What a singular moment is the first one， when youhave hardly begun to recollect yourself after starting frommidnight slumber！ By unclosing your eyes so suddenly，you seem to have surprised the personages of your dreamin full convocation round your bed， and catch one broadglance at them before they can flit into obscurity. Or， tovary the metaphor， you find yourself， for a single instant，wide awake in that realm of illusions， whither sleep hasbeen the passport， and behold its ghostly inhabitants andwondrous scenery， with a perception of their strangeness，such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed.
The distant sound of a church-clock is borne faintlyon the wind. You question with yourself， half seriously，whether it has stolen to your waking ear from some graytower， that stood within the precincts of your dream.
While yet in suspense， another clock flings its heavyclang over the slumbering town， with so full and distincta sound， and such a long murmur in the neighboring air，that you are certain it must proceed from the steeple atthe nearest corner. You count the strokes—one—two， andthere they cease， with a booming sound， like the gatheringof a third stroke within the bell.
If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of thewhole night， it would be this. Since your sober bedtime，at eleven， you have had rest enough to take off thepressure of yesterday’s fatigue； while before you， till thesun comes from “far Cathay” to brighten your window，there is almost the space of a summer night； one hourto be spent in thought， with the mind’s eye half shut，and two in pleasant dreams， and two in that strangest ofenjoyments， the forgetfulness alike of joy and woe. Themoment of rising belongs to another period of time， andappears so distant， that the plunge out of a warm bedinto the frosty air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay.
Yesterday has already vanished among the shadows of thepast； to-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. Youhave found an intermediate space， where the business oflife does not intrude； where the passing moment lingers，and becomes truly the present； a spot where Father Time，when he thinks nobody is watching him， sits down by thewayside to take breath. O that he would fall asleep， and letmortals live on without growing older！
Hitherto you have lain perfectly still， because theslightest motion would dissipate the fragments of yourslumber. Now， being irrevocably awake， you peep throughthe half-drawn window-curtain， and observe that the glassis ornamented with fanciful devices in frostwork， and thateach pane presents something like a frozen dream. Therewill be time enough to trace out the analogy， while waitingthe summons to breakfast. Seen through the clear portionof the glass， where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frostscenery do not ascend， the most conspicuous object is thesteeple， the white spire of which directs you to the wintrylustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish thefigures on the clock that has just told the hour. Sucha frosty sky， and the snow-covered roofs， and the longvista of the frozen street， all white， and the distant waterhardened into rock， might make you shiver， even underfour blankets and a woollen comforter. Yet look at thatone glorious star！ Its beams are distinguishable from allthe rest， and actually cast the shadow of the casement onthe bed， with a radiance of deeper hue than moonlight，though not so accurate an outline.
You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes，shivering all the while， but less from bodily chill than thebare idea of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold even for thethoughts to venture abroad. You speculate on the luxuryof wearing out a whole existence in bed， like an oyster inits shell， content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction， anddrowsily conscious of nothing but delicious warmth， suchas you now feel again. Ah！ that idea has brought a hideousone in its train. You think how the dead are lying in theircold shrouds and narrow coffins， through the drear winterof the grave， and cannot persuade your fancy that theyneither shrink nor shiver， when the snow is drifting overtheir little hillocks， and the bitter blast howls againstthe door of the tomb. That gloomy thought will collecta gloomy multitude， and throw its complexion over yourwakeful hour.