of the male to the female sex being there worthy of the best days of chivalry. There is another consideration which ought to recommend rinking to the cordial approval of all thoughtful and benevolent persons,-I mean the service it cannot fail to render to surgical art. This is in itself a matter of primary importance. When rinkers, familiar with danger, and therefore contemptuous of it, shall grow even more reckless in their proceedings than they are at present, the number of sprained wrists, dislocated ankles, broken legs and arms, and smashed heads will become so great, that a staff of surgeons will have to be in constant attendance at every Rink. The profession will thus gain very considerably, not alone in a pecuniary sense, but also in opportunities of practice, for it stands to reason that if people did not break their limbs, surgeons would never know how to set them. For one good male rinker there at least forty female. The men are often as awkward as they are inelegant, and so come frequently to confusion; whereas the women are, generally speaking, so prudent and skilful, as well as graceful, that they rarely give occasion for the doctor's intervention. Thus in this, as in all other matters, the advantage is where it ought to be,with the better and more beautiful section of humanity. Another admirable thing about rinking is that it quickens the pulses of poetic inspiration. I was at a rink the other day, and all of a sudden such an afflatus, direct from the sunniest eminences of Parnassus, came over me, that I asked Mr. Hayes, the courteous proprietor, to oblige me with writing materials. He did so, with characteristic politeness. Nay, more, he spread a round table for me right in the middle of the rink, whereat he placed a chair. I sat me down, and while the skaters were spinning around me on all sides in frantic mazes, I produced the following sublime SONG OF THE RINKERS. I. Hearken to the Rinkers rolling round the rink; How their axles clatter! how their castors clink! They're "circular” and “fugitive" beyond the range of doubt. CHORUS. Sing a song of Rinkers, how merrily they skim! Birds were made for flying, and fish were made to swim; Now we've found the motion fit for human kind,— Man to roll on castors only was designed. II Here and there and everywhere, in and out they dash, CHORUS.-Sing a song of Rinkers, etc. III. Gliding o'er the asphalte at a furious rate, CHORUS.-Sing a song of Rinkers, etc. IV. In the day of danger, when the clouds arise, Darkening all your sunshine, shrouding all your skies, Buckle on your castors, and begin to rink. CHORUS.-Sing a song of Rinkers, etc. THE POETRY OF SLEEP. "I WOULD go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse worth riding on, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imagination into his author hands-be pleased he knows not why and cares not wherefore." So spake Lawrence Sterne; and knowing thee, reader, to be just such a man as he thus eloquently depicts, I kiss thy dear hand, and taking it in mine, propose that we shall have an "out and about" in dreamland, chatting cosily as we go, on a subject the most attractive in the world-Sleep. All that the human fancy can conceive of refreshing and delightful is assuredly comprised in that gentle monosyllable. Dr. Johnson's definition is sufficiently seductive. "To Sleep-to take rest by the suspension. of the mental and corporal powers." What can be more delicious? Poets in all ages have sung the praises of sleep; but of all panegyrics ever uttered on the enchanting theme, the most truthful and striking is probably that which fell from the inspired lips of Sancho Panza: "Now blessings light on him who first invented sleep!" It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak. It is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot." So, indeed, it is; and he who possesses it to the fullest in the night is to be envied, however bleak and rough his journey may have been in the day. And if that man be worthy of universal benediction, as unquestion ably he is, who "invented" sleep, surely he who gives to that exquisite discovery the utmost possible development is also to be esteemed a benefactor of his race. He may not, indeed, lay claim to the honors of originality, but he deserves such secondary praise as fairly belongs to those ingenious and philanthropic minds which are modestly content to elaborate to finer perfection and make more easy of operation the projects of inventive genius. In that happy thought I find supreme comfort. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to know that these essays of mine are soporific in their effect-that they have an irresistible tendency to produce sleep, and so to procure for the reader the very highest form of enjoyment of which human nature is capable. Some pens there are which stir the spirit of man like trumpets; some pens may be compared to swords, slaying right and left and flashing dazzlingly in the sunshine; others may be likened to reeds which shed music; mine has but one parallel-the sleepcompelling word of Somnus. What is the use of exciting people? what possible good can come of writing in such a strain and style that men's cheeks flush to a more crimson dye, and their hearts beat more rapidly, and their pulses throb more wildly as they read? As though there were not enough to distract and worry them in their experiences of every-day life! Be it mine to soothe them into serene repose, and gently to beguile them into such sweet oblivion of sorrow as it is in the power of sleep, and of sleep alone, to bestow. The proudest and happiest moment of my life is when I see a man take up a book of mine and set himself down to a perusal of it. Full well I know that "not poppy nor mandragora nor all the drowsy syrups of the world" can ever medicine him to such sweet sleep as is now in store for him. Being of a benevolent disposition, to administer to the felicity of my fellow creature is ever my chief delight. And what a glorious opportunity now presents itself! Placing myself in a position where I may see without being seen, it is my practice to mark with breathless attention the working of my spell upon my unsuspecting reader; to observe how "the exposition of sleep," as Bottom phrases it, comes gradually over him; to see his muscles insensibly relaxing, his eyelids drooping, his head nodding as he reads, till at last he sinks back unconsciously in his chair, the volume drops from his hands, and the voice or rather the nose of the snorer resounds jubilantly through the room. delightful thought that I have made a human being supremely blest, banished his cares, and transported him by the magic of my writing to an ideal world, where he may smile to think of the grief in this, fills me with triumphant joy. All the way home I keep repeating these lines of Ovid to the unspeakable amazement of the passers-by, who little dream what noble transport swells my breast: "Somne quies rerum, placidissime somne deorum, Pax animi, quem cura fugit, qui corpora diurnis The Sleepless myself, I write that you may sleep, and so, dear reader, I acquire an undeniable title to your grat |