PHILOSOPHY OF SLEEP. The passion of horror is more frequently felt in dreams than at any other period. Horror is intense dread, produced by some unknown or superlatively disgusting object. The visions of sleep, therefore, being frequently undefined, and of the most revolting description, are apt to produce this emotion, as they are to occasion simple fear. Under its influence, we may suppose that fiends are lowering upon us; that dismal voices, as from the bottomless pit, or from the tomb, are floating around us; that we are haunted by apparitions; or that serpents, scorpions and demons are our bed-fellows. Such sensations are strongly akin to those of nightmare; but between this complaint and a mere dream of terror, there is a considerable difference. In incubus, the individual feels as if his powers of volition were totally paralyzed; and as if he were altogether unable to move a limb in his own behalf, or utter a cry expressive of his agony. When these feelings exist, we may consider the case to be one of nightmare: when they do not, and when notwithstanding his terror, he seems to himself to possess unrestrained muscular motion, to run with ease, breathe freely, and enjoy the full capability of exertion, it must be regarded as a simple dream. Dr Elliotson has remarked, with great acuteness, that dreams, in which the perceptive faculties alone are concerned, are more incohereut, and subject to more rapid transitions than those in which one or more of the organs of the feelings are also in a state of activity. Thus, in our dreams, we may walk on the brink of a precipice, or see ourselves doomed to immediate destruction by the weapon of a foe, or the fury of a tempestuous sea, and yet feel not the slightest emotion of fear, though, during the perfect activity of the brain, we may be naturally disposed to the strong manifestation of this feeling, again we may see the most extraordinary object or event without surprise, perform the most ruthless crime without compunction, and see what, in our waking hours, would cause us unmitigated grief, without the smallest feeling of sorrow.' Persons are to be found, who, when they speak much during sleep, are unable to remember their dreams on awaking, yet recollect them perfectly if they do not speak. This fact is not very easily accounted for. Probably when we are silent, the mind is more directed upon the subject of the dream, and not so likely to be distracted from it. There is perhaps another explanation. When we dream of speaking, or actually speak, the necessity of using language infers the exercise of some degree of reason; and, thus the incongruities of the dream being diminished, its nature becomes less striking, and consequently less likely to be remembered. Though we often dream of performing impossibilities, we seldom imagine that we are relating them to others. When we dream of visible objects, the sensibility of the eyes is diminished in a most remarkable manner; and on opening them, they are much less dazzled by the light than if we awoke from a slumber altogether unvisited by such dreams. A fact equally curious is noticed by Dr. Darwin, in his 'Zoonomía, If we sleep in the day time, and endeavor to see some object in dreams, the light is exceedingly painful to our eyes; and, after repeated struggles, we lament in our sleep that we cannot see it. In this case, I apprehend, the eyelid is in some measure opened by the vehemence of our sensations; and the iris being dilated, shows as great, or greater sensibility than in our waking hours.' There are some persons to whom the objects of their dreams are always represented in a soft, mellow lustre, similar to twilight. They never seem to behold any thing in the broad glare of sunshine; and, in general, the atmosphere of our vision is less brilliant than that through which we are accustomed to see things while awake. ince he had taken the precaution to place it beside him; but the idea of his wife and the possibility of killing her were the last things that occurred to him.' The most vivid dreams are certainly those which have reference to sight. With regard to hearing, they are less distinctly impressed upon the mind, and still more feebly as regards smell, or taste. Indeed, some authors are of opinion that we never dream of sounds, unless when a sound takes place to provoke a dream: and the same with regard to smell and taste; but this doctrine is against analogy, and unsupported by proof. There are, beyond doubt, certain parts of the brain which take cognizance of taste, odors, and sounds, for the same reason that there are others which recognise forms, dimensions, and colors. As the organs of the. three latter sensations are capable of inward excitement, without any communication, by means of the senses, with the external world, it is no more than analogical to infer that, with the three former, the same thing may take place. In fever, although the individual is ever so well protected against the excitement of external sounds, the internal organ is often violently stimulated, and he is harassed with tumultuous noises. For such reasons, it is evident that there may be in dreams a consciousness of sounds, of tastes, and of odors, where such have no real existence from without. Dreams are sometimes exceedingly obscure, and float like faint clouds over the spirit. We can then resolve them into nothing like shape or consistence, but have an idea of our minds being filled with dim, impalpable imagery, which is so feebly impressed upon the tablet of memory, that we are unable to embody it in language, or communicate its likeness to others. At other times, the objects of sleep are stamped with almost supernatural energy. The dead, or the absent, whose appearance to our waking faculties had become faint and obscure, are depicted with intense truth and reality; and even their voices, which had become like the echo of a forgotten song, are recalled from the depths of oblivion, and speak to us as in former times. Dreams therefore, have the power of brightening up the dim regions of the past, and presenting them with a force which the mere effects of unassisted remembrance could never have accomplished our waking hours. This property of reviving past images, is one of the most remarkable possessed by sleep. It even goes the length, in some cases, of recalling circumstances which had been entirely forgotten, and presenting them to the mind with more than the force of their original impression. This I conceive to depend upon a particular part of the brain-that, for instance, which refers to the memory of the event-being preternaturally excited; hence forgotten tongues are sometimes brought back to the memory in dreams, owing doubtless to some peculiar excitement of the organ of Language. The dreamer sometimes converses in a language of which he has no knowledge whatever when he awakes, but with which he must at one period have been acquainted. Phenomena of a similar kind occasionally occur in madness, delirium, or intoxication, all of which states have an analogy to dreaming. It is not uncommon, for instance, to witness in the insane an unexpected and astonishing resusciation of knowledge-an intimacy with events and languages of which they were entirely ignorant in the sound state of their minds. In like manner, in the delirium attendant upon fevers, people sometimes speak in a tongue* they know nothing of in * A girl was seized with a dangerous fever, and, in the delirious paroxysm accompanying it, was observed to speak in a stand. At last it was ascertained to be Welsh-a tongue she was strange language which, for some time, no one could underwholly ignorant of at the time she was taken ill, and of which she could not speak a single syllable after her recovery. For some time the circumstance was unaccountable, till, on inquiry, it was found she was a native of Wales, and had been familiar with the language of that country in her childhood, but had wholly forgotten it afterwards. During the delirium o. fever, the obliterated impressions of infancy were brought to her mind, and continued to operate there so long as she remained under the mental excitation occasioned by the disease, but no longer, health; and in drunkenness events are brought to the I believe that the dreams of the aged, like their memory, relate chiefly to the events of early life, and less to those of more recent occurrence. My friend, Dr Cumin, has mentioned to me the case of one of his patients, a middle-aged man, whose visions assumed this character in consequence of severe mental anxiety. Owing to misfortunes in trade, his mind had been greatly depressed: he lost his appetite, became restless, nervous, and dejected; such sleep as he had was filled with incessant dreams, which at first were entirely of events connected with the earliest period of his life, so far as he recollected it, and never by any chance of late events. In proportion as he recovered from this state, the dreams changed their character, and referred to circumstances farther on in life; and so regular was the progression, that, with the march of his recovery, so was the onward march of his dreams. During the worst period of his illness, he dreamed of occurrences which happened in boyhood: no sooner was convalescence established than his visions had reference to manhood; and on complete recovery they were of those recent circumstances which had thrown him into bad health. In this curious case, one lateral half of the head was much warmer than the other. This was so remarkable as to attract the notice of the barber who shaved it. One of the most remarkable phenomena of dreams is the absence of surprise. This, indeed, is not invariable, as every one must occasionally have felt the sensation of surprise, and been not a little puzzled in his visions to account for the phenomena which present themselves; but, as a general rule, its absence is so exceedingly common, that, when surprise does occur, it is looked upon as an event out of the common order, and remarked accordingly. Scarcely any event, however incredible, impossible, or absurd, gives rise to this sensation. We see circumstance at utter variance with the laws of nature, and yet their discordancy, impracticability, and oddness, seldom strike us as at all out of the usual course of things. This is one of the strongest proofs that can be alleged in support of the dormant condition of the reflecting faculties. Had these powers been awake, and in full activity, they would have pointed out the erroneous nature of the impressions conjured into existence by fancy: and shown us truly that the visions passing before us were merely the chimeras of excited imagination—the airy phantoms of imperfect sleep. We see In visions of the dead, we have a striking instance of the absence of surprise. We almost never wonder at beholding individuals whom we yet know, in our dreams, to have even been buried for years. them among us, and hear them talk, and associate with them on the footing of fond companionship. Still the circumstance seldom strikes us with wonder, nor do we attempt to account for it. They still seem alive as when they were on earth, only all their qualities, whether good or bad, are exaggerated by sleep. If we hated them while in life, our animosity is now exaggerated to a double degree. If we loved them, our affection becomes more passionate and intense than ever. Under for so soon as the state of mind which recalled these impres. sions was removed, they also disappeared, as she was as ignor. ant of Welsh as before she was taken ill. Mr Combe mentions the case of an Irish porter to a warehouse, who, in one of his drunken fits, left a parcel at the wrong house, and when sober could not recollect what he had done with it; but the next time he got drunk, he recollected where be had left it, and went and recovered it. these circumstances, many scenes of most exquinte pleasure often take place. The slumberer supposes himself enjoying the communionship of those who were dearer to him than life, and has far more intense delight than he could have experienced, had these individuals been in reality alive, and at his side. 'I hear thy voice in dreams Like echo of the mountain streams I see thy form, as when And blossomed in the eyes of men Men who never loved Nor is the passion of love, when experienced in dreams, less vivid than any other emotion, or the sen sation to which it gives rise less pleasurable. I do not here allude to the passion in its physical sense, but to that more moral and intellectual feeling, the result of deep sensibility and attachment. before, have conceived a deep affection to some particular woman in their dreams, which, continuing to operate upon them after they awoke, has actually ter minated in a sincere and lasting fondness for the objec of their visionary love. Men, again, who actually are in love, dream more frequently of this subject than of any thing else fancying themselves in the society of their mistresses, and enjoying a happiness more exqui site than is compatible with the waking state-a happiness, in short, little removed from celestial Suen feelings are not confined to men; they pervade the fe male breast with equal intensity; and the young muden, stretched upon the couch of sleep, may have her spirit filled with the image of her lover, while her whole being swims in the ecstacies of impassioned, yet virtuous attachment. At other times, this pure passion may, in both sexes, be blended with one of a grosser character; which also may acquire an increase of plea surable sensation: to such an extent is every circum stance, whether of delight or suffering, exaggerated by sleep. For the same reason that the lover dreams of love, They, especially if she have a natural fondness for does the newly married woman dream of children. them-if she herself be pregnant, or possess an ardent longing for offspring-are often the subject of her sleeping thoughts; and she conceives herself to be encircled by them, and experiencing intense pleasure in their innocent society. Men who are very fond of children often experience the same sensations; and both men seldom dream about them, and never with any feelings and women who are naturally indifferent in this respect, of peculiar delight. During the actual process of any particular dream, but it sometimes happens that a second dream takes we are never conscious that we are really dreaming: place, during which we have a consciousness, or a suspicion, that the events which took place in the first dream were merely visionary, and not real. People, for instance, sometimes fancy in sleep, that they have acquired wealth: this may be called the first dream, and during its progress they never for a moment doubt the reality of their impressions; but a second one supervenes upon this, and they then begin to wonder whether their riches be real or imaginary-in other words, they try to ascertain whether they had been previously dreaming or not. But even in the second dream we are unconscious of dreaming. We still seem to ourselves to be broad awake-a proof that in dreams we are never aware of being asleep. This unconsciousness of being asleep during the dreaming state, is referable to the quiescent condition of the reasoning powers. The mind is wholly subject to the sceptre of other faculties; and whatever emotions or images they invoke seem to be real, for want of a controlling power to point out their true character. 'You stood before me like a thought, A dream remembered in a dream.' Those troubled with deafness do not hear distinctly such sounds as they conceive to be uttered during sleep. Dr. Darwin speaks of a gentleman who, for thirty years, had entirely lost his hearing, and who in his dreams never seemed to converse with any person except by the fingers or in writing: he never had the impression of hearing them speak. In like manner, a blind man seldom dreams of visible objects, and never if he has been blind from his birth. Dr Blacklock, indeed, who became blind in early infancy, may seem an exception to this rule. While asleep, he was conscious of a sense which he did not possess in the waking state, and which bears some analogy to sight. He imagined that he was united to objects by a sort of distant contact, which was effected by threads or strings passing from their bodies to his own. The illusion of dreams is much more complete than that of the most exquisite plays. We pass, in a second of time, from one country to another; and persons who lived in the most different ages of the world are brought together in strange and incongruous confusion. It is not uncommon to see, at the same moment, Robert the Bruce, Julius Cæsar, and Marlborough in close conversation. Nothing, in short, however monstrous, incredible, or impossible, seems absurd. Equally striking examples of illusion occur when the person awakes from a dream, and imagines that he hears voices or beholds persons in the room beside him. In the first cases we are convinced, on awaking, of the deceptive nature of our visions, from the utter impossibility of their occurrence; they are at variance with natural laws; and a single effort of reason is sufficient to point out their absolute futility. But when the circumstances which seem to take place are not in themselves conceived impossible, however unlikely they may be, it is often a matter of the utmost difficulty for us to be convinced of their real character. On awaking, we are seldom aware that, when they took place, we laboured under a dream. Such is their deceptive nature, and such the vividness with which they appear to strike our senses, that we imagine them real; and accordingly often start up in a paroxysm of terror, having the idea that our chamber is invaded by thieves, that strange voices are calling upon us, or that we are haunted by the dead. When there is no way of confuting these impressions, they often remain ineradicably fixed in the mind, and are regarded as actual events, instead of the mere chimeras of sleep. This is particularly the case with the weak-minded and superstitious, whose feelings are always stronger than their judgments; hence the thousand stories of ghosts and warnings with which the imaginations of those persons are haunted-hence the frequent occurrence of nocturnal screaming and terror in children, whose reflecting faculties are naturally too weak to correct the impressions of dreams, and point out their true nature-hence the painful illusions occurring even to persons of strong intellect, when they are debilitated by watchfulness, long-continued mental suffering, or protracted disease. These impressions often arise without any apparent cause: at other times, the most trivial circumstances will produce them. A voice, for instance, in a neighbouring street, may seem to proceed from our own apartment, and may assume a character of the most appalling description; while the tread of footsteps, or the knocking of a hammer over-head, may resolve itself into a frightful figure stalking before us. I know,' says Mr Waller, a gentleman who is living at this moment a needless slave to terror, which arises from a circumstance which admits easily of explanation. He was lying in his bed with his wife, and, as he supposed, quite awake, when he felt distinctly the impression of some person's hand upon his right shoulder, which created such a degree of alarm that he dar 1 not to move himself in bed, and indeed could not, if he had possessed the courage. It was some time before he had it in his power to awake his wife, and communicate to her the subject of his terror. The shoulder which had felt the impression of the hand, continued to feel benumbed and uncomfortable for some time. It had heen uncovered, and most probably, the cold to which it was exposed was the cause of the pheno menon.'* An attack of dreaming illusion, not, however, accompanied with any unpleasant feeling, occurred to myself lately. I had fallen accidentally asleep upon an armchair, and was suddenly awaked by hearing, as I supposed, two of my brothers talking and laughing at the door of the room, which stood wide open. The impressions were so forcible, that I could not believe them fallacious, yet I ascertained that they were so entirely; for my brothers had gone to the country an hour before, and did not return for a couple of hours afterwards. There are few dreams involving many circumstances, which are, from beginning to end, perfectly philosophical and harmonious: there is usually some absurd violation of the laws of consistency, a want of congruity, a deficiency in the due relation of cause and effect, and a string of conclusions altogether unwarranted by the premises. Mr Hood, in his Whims and Oddities,' gives a curious illustration of the above facts. It occurred,' says he, when I was on the eve of marriage, a season when, if lovers sleep sparingly, they dream profusely. A very brief slumber sufficed to carry me, in the night coach, to Bogner, It had been concerted between Honoria and myself that we should pass the honeymoon at some such place upon the coast. The purpose of my solitary journey was to procure an appropriate dwelling, and which, we had agreed upon, should be a little pler зant house, with an indispensable look-out upon the sea. I chose one accordingly, a pretty villa, with bow windows, and a prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur sounded incessantly from the beach. A decent elderly body, in decayed sables, undertook on her part to promote the comfort of the occupants by every suitable attention, and, as she assured me, at a very reasonable rate. So far the nocturnal faculty had served me truly a day dream could not have proceeded more orderly but alas! just here, when the dwelling was selected, the sea-view was secured, the rent agreed upon, when every thing was plausible, consistent, and rational, the incoherent fancy crept in, and confounded all-by marrying me to the old woman of the house!' There are no limits to the extravagancies of those visions sometimes called into birth by the vivid exercise of the imagination. Contrasted with them, the wildest fictions of Rabelais, Ariosto, or Dante, sink into absolute probabilities. I remember of dreaming on one occasion that I possessed ubiquty, twenty resemblances of myself appearing in as many different places, in the same room; and each being so thoroughly possessed by my own mind, that I could not ascertain which of them was myself, and which my double, &c. On this occasion, fancy so far travelled into the regions of absurdity, that I conceived myself riding upon my own back-one of the resemblances being mounted upon another, and both animated with the soul appertaining to myself. in such a manner that I knew not whether I was the carrier or the carried. At another time, I dreamed that I was converted into a mighty pillar of stone, which reared its head in the midst of a desert, where it stood for ages, till generation after generation melted away before it. Even in this state, though unconscious for possessing any organs of sense, or being else than a mass of lifeless stone, I saw every object around-the mountains growing bald with age-the forest trees drooping in decay; and I heard whatever Waller's Treatise on the Incubus or Nightmare.' sounds nature is in the custom of producing such as it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean, the the thunder-peal breaking over my naked head, the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved winds howling past me, or the ceaseless murmur of with innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens: faces streams. At last I also waxed old, and began to crum- imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by ble into dust, while the moss and ivy accumulated, thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries: upon me, and stamped me with the aspect of hoarmy agitation was infinite-my mind tossed and surgantiquity. The first of these visions may have arisen ed with the ocean.' from reading Hoffman's Devil's Elixir,' where there is an account of a man who supposed he had a double, or, in other words, was both himself and not himself; and the second had perhaps its origin in the Heathen Mythology, a subject to which I am extremely partial, and which abounds in stories of metamorphosis. Such dreams as occur in a state of drunkenness are remarkable for their extravagance. Exaggeration beyond limits is a very general attendant upon them; and they are usually of a more airy and fugitive character than those proceeding from almost any other source. The person seems as if he possessed unusual lightness, and could mount into the air, or float upon the clouds, while every object around him reels and staggers with emotion. But of all dreams, there are none which, for unlimited wildness, equal those produced by narcotics. An eminent artist, under the influence of opium, fancied the ghastly figures in Holbein's Dance of Death' to become vivified-each grim skeleton being endowed with life and motion, and dancing and grinning with an aspect with hideous reality. The English Opium Eater,' in his Confessions,' has given a great variety of eloquent and appalling descriptions of the effects produced by this drug upon the imagination during sleep. Listen to one of them : 'Southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, the part of the earth most swarming with human life; the great officina gentium. Man is a weed in those regions. The vast empires, also, into which the enormous population of Asia has always been cast, give a farther sublimity to the feelings associated with all Oriental names or images. In China, over and above what it has in common with the rest of Southern Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier of utter abhorrence and want of sympathy placed between us by feelings deeper than I can analyze. I could sooner live with lunatics or brute animals. All this, and much more than I can say, or have time to say the reader must enter into before he can comprehend the unimaginable horror which these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological tortures impressed Under the connecting feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights, I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and appearances, that are found in all tropical regions, and assembled them together in China or Indos upon me. tan. From kindred feelings I soon brought Egypt and all her gods under the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paroquets, and cockatoos. I ran into pagodas: and was fixed for centuries at the summit, or in the secret rooms; I was the idol; I was the priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid in wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris : I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years, in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxs, in narrow chambers, at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles, and laid confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.' Again; Hitherto the human face had mixed often in my dreams, but not so despotically, nor with any special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now I have already spoken of the analogy subsisting between dreaming and insanity, and shall now mention a circumstance which occurs in both states, and points out a very marked similitude of mental condition. The same thing also occasionally, or rather frequently, takes place in drunkenness, which is, to all intents and purposes, a temporary paroxysm of madness. It often happens, for instance, that such objects or persons as we have seen before and are familiar with, become utterly changed in dreams, and bear not the slightest resemblance to their real aspect. It might be thought that such a circumstanee would so completely annihilate their identity as to prevent us from believing them to be what, by us, they are conceived; but such is not the case. We never doubt that the particular object or person presented to our eyes appears in its true character. In illustration of this fact, I may mention. that I lately visited the magnificent palace of Versailles in a dream, but that deserted abode of kings stood not before me as when I have gazed upon it broad awake; it was not only magnified beyond even its stupendous dimensions, and its countless splenders immeasurably increased, but the very aspect itself of the mighty pile was changed; and instead of stretching its huge Corinthian front along the entire breadth of an elaborate and richly fantastic garden, adorned to profusion with alcoves, fountains, waterfalls, statues, and terraces, it stood alone in a boundless wilderness-an immense architectural creation of the Gothic ages, with a hundred spires and ten thousand minarets sprouting up, and piercing with their pointed pinnacles the sky The whole was as different as possible from the reality, but this never once occurred to my mind; and, winle gazing upon the visionary fabric. I never doubted for an instant that it then appeared as it had ever done, and was in no degree different from what I had often previously beheld. Another dream I shall relate in illustration of this point. It was related to me by a young lady, and, independent of its illustrative value, is well worthy of being preserved as a specimen of fine imagination. I dreamed,' said she, that I stood alone upon the brink of a dreadful precipice, at the bottom of which rolled a great river. While gazing awe-struck upon the gulph below, some one from behind laid a hand upon my shoulder, and, on looking back, I saw a tall, venerable figure with a long, flowing, silvery beard, and clothed in white garments, whom I at once knew to be the Saviour of the world. Do you see," he mquired, "the great river that washes the foundation of the rock upon which you now stand? I shall dry it up, so that not a drop of its waters shall remain, and all the fishes that are in it shall perish." He then waved his hand, and the river was instantly dried up; and I saw the fishes gasping and writhing in the channel, where they all straightway died. Now," said he, "the river is dried up and the fishes are dead; but to give you a farther testimony of my power, I shall bring back the flood, and every creature that was wont to inhabit it shall live again." And he waved his hand a second time, and the river was instantly restored, its dry bed filled with volumes of water, and all the dead fishes brought back unto life. On looking round to express to him my astonishment at those extraordinary muracles, and to fall down and worship him, he was gone; and I stood by myself upon the precipice, gazing with astonishment at the river which rolled a thousand feet beneath me.' In this fine vision, the difference between the aspect of Christ as he appeared in it, and as he is represented in the sacred writings, as well as in In some cases, the illusion is not merely confined to The power of imagination is perhaps never so vividly displayed, as in those dreams which haunt the guilty mind. When any crime of an infamous character has been perpetrated, and when the person is not so utterly Iardened as to be insensible of his iniquity, the wide storehouse of retributive vengeance is opened up, and its appalling horrors poured upon him. In vain does he endeavor to expel the dreadful remembrance of his deeds, and bury them in forgetfulness; from the abyss of slumber they start forth, as the vampyres start from their sepulchres, and hover around him like the furies that pursued the footsteps of Orestes; while the voice of conscience stuns his ears with murmurs of judgment and eternity. Such is the punishment reserved for the guilty in sleep. During the busy stir of active existence, they may contrive to evade the memory of their wickedness-to silence the whispers of the still small voice' within them, and cheat themselves with a semblance of happiness; but when their heads are laid "Though thy slumber may be deep, There are shades which will not vanish, Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Such are the principal phenomena of dreams; and I shall conclude this chapter with a few words on the management of dreams. When dreams are of a pleasing character, no one cares any thing about their removal: it is only when they get distressing and threaten to injure the health of the individual, by frequent recurrence, that this becomes an important object. When dreams assume the character of nightmare, they must be managed according to the methods laid down for the cure of that affection. In all cases, the condition of the digestive organs must be attended to, as any disordered state of these parts is *No fiction of romance presents so awful a picture of the ideal tyrant as that of Caligula by Suetonius. His palace-radiant with purple and gold, but murder every where lurking be neath flowers; his smiles and echoing laughter, masking (yet hardly meant to mask) his foul treachery of heart; his hideous and tumultuous dreams; his baffled sleep, and his sleepless nights, compose the pleture of an Eschylus. What a master's sketch lies in those few lines:-Incitabatur insomnio maxime; neque enim plus tribus horis nocturnis quiescebat ; ac ne his pla cida quiete, at pavida miris rerum imaginibus; ut qui inter ceteras pelagi quondam speciem colloquentem secum videre visus sit. Ideoque magna parte noctis, vigilia cubandique tædio, nunc toro residens, nunc per longissimas porticus vagus, invo. care identidem atque expectare lucem consueverat ;'-i. e. But above all, he was tormented with nervous irritation, by sleeplessness; for he enjoyed not more than three hours of nocturnal repose nor even these in pure, untroubled rest, but agitated by phantasmata of portentous augury; as, for example, upon one sonation, conversing with himself Hence it was, and from this oocasion he fancied he saw the sea, under some definite imper incapacity of sleeping, and from weariness of lying awake, that he had fallen into habits of ranging all the night log through the palace, sometimes throwing himself on a couch, sometimes dawn, and anxiously invoking its approach-Blackwood's wandering along the vast corrodors-watching for the earliest Magazine, vol. xxxiii. p. 59. |