Neurasthenia is now our national disease. Nervousness, nervous exhaustion, nervous prostration, and kindred names are given to it by the doctors. Whatever they may chance to call it, the doctors usually agree as to its causes, symptoms, consequences.

Even the laity are now thoroughly informed as to the effect of neurasthenia on the nerves and on the mind. It wears the nerves threadbare and robs the mind of all serenity. It steals the zest from work, the joy from play. It frequently reduces its unhappy victim to the single occupation of worrying by day because he fears he will not sleep at night, of worrying at night because he knows that worn and haggard he will have no buoyancy and poise to play a man’s part in the day to come.

The day’s work is done, when done at all, with the feverish inquietude of the unrested brain. The evening’s pleasures, when infrequently he ventures to take part in them, are clouded by the listlessness the lack of sleep invariably brings. The silent night, when by any reach of the imagination it can be thus described,

Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,

is rendered hideous by the flitting of attention like a bird from bough to bough, by the random running of the memory down each unhappy recollection of the past, by the deflection of the mental vision till it loses all perspective and disqualifies the sufferer to think straight concerning even the trivial occurrences of everyday existence.

No wonder that in Kipling’s story At the End of the Passage, when Spurstow finds his sleepless friend in the last stage of insomnia, he sadly but severely says, “Sleeplessness of your kind being very apt to relax the moral fibre in little matters of life and death, I’ll just take the liberty of spiking your guns;” and then as a safeguard, robs Hummil of his rifle and revolver.