One particular recommendation I would propose in concluding this subject, from the observance of which much benefit has been derived—­it is to sleep in a room as large and as airy as possible, and in a bed but little encumbered with curtains.  The lungs must respire during sleep, as well as at any other time; and it is of great consequence that the air should be as pure as possible.  In summer curtains should not be used at all, and in winter we should do well without them.  In summer every wise man, who can afford it, will sleep out of town—­at any of the villages which are removed sufficiently from the smoke and impurities of this overgrown metropolis.

* * * * *

THE NOVELIST.

* * * * *

AN INCIDENT AT FONDI.

  “Away—­three cheers—­on we go.”

The morning was delightful; neither Corregio, nor Claude, with all their magic of conception could have made it lovelier.  The heaven expanded like an azure sea—­and the dimpling clouds of gold were its Elysian isles—­not unlike the splendid images we are apt to admire in the poems of Petrarch and Alamanni.  The music of the birds kept time to the sound of the postilions’ whips—­the streams sung a fairy legend, and the merry woods, touched with the brilliant glow of an Italian sun, breathed into the air a delicious sonata.  Such a morning as this was formed for something memorable!  The Grand Diavolo and his bravest ruffians awaited the travellers’ approach.

The carriage had pursued the direction of the path at a speed unequalled in the annals of the postilions; but the termination of the dell did not appear.  Huge impending cliffs with their crown of trees imparted a shadowy depth to the solitude, which the travellers did not seem to relish.

“How cursed inconvenient is this dell with its frightful woods,” said the baronet to his smiling daughter, “one might as well be sequestered in Dante’s Inferno.  Look at those awful rocks—­my mind misgives me as I view them.  Sure there are no brigands concealed hereabout!”

“Hope not, Pa’,” replied the graceful Rosalia; but the last word had scarcely died on her lips, ere a discharge of shot was heard.  The baronet opened his carriage door, and leaped on the ground.

“Hollo!  John, Tom, pistols here, my lads, a pretty rencontre this!  Stand by Rosalia, my own self and purse I don’t value a grout, but stand the brunt, lads; here they come—­oh, that I had met them at Waterloo!”

This attack perplexed the thoughts of the poor baronet.  He regarded it as a romance in which he was to become the hero.  But his present situation did not allow him the fascination of a dream.  The brigands advanced from their concealment, and their chief, who seemed a most pleasant and polite scoundrel, commanded his men to inspect the luggage of the travellers.