Slumber is that condition, when the mind is less connected than usual by the organs of external sensation with surrounding objects, and when volition is occupied in producing a more complete separation, by withdrawing the attention from external influences. When this condition is well marked, the mind is distinctly employed in producing a still deeper degree of sleep by withdrawing itself from the perception of external influences. So long as the external senses connect the mind, however imperfectly, with external objects, this state may be said to exist. The feeling of sleepiness may be very considerable, but the mind is regulated in its action until some of the channels of sensation are closed. When this takes place, it is no longer perfectly controlled by the perception of external influences, and having lost that bond of union which established harmony of action, it is left to the unconstrained operations of the imagination. But the senses are not all subdued at once, and sight, taste, smell, hearing, and touch fail in the order here given. Morphia taken in small doses will produce slumber, and under its influence, the operation of the mind in willing the resistance of the senses to their appropriate stimuli is readily experienced, but it is continually baffled by the irregularity of mental action produced by the drug. So long as all the senses convey the impression of their stimuli, no matter how feeble, so long will this stage continue: but when the eye is involuntarily sealed to the impression of light, the mind has lost its hold on one point of the circle which bound its action in a perfect course, and here it begins to

"Weave the stuff that dreams are made of."

The mind, now liberated, as it were, from the shackles of its earthly tenement, opens upon its career of fancy. It annihilates space and time. The earth is too narrow for its wanderings, and the infinite expanse is alone capable of furnishing a field for its rapid flight.

"How strange is sleep! When his dark spell lies On the drowsy lids of human eyes, The years of a life will float along In the compass of a page's song; And the mountain's peak and the ocean's dye Will scarce give food to his passing eye."