WONDERS OF SLEEP.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19049, 20 December 1923, Page 11

WONDERS OF SLEEP.

STILL A MYSTEEY. Seeing that there are saints for motor driving, for shoemaking, for journalism, it is strange to find in all our calendar no special saint for Sleep, declares Cecilia Hill in the Daily Chronicle. It would seem a want of respect towards so divine an institution, and yet ye walk about on tiptoe and lower our voices in its presence. The ancient Greeks built temples to the god of sleep, so I suppose that even in their time men’s portions were uncertain. And to this day those of us who are most blessed do not realise our riches, whereas all life is poor to those who get short commons. Walk through the streets at night, and stop, and hear the echo of your footsteps. “ The city is asleep, you say. But behind those curtained windows men and women with good consciences are lying wide awake, listening to the sleep of others, waiting, longing for the balm that comes so grudgingly to them. And why? Steep lauglis and will not tell, and behind her fast-closed doors makes fun of their devices, their counting of grey sheep, their knots of string. Of course, it is the strain of modern life, you say. But it is just modern life that needs so acutely “ tired Nature's bath ” —healing, soothing, unravelling sleep. What is sleep? "A temporary suspension of the functions and of volition,” says tho dictionary. But how is it brought about? My dog lies down upon the hearthrug and straightway automatically goes to sleep. Then why not 1? In what recesses of my being is the small spring hidden that “ works ” sleep? Harley street cannot find it, nor can the hospital, where such amazing things are done with limbs and eyes and organs. Is sleep—like its twin brother death—always to remain a mystery? We are no nearer to its source to-day than when David brought his harp aiid played to Saul because he could not sleep. Sleep plays such tricks. Somo drop off in the first hours of night, and then wake to watch unwillingly tho dawn creep out, and hear resentfully tho first cock-crow. They know that they will sleep no more. Others toes about and doze off towards the morning. Sometimes—those are’ red-letter days—they go about saying: “I slept right through the night. I feel like a new man.” Yes; new strength is theirs. They see all things in right proportion. But every year the number suffering from insomnia grows, and more nervous and mental breakdowns and strained tempers are brought into the world. And what the poor, distracted modern world needs is sleepsleep in large doses. The world is wailing for a Pasteur or a Rontgen who can restore to man his share of Nature, his seven or eight hours of healthy, undrugged natural sleep.