Dr Neil Stanley Independent Sleep Expert
BACK ‘Early Rising’, Forrester’s Boys’ and Girls’ Magazine, 1 Aug. 1852, 40. , ‘Early Rising’, Boston Commercial Gazette, 24 Mar. 1825; To rise early is so truly the one thing needful above all- to all who are candidates for either of those capital prizes- Health, Wealth, or Wisdom, that it is the only sure foundation for securing any chance of obtaining either of them “He that would thrive Must rise by five:- He that has thriven May lie till seven” Instances may be found (but very seldom) of persons who have set up late becoming wealthy, but they have paid for it in an unwise price of their health. You cannot remember on solitary example of a sluggard having ever obtained one of these blessings of life-“Shake off dull sloth, and rise early”. There is no time spent so stupidly as that which inconsiderate people pass in a morning between sleeping and waking. He who is awake may be at work or at play; he who is asleep is receiving the refreshment necessary to fit him for action; but the hours spent doing and slumbering are wasted, without either pleasure or profit. The sooner you leave your bed the seldomer you will be confined to it. When old people have been examined in order to ascertain the cause of their longevity, they have uniformly agreed in one thing only, that they “all went to bed early and all rose early” Julian, ‘Early Rising’, Norwich Courier, 21 May 1828; In mentioning some of the advantages of early rising, let no one expect me to bring forward that old fashioned one of saving time; Or that I shall compute how much the man of eighty years of age has lost, by slumbering every day and hour and a half more than was necessary. Everyone can make the estimate himself. Besides, such a calculation, would but stimulate multitudes to persevere, who fly to the oblivion of sleep to get rid of time. But I would bring into operation those powerful agents _Interest and Pleasure. These be the gods which, more or less, sway the whole mass of mankind. Let a man, then, be in what pursuit he will, or, as a friend of mine used to remark; in no pursuit at all, early rising is of the utmost advantage to him. The tradesman, the artist and the farmer, during the hours in which the indolent slumber, acquire that daily little, which, in the round of the year, make up an hansome sum. And these sums, remaining after their necessary expenditures, are clear gain. And while their neighbours, who, during a certain number of hours, are equally industrious, merely support their families, and are continually complaining of hard times, they themselves are easily acquiring wealth. I have never seen a farm under good cultivation, and in hansome repair, without finding that its manager was an early riser. I have never known a man of business accumulating property, without learning also that he commenced his occupation at least with the rising sun – But these are fact too notorious to need any comment. Neither does the devotee to wealth need any stimulus: for it is his idol, and he is a persevering worshipper. But I would address myself more particularly to men of sedentary habits. And shall I appeal to their interest? I would say then to the professional man, especially if he is not an old practitioner much of your success depends upon your application. The doctrine has long since been exploded, that the man, who has acquired his profession, may close his volumes and leave them to ornament his shelves. Intense application for years alone can yield the success. This alone can but for them that broad and solid foundation, from which the skill or power of no potent adversary can drive them. This only can give them that powerful influence, which is to lead captive the intellectual energies of an enlightened community. And surely, if in the days of Cicero and Demosthenes, when there were, comparatively, so few competitors for renown, it was necessary for those mental giants to bring themselves to the grave for their complete success:- in this age, when there are such a multitude of powerful aspirants after fame; it is no trifling achievement to wreath around ones brow the garland of victory – True , a man may slumber until seven o’clock in the morning and obtain livelihood. But shall the souls of men, so fitly formed for aerial flights, aspire at nothing more?. Who would be content to gratify, merely his mortal tabernacle; and at the end of his brief pilgrimage, sink, forgotten as the brute, beneath the dust of the valley? Who can look with indifference, upon the dark mantle of oblivion, as it wraps within its impeneirable folds the name and the memory of the forgotten and the unknown? This is indeed death in all its abhorrent features. And if there is one, who, in a few brief years, is content to mingle his dust with the unheeded mass of the ignoble vulgus, from my soul I pity –Awake then, ye who strive at immortality, awake from this indolence which dims your glory! Shall the sordid being, whose constant music is centum per centum, disturb your slumbers by his noisy industry? Are your eyes indeed dime to the brilliant wreath of glory which is before you? Are your aspirations so feeble, that you cannot relinquish a few hours of animal gratification; when by it you might win eternal renown, and render yourselves the point of vision to an admiring universe? Slumber on then, and recoil not from the dark gulf of forgetfulness. One consolation you have: the multitude are your companions. A poet must be possessed of a mania, far more wild than his legitimate madness, if he thinks the star of evening, or the pale Queen of night, outrivals the splendor of the rising sun, or the scenery upon which the morning dawns. Cold and frigid must be the bosom, which is not thrilled by beholding the sun breaking through the clouds of the morning;- discordant the soul, which experiences no rapture, when listening to a thousand songs of the grive-blind or at least short-sighted the eye, which loves not to gaze upon the unnumbered beauties of the landscape. Let no one then aspire to the much coveted, little valued and less profitable occupation of jingling rhyme, if he is so indolent as to the voice of nature is hushed, and her glowing dew-drops have vanished. Last but not least let me address a few words to your fair readers – Let me call their attention to the beauties, with which, at this season of the year, nature delights to robe herself. Can they, who are so truly denominated fair, be insensible to all there lovely charms? Surely it cannot be the result of envy. And I need not tell them; - for they have, doubtless, at least some, risen with the morning sun- that by early rising alone they can perceive nature in all her glory.   Does the rose appear so lovely, under the influence of the noon day sun, as when gemmed with the dew of the morning? Let the air at any time so cool or so fragrant? Let them go forth and decide for themselves. Early walking too will communicate that exhilaration of feeling, which can be obtained by no other measure. And if they will do it, their eyes will sparkle with health-their countenances be clothed with smiles-their cheeks be suffused with a deeper carnation than the fairest flower.  ‘Letters on Early Rising’, Journal of Health (Philadelphia), 10 Mar. 1830, 198; here LETTERS ON EARLY RISING." Among the practices most conducive to health, serenity of mind, and the successful prosecution of study and business, early rising holds a conspicuous rank. The near approach of the vernal season, with a more genial sky, and the unfolding of vegetable beauty, while they invite abroad, will remove, at the same time, the pretexts which the long dark mornings of chill winter may have furnished us with for hugging our pillows, and asking for yet a little more sleep and a little more slumber. ‘Early Rising’, Youth’s Cabinet, 25 July 1839, 119; ‘Early Rising’, Robert Merry’s Museum, 1 Oct. 1843, 107; ‘Early Rising’, Boston Weekly Magazine, 26 June 1841, 323; ‘Early Rising’, The World of Music, 15 Jan. 1844, 76; ‘A Word about Early Rising’, Portland Pleasure Boat, 25 July 1850, 40; ‘Hints on Sleep’, Water Cure Journal, 1 July 1848, 21; here HINTS ON SLEEP. "Tired nature's sweet restorer, sleep" "Early to bed, and early to rise, Make men healthy, wealthy and wise." "An hour's sleep before midnight is worth two after it." In what sense is "an hour's sleep before midnight worth two after it?" It is the order of nature that man should go to rest early. The birds cease their singing as the sun goes down; the sheep and the deer go to their resting early, and throughout nature, quietness and repose are the order of the night. It is natural, then, to sleep early; and for this reason it may truly be said, "it is twice as good to obey nature's law as to break it." It is twice as good to sleep regularly and habitually before midnight as to wait until after it. Sleep is one of the greatest of Heaven's blessings. When fatigued and care-worn, how grateful, how refreshing its influence. Were it not for sleep, how dull and monotonous would life become. The poor man who labors hard the live-long day, and the student who toils no less in his health-trying employments— what would become of these were it not for the ever-genial influence of sleep? Without it, life could not possibly be sustained for more than a few days. One of the most pernicious customs in regard to sleep, is the practice of sitting up late at night, and losing the best and most delightful " hours of early morn." Studious persons particularly are apt to contract this habit of sitting up late at evening. The solemn stillness of night is supposed to be more favorable for study and reflection than the day. And when a person makes a change and undertakes to observe the proper hours, he finds that he is dull in the morning and cannot study so well as at late hours. Soon, however, if he will persevere, he will learn that by rising early and retiring seasonably to rest, he will accomplish more and with less exhaustion of the nervous power, than by sitting up late. It is, too, an important fact, that   artificial lights, of whatever kind, are much more trying to the nerves than the natural light of day. Oculists tell us that the. former often injure the sight, and sometimes produce disease of the eyes, very difficult to remove. What are we to say of theatre-going people, and those who frequent balls, parties, &c.,habitually and late at night? They are living continually in opposition to nature's laws, and must receive the penalty. Such people never enjoy good health. See the fashionable young ladies of our cities who remain in bed late in the morning and sit up late at night. How feeble, pale, sallow, and nervous they are; crooked-backed often, and not more fit for a wife than a doll baby. But it is fashionable, therefore they must be up late at night to shore off in society. One of the most trying things connected with the life of a physician, is the frequent necessity of being up late. Think of being in a sick room in case of a woman in severe labor, the whole night, and sometimes two or three days and nights in succession, and the poor patient crying and groaning in such agony as woman only is brought to endure. The nerves and health of every physician inactive practice are often and severely tried in scenes like these. Many people, too, especially in the country, have the habit of waiting until night before they send for the doctor, and often without any real necessity, he is roused just as he has begun to sleep. A physician will become so tired and exhausted in these things as to cause him to fall asleep on his horse, or while he is counting the patient's pulse for one minute by the watch, as has been more than once our own lot. And it is not always the case that the physician gets even thanks for these hard services. He is a "doctor," everybody's servant, and has not any feelings or sensibilities like the rest of mankind. A nauseous pair of pill-bags, drug-scented clothes, a weather-beaten face, and a capability to endure any amount of fatigue, are the natural requirements of a physician, as people suppose. Shall we sleep at all during the day? It is natural, evidently, for infants to sleep much of the time, day as well as night. Nature demands it. We think, too, that some feeble persons are the better for a " nap" before dinner. Farmers who rise at day-break and toil hard during the long days of summer, have a habit of sleeping after dinner. This may, on the whole, do good, since they in such cases need more sleep than they get at night; but if they will make the experiment, they will be astonished to find how much more refreshing the sleep will be before dinner than after. Fifteen minutes' sleep before the meal is better than a whole hour after it. We do not see the animals going to sleep immediately after eating. Sleep during the day should be in the forenoon, so that it be not disturbed at night. If a person sleep in the afternoon, he will be much more liable to wakefulness at night. Some have argued that sleep during the day, in the case of adults, is always wrong. Persons often feel unrefreshed and feverish after a day nap. Women when tired, often throw themselves upon the bed, and are surprised on rising to find that they feel smothered, feverish and worse than before. Now the cause of this often is the lying down with their clothes on. It is natural for the skin to breathe. But, says one, the clothes are on while we are up, and why not the harm then? Because then the clothing is more loose and the skin is left more free. But when we lie down, the clothes are pressed against the skin much more than when we are up. To have sleep refreshing, then, we should remove the external clothing as we would at night. Then if we need sleep it will be refreshing. But as a general fact it must be acknowledged that it is best not to sleep at all during the day; to keep active, and then, early at night, to> retire to rest. Then sleep will be worth the while. Indolent people have a-pernicious way of dozing in the morning, taking the second nap. The habits should be so active, and everything in our power so regulated, that we sleep soundly, and on the first awakening, which with good dietetic and other habits throughout, will be early, we should rise. Do not wait in the vitiated air of your room to sleep more. Rise, wash, drink some cold water, and if possible go in the open air. It will give a good appetite, a keen relish for the plainest food, vigor, health and strength of body, and peacefulness and contentment of the mind. Try it, ye idlers, regularly for three months, and then tell us if we are not right. Try it, ye students, literary men, merchants, and ye ladies; it will give you a good circulation, warmth of extremities and a glow of the cheek, natural, healthful and beautiful. Try it all ‘Early Rising’, Sunday School Advocate, 26;  Sero Sed Serto [John Wilson], ‘Early Rising: in a Letter to Mr North’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (Dec. 1821); here I Hope that you are not an early riser. If you are, throw this letter into the fire—if not, insert it. But I beg your pardon; it is impossible that you can be an early riser; and, if I thought so, I must be the most impertinent man in the world; whereas, it is universally known that I am politeness and urbanity themselves. Well then, pray what is this virtue of early rising, that one hears so much about? Let us consider it, in the first place, according to the seasons of the year—second ly, according to people’s profession— and, thirdly, according to their character. . Let us begin with Spring—say the month of March. You rise early in the month of March, about five o'clock. It is somewhat darkish—at least gloomyish—dampish—rawish– coldish—icyish—snowyish. You rub your eyes and look about for your breeches. You find them, and after hopping about on one leg for about five minutes, you get them on. It would be absurd to use a light during that season of the year, at such an advanced hour as five minutes past five, so you attempt to shave by the spring dawn. If your nose escapes, you are dawn. If your nose escapes, you are a lucky man; but dim as it is, you can see the blood trickling down in a hundred streams from your gashed and mutilated chin. I will leave your imagination to conjecture what sort of neckcloth will adorn your gullet, tied under such circumstances. However, grant the possibility of your being dressed—and down you come, not to the parlour, or your study—for you would not be so barbarous—but to enjoy the beauty of the morning,-as Mr. Leigh Hunt would say, “out of doors.” The moment you pop your phiz one inch beyond the front wall, a scythe seems to cut you right across the eyes, or a great blash of sleet clogs up your mouth, or a hail shower rattles away at you, till you take up a position behind the door. Why, in the name of God, did I leave my bed P is the first cry of nature—a question to which no answer can be given, but a long chitter grueing through the frame. You get obstinate, and out you go. I give you every possible advantage. You are in the country, and walking with your eyes, I will not say open, but partly so, out of country gentleman's house worth five thousand a-year. It is now a quarter past five, and a fine sharp, blustering morning, just like the sea son. In going down stairs, the ice not having been altogether melted by the night's rain, whack you come upon your posteriors, with your toes pointing up to heaven, your hands pressed against the globe, and your whole body bob, bob, bobbing, one step after another, till you come to a full stop of period, in a circle of gravel. On getting up and shaking yourself, you in voluntarily look up to the windows, to see if any eye is upon you—and perhaps you dimly discern, through the blind mist of an intolerable headach, the old housekeeper in a flannel night cap, and her hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, turning up the whites of her eyes at this inexplicable sally of the strange gentleman. Well, my good sir, what is it that you pro pose to do? will you take a walk in the garden and eat a little fruit—that is to say, a cabbage leaf, or a Jerusalem artichoke? But the gardener is not quite so great a goose as yourself, and is in bed with his wife and six children. So after knocking with your shoulder against the garden gate—you turn about, and, espying perhaps a small temple in the shrubbery, thither you repair; and therein I shall leave you till breakfast, to amuse yourself with the caricatures, and the affecting pictures of Eloisa and Abelard. In the intervals of reflection on the virtue. of early rising in the spring, I allow you to study the history of Europe, in the fragments of old newspapers. March, April, and May, are gone, and it is Summer—so, if you are an early riser, up, you lazy dog, for it is between three and four o’clock. How beautiful is the sunrise! What a truly intellectual employment it is to stand for an hour with your mouth wide open, like a stuck pig, gazing on the great orb of day! Then the choristers of the grove have their mouths open likewise; cattle are also lowing—and if there be a dog kennel at hand, I war rant the pack are enjoying the benefits. of early rising, as well as the best of you, and yelping away like furies before breakfast. The dew too is on the ground, excessively beautiful no doubt—and all the turkeys, how-tow dies, ducks, and guinea-fowls, are moping, waddling, and strutting about, in a manner equally affecting and picturesque, while the cawing of an adjacent rookery invites you to take a stroll in the grove, from which you return with an epaulette on each shoulder. You look at your watch, and find it is at least five hours till breakfast—so you sit down and write a sonnet to June, or a scene of a tragedy;- you find that the sonnet has 17 lines—and that the dramatis personae having once been brought upon the stage, will not budge. While reducing the sonnet to the bakers' dozen, or giving the last kick to your heroine, as she walks off with her arm extended heavenwards, you hear the good old family bell warning the other inmates to doff their nightcaps—and huddling up your pa per, you rush into the breakfast-par lour. The urn is diffusing its grateful steam in clouds far more beautiful than any that adorned the sky. The squire and his good lady make their entrée with hearty faces, followed by a dozen hoydens and hobbletehoys—and after the first course of rolls, muffins, dry and butter toast, has gone to that bourne from which the fewer travellers that return the better—in come the new-married couple, the young baronet and his blushing bride, who, with that infatuation common to a thinking people, have not seen the sun rise for a month past, and look perfectly incorrigible on the subject of early rising. It is now that incomprehensible season of the year, Autumn. Nature is now brown, red, yellow, and everything but green. These, I understand, are the autumnal tints so much admired. Up then, and enjoy them. Whichever way a man turns his face early in the morning, from the end of August till that of October—the wind seems to be blowing direct from that quarter. Feeling the rain beating against your back, you wonder what the devil it can have to do, to beat also against your face. Then, what is the rain of autumn in this country—Scotland? Is it rain, or mist, or sleet, or hail, or snow, or what, in the name of all that is most abhorrent to a lunged animal, is it? You trust to a great coat–Scotch plaid-umbrella—clogs, &c. &c. &c.; but what use would they be to you, if you were plopped into the boiler of a steam engine? Just so in a morning of Autumn. You go out to look at the reapers, Why the whole corn for twenty miles round is laid flat-ten million runlets are intersecting the country much farther than fifty eyes can reach—the roads are rivers—the meadows lakes—the moors seas—mature is drenched, and on your return home, if, indeed, you ever return, (for the chance is that you will be drowned at least a dozen times before that,) you are traced up to your bedroom by a stream of mud and gravel, which takes the housemaid an hour to mop up, and when, fold after fold of cold, clammy, sweaty, fetid plaids, benjamins, coats, waistcoats, flannels, shirts, breeches, drawers, worsteds, gaiters, clogs, shoes, &c., have been peeled off your saturated body and limbs, and are laid in one misty steaming heap upon an unfortunate chair, there, sir, you are standing in the middle of the floor, in puris naturalibus, or, as Dr. Scott would say, in statu quo, a memorable and illustrious example of the glory and gain of early rising: It is Winter—six o'clock—You are up—You say so, and as I have never had any reason to doubt your veracity, I believe you. By what instinct, or by what power resembling instinct, acquired by long, painful, and almost despairing practice, you have come at last to be able to find the basin to wash your hands, must for ever remain a mystery. Then how the hand must circle round and round the inner region of the wash-hand stand, before, in a blessed moment, it comes in contact with a lump of brown soap ! But there are other vessels of china, or porcelain, more difficult to find than the basin; for as the field is larger, so is the search more tedious. Inhuman man! many a bump do the bedposts endure from thy merciless and unrelenting head! Loud is the crash of clothes screen, dressing-table, mirror, chairs, stools, and articles of bedroom furniture, seemingly placed for no other purpose than to be overturned. If there is a cat in the room, that cat is the climax of comfort. Hissing and snuffing, it claws your naked legs, and while stooping down to feel if she has fetched blood, smack goes your head through the window, which you have been believing quite on the other side of the room; for geography is gone—the points of the compass are as hidden as at the North Pole—and on madly rushing at a venture, out of a glimmer supposed to be the door, you go like a battering-ram against a great vulgar white-painted clothes-chest, and fall down exhausted on the uncarpeted and sliddery floor. Now, thou Matutime Rose of Christmas, tell me if there be any exaggeration here P But you find the door—so much the worse, for there is a passage leading to a stair, and head-over-heels you go, till you collect your senses and your limbs on the bear-skin in the lobby. You are a philosopher, I presume, so you enter your study—and a brown study it is, with a vengeance. But you are rather weak than wicked, so you have not ordered poor Grizzy to quit her chaff, and kindle your fire. She is snoring undisturbed below. Where is the tinder- box? You think you recollect the precise spot where you placed it at ten o'clock the night before, for, being an early riser up, you are also an early lyer down. You clap your blundering fist upon the inkstand, and you hear it spirting over all your beautiful and invaluable manuscripts—and perhaps over the titlepage of some superb book of prints, which Mr. Blackwood, or Mr. Miller, or Mr. Constable, has lent you , to look at, and to return unscathed. The tinder-box is found, and the fire is kindled—that is to say, it deludes you with a faithless smile; and after puffing and blowing till the breath is nearly out of your body, you heave a pensive sigh for the bellows. You find them on a mail, but the leather is burst, and the spout broken, and no thing is emitted but a short asthmatic pluff, beneath which the last faint spark lingeringly expires—and like Moses when the candle went out, you find yourself once more in the dark. After an hour's execration, you have made good your point, and with hands all covered with tallow, (for depend upon it, you have broken and smashed the candle, and had sore to do to prop it up with paper in a socket too full of ancient grease,) sit down to peruse or to indite some immortal work, an oration of Cicero or Demosthenes, or an article for Ebony. Where are the snuffers? upstairs in your bedroom. You snuff the long wick with your fingers, and a dreary streak of black immediately is drawn from top to bot tom of the page of the beautiful Oxford edition of Cicero. You see the words, and stride along the cold dim room in the sulks. Your object has been to improve your mind—your moral and intellectual nature—and along with the rest, no doubt, your temper. You therefore bite your lip, and shake your foot, and knit your brows, and feel yourself to be a most amiable, rational, and intelligent young gentle man. In the midst of these morning studies, from which the present and all future ages will derive so much benefit, the male and female servants begin to bestir themselves, and a vigorous knocking is heard in the kitchen of a poker brandished by a virago against the great, dull, keeping-coal in the grate. Doors begin to bang, and there is heard a clattering of pewter. Then comes the gritty sound of sand, as the stairs and lobby are getting made decent; and, not to be tedious, all the undefinable stir, bustle, uproar, and stramash of a general clearance. Your door is opened every half minute, and formidable faces thrust in, half in curiosity, and half in sheer impertinence, by valets, butlers, grooms, stable-boys, cooks, and scullions, each shutting the door with his or her own peculiar bang; while whisperings, and titterings, and horse laughter, and loud gaſfaws, are testifying the opinion formed by these amiable domestics, of the conformation of the upper story of the early riser. On rushing into the breakfast parlour, the butt end of a mop or broom is thrust into your mouth, as, heedless of mortal man, the mutched mawsey is what she calls dusting the room ; and, stagger where you will, you come upon something surly; for a man who leaves his bed at six of a winter morning, is justly reckoned a suspicious character, and thought to be no better than he should be. But, as Mr. Hogg says, I will pursue the parallel no farther. I have so dilated and descanted on the first head of my discourse, that I must be brief on the other two, namely, the connexion between early rising and the various professions, and be tween the same judicious habit, and the peculiar character of individuals. Reader, are you a Scotch advocate? You say you are. Well, are you such a confounded ninny as to leave a good warm bed at four in the morning, to study a case on which you will make a much better speech if you never study it at all, and for which you have already received £2, 2s. Do you think Jeffrey hops out of bed at that hour? No, no, catch him doing that. Unless, therefore, you have more than a fourth part of his business, (ſor, without knowing you, I predict that you have no more than a fourth part of his talents,) lie in bed till half past eight. If you are not in the Parliament House till ten, nobody will miss you. Reader, are you a clergyman?—A man who has only to preach an old sermon of his old father, need not, surely, feel himself called upon by the stern voice of duty, to put on his small clothes before eight in summer, and nine in winter. Reader, are you a half pay officer?- —Then sleep till eleven; for well thumbed is your copy of the Army List, and you need not be always studying. Reader, are you an Editor?—Then doze till dinner; for the devils will be let loose upon thee in the evening, and thou must then correct all thy slips. But I am getting stupid—somewhat sleepy; for, notwithstanding this philippic against early rising, I was up this morning before ten o'clock; so I must conclude. One argument in favour of early rising, I must, however, notice. We are told that we ought to lie down with the sun, and rise with that luminary. Why? is it not an extremely hard case to be obliged to go to bed whenever the sun chooses to do so? What have I to do with the sun—when he goes down, or when he rises up? When the sun sets at a reasonable hour, as he does during a short period in the middle of summer, I have no objection to set likewise, soon after; and, in like manner, when he takes a rational map, as in the middle of winter, I don't care if now and then I rise along with him. But I will not admit the general principle; we move in different spheres. But if the sun never fairly sets at all for six months, which they say he does not, very far north, are honest people on that account to sit up all that time for him 2 That will never do. Finally, it is taken for granted by early risers, that early rising is a virtuous habit, and that they are all a most meritorious and prosperous set of people. I object to both clauses of the bill. None but a knave or an idiot —I will not mince the matter—rises early, if he can help it. Early risers are generally milk sop spoonies, ninnies, with broad unmeaning faces and groset eyes, cheeks odiously ruddy, and with great calves to their legs. They slap you on the back, and blow their noses like a mail coach horn. They seldom give dinners. “Sir, tea is ready.” “Shall we join the la dies?” A rubber at whist, and by eleven o’clock, the whole house is in a snore. Inquire into his motives for early rising, and it is perhaps to get an appetite for breakfast. Is the great healthy brute not satisfied with three penny rolls and a pound of ham to breakfast, but he must walk down to the Pier-head at Leith to increase his voracity ? Where is the virtue of gobbling up three turkey’s eggs, and demolishing a quartern loaf, before his Majesty's lieges are awake? But I am now speaking of your red, rosy, greedy idiot. Mark next your pale, sallow early riser. He is your prudent, calculating, selfish, money scrivener. It is not for nothing he rises. It is shocking to think of the hypocrite saying his prayers so early in the morning, before those are awake whom he intends to cheat and swindle before he goes to bed.  I hope that I have sufficiently exposed the folly or wickedness of early rising. Henceforth, then, let no knavish prig purse up his mouth and erect his head with a conscious air of superiority when he meets an acquaintance who goes to bed and rises at a gentlemanly hour. If the hypocrite rose early in the morning, he is to be despised and hated. But people of sense and feeling are not in a hurry to leave their beds. They have something better to do. better to do. I perceive that all the letters that appear in your Magazine are number ed as if they belonged to a series, I., II., III., and so forth. If you choose, you may number mine, “On Early Rising. No. I.” If I continue the series, my future communications shall all be written in bed in the forenoon, and will not fail of being excellent. Yours, sincerely, Sero Sed Serio. ‘Sluggards, Read This’, Sunderland Daily Echo and Shipping Gazette, 4 July 1891.SLUGGARDS, READ THIS! A good plan would be to make point of getting op ten minutes sooner every day for, say, a fortnight. By the end of that period heavy sleepers would find themselves, just as Southay says, without any perceptible change their arrangements, rising more than two hours earlier than was their previous custom. And what is the real significance of two hours' earlier rising? Why, that in a single year there is a gin equivalent to working days 10 hours each. Carrying this calculation still further, it follows that a person who habitually rises two hours sooner than another would 50 years gain advantage over the other of 10 years' time, each year comprising 365 days of 10 hours, taken from the best part of the day. We fancy that we hear some of our readers exclaiming that they cannot get up, and that, though they do go to sleep again, even after that they do not feel sufficiently rested. On this point we would quote one of the most sensible medical authorities that ever lived, John Abernethy: “I always," he wrote in  his "Observations” “caution patients against sleeping too much; waking from sleep indicates that the bodily powers are refreshed; many persons upon first waking feel alert and disposed to rise, when upon taking a second sleep they become lethargic, can scarcely be awakened, and feel oppressed and indisposed to exertion for some time after they have risen."— Hygiene, BACK
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