Philosophical ingenuity has long been displayed in the most learned
disquisitions in an endeavour to account for the nature of these
phenomena. The strangeness of these visionary perturbations of our
rest--their supposed influence on our destinies--their frequent
verification by subsequent events--have always shed a mystic _prestige_
around them; and superstition, ignorance, and craft, have in turns
characterized them as the warnings of the Divine will, or the machinations
of an evil spirit.
Macrobius divided them into various categories. The first, the mere
_dream_, _somnium_, he considers a figurative and mysterious
representation that requires to be interpreted. Dion Cassius gives an
example of this in the case of Nero, who dreamt that he saw the chair of
Jupiter pass into the palace of Vespasian, which was considered as
emblematical of his translation to the empire.
The second distinction he terms a _vision_, _visio_, or a foreboding of
future events. The third he deemed _oracular_, _oraculum_, and this was
the case when a priest, or a relative, a deity, a hero, or some venerable
person, denounced what was to happen, or warned us against it. As an
example of this inspiration, for such it was considered, an anecdote of
Vespasian is related. Having heard that a man in Achaia had dreamt that a
person unknown to him had assured him that he should date his prosperity
from the moment that Nero should lose a tooth,--a tooth just drawn from
that emperor being shown to him the following day, he foresaw his
destinies: soon after Nero died, Galba did not long survive him, and the
discord that reigned between Otho and Vitellius ultimately placed the
diadem on his brow. These inspirations were considered by Cicero, and
various philosophers, as particularly appertaining to the shrine of the
gods; those who sought that heavenly admonition were therefore recommended
to lie down in temples. The Lacedaemonians sought slumber in the temple of
Pasithea; Brizo, the goddess of sleep and dreams, was worshipped at Delos,
and her votaries slept before her altars with their heads bound with
laurel, and other fatidical symbols; hence divination by dreams was called
_Brizomantia_. Supplications were offered up to Mercury for propitious
visions, and a caduceus was placed for that purpose at the feet of beds;
hence was it called [Greek: ermies].
Diodorus informs us that dreams were regarded in Egypt with religious
reverence, and the prayers of the devout were often rewarded by the gods
with an indication of appropriate remedies. But the confidence in
supernatural agency and the power of magic, was only deemed a last
resource, when human skill had been baffled. Some persons promised a
certain sum of money for the maintenance of sacred animals, consecrated to
the divinity whose aid they implored. In the case of infants, a certain
portion of their hair was cut off and weighed, and when the cure was
effected an equal quantity of gold was given to the successful
intermediator.
The fourth division was _insomny_, _insomnium_, which was characterized by
a disturbed repose, caused either by mental or bodily oppression, or
solicitude. The fifth class of dreams was the _phantasm_ or _visus_, which
takes place between sleeping and waking, in a dozing and broken slumber,
when the person thinks himself awake, and yet beholds fantastic and
chimerical figures floating around his couch. Under this class is placed
the _ephialtes_, or night-mare. Macrobius represents the phantasm and the
insomnium as little deserving of attention, being of no use in divination
and prediction.
When these notions prevailed, the interpretation of dreams became a
profitable trade; and it is a lamentable truth, that, to the present day,
it is considered a speculation upon credulity. We find in Plutarch's Life
of Aristides that there were tables drawn out for this purpose; and he
speaks of one Lysimachus, a grandson of Aristides, who gained a handsome
livelihood by this profession, taking up his station near the temple of
Bacchus. Rules of interpretation were formed by Artemidorus, who lived in
the reign of Antoninus Pius, and he drew his conclusions from
circumstances considered either propitious or sinister. Thus, to dream of
a large nose, signified subtlety; of rosemary or sage, trouble and
weakness; of a midwife, disclosure of secrets; of a leopard, a deceitful
person. These interpretations became so multiplied, that at last it was
decreed that no dreams which related to the public weal should be
regarded, unless they had visited the brains of some magistrates, or more
than one individual. But what limits can any enactment assign to the
influence of credulity and superstition? Cicero informs us that the Consul
Lucius Julius repaired to the temple of Juno Sospita, in obedience to a
decree of the senate regarding the dream of Caecilia, daughter of
Balearicus.
In more modern times we have often seen dreams resorted to, in order to
assist the speculations of policy and priestcraft; some of them as absurd
in their nature as revolting in their interpretation. Monkish records
relate that St. Bernard's mother dreamed that she had a little white dog
barking about her, which was interpreted to her by a religious person as
meaning "that she should be the mother of an excellent dog indeed, who
should be the hope of God's house, and would incessantly bark against its
adversaries, for he should be a famous preacher, and cure many by his
medicinal tongue." Our Archbishop Laurence, to whom we owe the church of
Our Lady at Canterbury, was about to emigrate to France under the
discouragement of persecution, until warned in a dream, and severely
scourged by St. Peter for his weakness. It was on the relation not only of
this dream, but on actually exhibiting the marks of the stripes he had
received, that Eadbald was baptized, and became a protector of the church.
It was in a dream of this description that St. Andrew instructed Peter
Pontanus how to find out the spear that had pierced our Saviour's side,
and which was hidden somewhere near Antioch. Antioch was at that time
besieged by the Persians, and half famished; but this weapon being carried
by a bishop, enabled the besieged to beleaguer Caiban, the Persian
general.
The Peripatetics represented dreams as arising from a presaging faculty of
the mind; other sects imagined that they were suggestions of daemons.
Democritus and Lucretius looked upon them as spectres and _simulacra_ of
corporeal things, emitted from them, floating in the air, and assailing
the soul. A modern writer, Andrew Baxter, entertained a notion somewhat
similar, and imagined that dreams were prompted by separate immaterial
beings, or spirits, who had access to the sleeper's brain with the faculty
of inspiring him with various ideas. Burton divides dreams into natural,
divine, and daemoniacal; and he defines sleep, after Scaliger, as "the rest
or binding of the outward senses, and of the common sense, for the
preservation of body and soul."
Gradually released from the trammels of superstition, modern philosophers
have sought for more plausible explanations of the nature and causes of
dreams, but perhaps without having attained a greater degree of certainty
in this difficult question than our bewildered ancestors. Wolfius is of
opinion that every dream originates in some sensation, yet the independent
energies of the mind are sufficiently displayed in the preservation of the
continued phantasms of the imagination. He maintains that none of these
phantasms can prevail unless they arise from this previous sensation. De
Formey is of the same opinion, and conceives that dreams are supernatural
when not produced by these sensations. But of what nature are these
sensations? Are they corporeal impressions received prior to sleep, and
the continuances of reflection, or are they the children of an idle brain?
Although it is not easy to trace an affinity between the subjects of our
dreams and our previous train of thought, yet it is more than probable
that dreams are excited by impressions experienced in our waking moments,
and retransmitted to the sensorium, however difficult it may be to link
the connexion of our ideas, and trace their imperceptible catenation.
Moreover, there does not exist a necessary and regular association in the
state of mind that succeeds any particular impressions. These impressions
only predispose the mind to certain ideas, which act upon it with more or
less subsequent energy, and with more or less irregularity, according to
the condition in which the predisposing causes have left it. It has been
observed that we seldom dream of the objects of our love or our
antipathies. Such dreams may not be the natural results of such
sentiments. We may fondly love a woman, and in our dreams transfer this
soft sensation of fondness to another individual,--to a dog that fondles
us, or any other pleasing object. We may have experienced fear--in a storm
at sea; yet we may not dream of being tossed about in a boat, but of being
mounted upon a runaway horse who hurries us to destruction, or of flying
from a falling avalanche. Our mind had been predisposed by fear to receive
any terrific impression, and most probably these alarming phantasms will
be of a chimerical and an extravagant nature. A man who has been bitten by
a dog may fancy himself in the coils of a boa-constrictor. When dreaming,
the mind is in an abstracted state; but still is its reciprocal influence
over the body manifest, although it is powerless on volition. Vigilance in
sleep is still awake; but her assistance is of no avail until the
connexion between mind and body is aroused by any alarm from external
agents. It is well known that a hungry man will dream of an ample repast.
A patient with a blister on his head has fancied himself scalped by
Indians in all their fantastic ornaments. Somnambulism clearly proves that
the mind retains its energies in sleep. Locke has justly observed that
dreams are made up of the waking man's ideas, although oddly put together.
Hartley is of opinion that dreams are nothing but the reveries of sleeping
men, and are deducible from the impressions and ideas lately received, the
state of the body, and association. I have endeavoured to explain, on the
ground of the general effects of predisposition, the anomalies which so
often are displayed in these associations. Of the surprising powers of the
mind in somnambulism we have many instances too well authenticated to be
doubted. Henricus ab Heeres was in the habit of composing in his sleep,
reading aloud his productions, expressing his satisfaction, and calling to
his chamber-fellow to join in the commendation. Caelius Rhodiginus when
busied in his interpretation of Pliny, could only find the proper
signification of the word _ectrapali_ in his slumbers. There is not the
least doubt but that the mind is capable of receiving impressions of
knowledge, but more particularly inspirations of genius, when the body is
lulled in a state of apparent repose. Dreams have been ingeniously
compared to a drama defective in the laws of unity, and unconnected by
constant anachronisms. Yet certain incoherences are not frequent: Darwin
has justly remarked that a woman will seldom dream that she is a soldier,
and a soldier's visions will seldom expose him to the apprehensions of
child-birth. Buffon has observed, "We represent to ourselves persons whom
we have never seen, and such as have been dead for many years; we behold
them alive and such as they were, but we associate them with actual
things, or with persons of other times. It is the same with our ideas of
locality; we see things not where they were, but elsewhere, where they
never could have been."
Dugald Stewart has endeavoured to account for these phenomena by the
doctrine that in sleep the operations of the mind are suspended, and that
therefore the cause of dreams is the loss of power of the will over the
mind, which in the waking condition is subject to its control. Now, if
this be the case, dreams must consist of mental operations independent of
the will. However, it is not the suspension of the will and of the powers
of volition that alone constitutes sleep; it is the suspension of the
powers of the understanding,--attention, comparison, memory, and judgment.
It is in consequence of this suspension of all our active intellectual
faculties that we never can _will_ during our dreams; in that state there
appears to be a resistance of the powers of volition with which the mind
struggles in vain, and which is expressed both by moans, and the character
of the sleeper's every feature, which portrays a state of anguish and
impatience. In all dreams that are not of a morbid nature, every action is
passive, involuntary. This state is widely different from delirium, in
which the brain is in a morbid state of excitement; and the body is more
susceptible than usual of external agency, while the mind is perplexed by
hallucinations of an erroneous nature.
Dr. Abercrombie considers insanity and dreaming as having a remarkable
affinity when considered as mental phenomena; the impressions in the one
case being more or less permanent, and transient in the other.
Somnambulism he considers an intermediate state. Dreams, according to his
theory, are divided into four classes: the first, when recent events and
recent mental emotions are mixed up with each other, and with old events,
by some feeling common to both; the second class relates to trains of
images brought up by association with bodily sensations; the third, the
result of forgotten associations; and the fourth class of dreams contains
those in which a strong propensity of character, or a strong mental
emotion, is imbodied in a dream, and by some natural coincidence is
fulfilled. The following interesting cases that fell under Dr.
Abercrombie's immediate notice, illustrate his views and the above
classification.
Regarding the first class, Dr. A. relates the following: "A woman, who was
a patient in the clinical ward of the infirmary of Edinburgh, under the
care of Dr. Duncan, talked a great deal in her sleep, and made numerous
and very distinct allusions to the cases of other sick persons. These
allusions did not apply to any patients who were in the ward at the time;
but, after some observation, they were found to refer correctly to the
cases of individuals who were there when this woman was a patient in the
ward two years before."
The following is an instance of phantasms being produced by our
associations with bodily sensations, and tends to show how alive our
faculties continue during sleep to the slightest impressions:
The subject of this observation was an officer in the expedition to
Louisburg in 1758, who had this peculiarity in so remarkable a degree,
that his companions in the transport were in the constant habit of amusing
themselves at his expense. They could produce in him any kind of dream by
whispering in his ear, especially if this was done by a friend with whose
voice he had become familiar. One time they conducted him through the
whole progress of a quarrel, which ended in a duel; and when the parties
were supposed to have met, a pistol was put into his hand, which he fired,
and was awakened by the report. On another occasion they found him asleep
on the top of a locker in the cabin, when they made him believe he had
fallen overboard, and exhorted him to save himself by swimming. They then
told him that a shark was pursuing him, and entreated him to dive for his
life. He instantly did so, and with so much force as to throw himself from
the locker upon the cabin floor, by which he was much bruised, and
awakened of course. After the landing of the army at Louisburg, his
friends found him one day asleep in his tent, and evidently much annoyed
by the cannonading. They then made him believe that he was engaged, when
he expressed great fear, and showed an evident disposition to run away.
Against this they remonstrated, but at the same time increased his fears
by imitating the groans of the wounded and the dying; and when he asked,
as he often did, who was hit, they named his particular friends. At last
they told him that the man next himself in his company had fallen, when he
instantly sprung from his bed, rushed out of the tent, and was only roused
from his danger and his dream by falling over the tent-ropes. A
remarkable thing in this case was, that after these experiments he had no
distinct recollection of his dreams, but only a confused feeling of
oppression or fatigue, and used to tell his friends that he was sure they
had been playing some trick upon him. It has been observed that we seldom
feel courageous or daring in our dreams, and generally avoid danger when
menaced by a foe, or exposed to any probable peril.
The third class of dreams relates to the revival of forgotten
associations. The person in question was at the time connected with one of
the principal banks in Glasgow, and was at his place at the teller's
table, where money is paid, when a person entered demanding payment of a
sum of six pounds. There were several people waiting, who were in turn
entitled to be attended to before him; but he was remarkably impatient and
rather noisy, and being besides a remarkable stammerer, he became so
annoying, that another gentleman requested him to pay the money and get
rid of him. He did so accordingly, but with an expression of impatience at
being obliged to attend to him before his turn, and thought no more of the
transaction. At the end of the year, which was eight or nine months after,
the books of the bank could not be made to balance, the deficiency being
exactly six pounds. Several days and nights had been spent in endeavouring
to discover the error, but without success, when he returned home much
fatigued, and went to bed. He dreamt of being at his place in the bank,
and the whole transaction of the stammerer, as now detailed, passed before
him in all its particulars. He awoke under the full impression that the
dream would lead him to the discovery of what he was so anxiously in
search of, and on examination he soon discovered that he had neglected to
enter the sum which he had thus paid.
The following singular dreams are examples of the fourth class. A
clergyman had come to Edinburgh from a short distance in the country, and
was sleeping at an inn, when he dreamt of seeing a fire, and one of his
children in the midst of it. He awoke with the impression, and instantly
left town on his return home. When he arrived in sight of his house, he
found it on fire, and got there in time to assist in saving one of his
children, who in the alarm and confusion had been left in a situation of
danger.
A gentleman in Edinburgh was affected with aneurism of the popliteal
artery, for which he was under the care of two eminent surgeons, and the
day was fixed for the operation. About two days before the appointed time,
the wife of the patient dreamt that a favourable change had taken place
in the disease, in consequence of which the operation would not be
required. On examining the tumour in the morning, the gentleman was
astonished to find that the pulsation had entirely ceased, and, in short,
this turned out to be a spontaneous cure,--a very rare occurrence in
surgical practice.
The following dream is still more remarkable. A lady dreamt that an aged
female relative had been murdered by a black servant, and the dream
occurred more than once. She was then so impressed by it, that she went to
the house of the lady, and prevailed upon a gentleman to watch in an
adjoining room during the following night. About three o'clock in the
morning, the gentleman, hearing footsteps on the stairs, left his place of
concealment, and met the servant carrying up a quantity of coals. Being
questioned as to where he was going, he replied, in a hurried and confused
manner, that he was going to mend his mistress's fire, which at three
o'clock in the morning in the middle of summer was evidently impossible;
and, on further investigation, a strong knife was found concealed beneath
the coals.
Dreams, to whatever causes they may be attributed, vary according to the
nature of our sleep: if it is sound and natural, they will seldom prevail;
if, on the contrary, it be broken and uneasy, by a spontaneous association
dreams will become fanciful, and might indeed be called visions, so
fantastic and chimerical are all the objects that present themselves in
motley groups to the disturbed mind. This derangement in the sensorium may
be referred to various physical causes,--the sensations of heat or of
cold, obstruction in the course of the circulation of the blood, as when
lying upon the back, a difficult digestion. In a sound sleep our dreams
are seldom remembered except in a vague manner; whereas, in a broken
sleep, as Formey has observed, the impression of the dream remains upon
the mind, and constitutes what this philosopher called "_the lucidity of
dreams_." It not unfrequently happens to us that we have had a similar
dream several times, or at least we labour under this impression; nay,
many persons fancy that particular events of their life at the moment of
their occurrence had clearly taken place at a former period either in
reality or in a dream. Morning "winged dreams" are more easily remembered
in their circumstantial vagaries than those of the preceding night, for at
that period (the morning) our sleep is not sound, and dreams become more
lucid. These _revasseries_, as the French call them, are admirably
described by Dryden:
A dream o'ertook me at my waking hour
This morn, and dreams they say are then divine,
When all the balmy vapours are exhal'd,
And some o'erpow'ring god continues sleep.
That we are more or less impressionable in our sleep is rendered evident
by the facility with which even a sound sleeper is disturbed by the
slightest noise: the sparkling of a fire, or the crackling produced by the
wick of our night-lamp when coming into contact with the water in the
glass, the sting of an insect, the slightest admission of a higher or
lower temperature, will occasion a broken sleep and its dreams. It has
been remarked that the sense of seeing is more frequently acted upon in
dreams than that of hearing, and very seldom do we find our smell and
taste under their influence. It is possible that this peculiarity may
arise from the greater variety of impressions with which the sight is
daily struck, and which memory communicates by association or
retransmission. Next to feeling, vision is the first sense brought into
relation with external objects. When we hear noises, explosions,
tumultuous cries, it is more than probable that our dreams partake of a
delirious and morbid nature, or of sensorial or intellectual
hallucinations, in which the mind is actually diseased, and our
perceptions become erroneous: then we speak loudly to others, and to
ourselves. When these hallucinations prevail after sleep, the invasion of
mania may be apprehended.
Cabanis, in his curious investigations on the mind, has endeavoured to fix
the order in which the different parts of our organization go to sleep.
First the legs and arms, then the muscles that support the head and back:
the first sense that slumbers, according to his notions, is that of sight;
then follow in regular succession the senses of taste, smell, hearing, and
feeling. The viscera fall asleep one after the other, but with different
decrees of soundness. If this doctrine be correct, we may easily conceive
the wild and strange inconsistencies of our dreams, during which the
waking and the sleeping organs are acting and reacting upon each other.
Corporeal sensations and different organic actions frequently attend our
dreams; but these may be attributed to our mode of living, or the
indulgence in certain unruly desires and conversations. That man and
animals dream of the pursuits of the preceding day there can be no doubt:
hence the line,
Et canis in somnis leporis vestigia latrat.
The effects of a heavy meal, more especially a supper, in disturbing our
rest, was well known and recorded by ancient physicians: and Crato tells
us "that the fittest time to repair to rest is two or three hours after
supper, when the meat is then settled in the bottom of the stomach: and
'tis good to lie on the right side first, because at that side the liver
doth rest under the stomach, not molesting any way, but heating him as a
fire doth a kettle that is put to it. After the first sleep 'tis not amiss
to lie upon the left side, that the meat may the better descend; and
sometimes again on the belly, but never on the back."
Our ancestors had recourse to various devices to procure sound sleep.
Borde recommends a good draught of strong drink before going to bed;
Burton, a nutmeg and ale, with a good potation of muscadine with a toast;
while Aetius recommends a sup of vinegar, which, according to Piso,
"_attenuat melancholiam et ad conciliandum somnum juvat_." Oppression from
repletion will occasion fearful dreams and the night-mare; and bodily
sufferings, when exhaustion has brought on sleep, will also be attended
with alarming and painful visions.
Levinus Lemnius recommended to sleep with the mouth shut, to promote a
regular digestion by the exclusion of too much external air. The
night-mare is admirably described in Dryden's translation of Virgil:
And as, when heavy sleep has closed the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night,
We seem to run, and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry;
The nerves, unbraced, their usual strength deny,
And on the tongue the falt'ring accents die.
In the Runic theology it was regarded as a spectre of the night, which
seized men in their sleep, and suddenly deprived them of speech and of
motion. It was vulgarly called witch-riding, and considered as arising
from the weight of fuliginous spirits incumbent on the breast.
_Somnus ut sit levis, sit tibi coena brevis_, is the ancient axiom of
our distich,
That your sleep may be light,
Let your supper be slight.
Notwithstanding this rule of health, it is nevertheless true that many
persons sleep more soundly after a hearty supper; and, most
unquestionably, dreams are more frequent towards morning than in the
beginning of the night. In my opinion, I should apprehend that the sound
sleep of supper-eaters is to be attributed to the narcotic nature of their
potations, more than the meal, although the _siesta_ of southern countries
might be advanced in favour of a contrary opinion.
When philosophers speak of dreams being mental operations independent of
the will, they speak vaguely, for the operations of the mind when we are
awake are too frequently uncontrolled by volition. Did we possess this
power over our rebellious thoughts, who would constantly ponder on a
painful subject? Our thoughts cannot be suspended at will, and their
influence has been beautifully described by Shakspeare:
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
My soul the father; and these two beget
A generation of still breeding thoughts.
Volition has no more power over thought when we are awake than sleeping;
and, despite all metaphysical and psychological speculations, it cannot be
demonstrated that the mind does not retain its full energies during sleep,
only they cease to be regulated by judgment, and are not, to use Locke's
words, under the rule and conduct of the understanding; and even on this
opinion it has been fairly observed, that much of incongruity which is
supposed to prove suspension of reason, and much of the wild discordancy
of representation which appears to prevail during our sleep, may arise
from the defect of memory when we are awake, that does not retain the
impression of images which have passed across the mind in light and rapid
succession, and which, therefore, exhibit but a partial and imperfect
sketch of the picture that engaged the attention in sleep. The well-known
fact that the impressions of our dreams are oftentimes more vivid and
correct, when some time has elapsed, than on our awakening, tends to
confirm this hypothesis; and these recollections are the more vivid when
they bear any analogy to circumstances that come to pass.
Sir Thomas Brown was of opinion that sleep was the waking of the soul; the
ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason; and that our waking
conceptions do not match the fancies of our sleep. He thus expresses
himself in his Religio Medici: "At my nativity my ascendant was the watery
sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I think
I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no way facetious, nor
disposed for the mirth and galliardise of company; yet in one dream I can
compose a whole comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh
myself awake at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my
reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams, and this
time also would I choose for my devotions; but our grosser memories have
then so little hold of our abstracted understandings, that they forget the
story, and can only relate to our awaked souls a confused and broken tale
of that that hath passed."
Dreams have been considered as prescriptive in various diseases. Diodorus
Siculus relates that a certain Scythian dreamed that Aesculapius had drawn
the humours of his body to one place, or head, to have it lanced. When
Galen had an inflammation of the diaphragm, we are told that he was
directed in a dream to open a vein between the thumb and the fourth
finger--an operation which restored him to health. Marcus Antoninus
asserted that he learned in his dreams various remedies for spitting of
blood. It is related of Sir Christopher Wren, that, when at Paris, in
1671, being disordered with "a pain in his reins," he sent for a
physician, who prescribed blood-letting, but he deferred submitting to it,
and dreamed that very night that he was in a place where palm-trees grew,
and that a woman in a romantic habit offered dates to him. The next day he
sent for dates, which cured him. Now, although this cure, brought about by
a dream, was considered wonderful, its circumstances offer nothing
supernatural. It is more than probable that Sir Christopher had frequently
read in foreign works on medicine, that dates were recommended as an
efficacious remedy in nephritic complaints; and, moreover, had met in his
daily perambulations female quacks, who exhibit themselves to this day in
the French metropolis, fantastically attired, and vending their far-famed
nostrums. That he should have remembered dates, and that the phantasm of
the she-mountebank might at the same time have struck his fancy, were two
associations by no means improbable.
It is very likely that all the strange stories of prophetic dreams might
be traced to a similar connexion of ideas. I have before observed that
dreams do not always assume their complexion from recent occurrences, and
our bodily sufferings during sleep bring to our recollection every
circumstance that regards the malady. A patient who had a bottle of hot
water placed at his feet dreamed that he was walking in great agony in the
burning lava of Vesuvius. Similar associations exist when awake: the man
whose arm has been amputated constantly refers the pain he experiences to
the lost hand, or to that part of the limb which received the injury; and
the very same nervous illusion prevails during his slumbers. A case is
recorded of an officer who had lost his leg, and, when cold, felt comfort
and warmth by wrapping the stump of his wooden leg in flannel.
In various diseases the nature and the period of the invasion of dreams
afford a valuable ground of observation to the physician both in his
diagnosis and prognosis of the case. In incipient hydro-thorax, for
instance, dreams occur at the very moment the patient falls asleep, and he
fancies himself suffocated by some impending and destructive weight.
Diseases of the heart are accompanied by alarming dreams, from which the
patient starts up in great terror. In children the perturbation of their
sleep frequently indicates the seat of their sufferings; and the valuable
researches on the nervous system by Charles Bell have enabled the medical
attendant to read in the features of a sleeping infant whether the malady
be in the head, the cavity of the chest, or the abdomen.
If proof were wanting that dreams arise from our waking thoughts, it might
be found in the circumstance of those sleepers who divulge their secrets,
and verify the lines of Shakspeare:
There are a kind of men so loose of soul,
That in their sleep will mutter their affairs.
Reason, therefore, prompts us to reject the idea of dreams being
preternatural suggestions. In general, we may consider them as a morbid
excitement of the brain, arising either from moral or physical causes, and
depending essentially on the condition of our mind and body. Our most
lively hopes are ever linked with fears that prey upon us even when most
secure; and these apprehensions, recurring in our dreams, prove too often
prophetic of the very events we dreaded. The prejudices of early education
shed around these forewarnings circumstantial incidents; and fear is the
greatest ally of superstition.
If our visions by night are fraught with such singular circumstances, our
"day dreams," or _reveries_, are frequently attended with strange
associations. The impressions received during these ecstatic visions or
trances will occasionally act so powerfully upon the mind, that during our
waking hours and the usual pursuits of life we cannot divest ourselves of
the existence of their reality.
Dr. Arnould has given the following curious account of a case of this
kind, as narrated by the individual himself:--"One afternoon in the month
of May, feeling himself a little unsettled and not inclined to business,
he thought he would take a walk into the city to amuse his mind, and
having strolled into St. Paul's Churchyard, he stopped at the shop window
of Carrington and Bowles, and looked at the pictures, among which was one
of the cathedral. He had not been long there before a short grave-looking
elderly gentleman, dressed in dark brown clothes, came up and began to
examine the prints, and occasionally casting a glance at him, very soon
entered into conversation with him, and praising the view of St. Paul's
which was exhibited at the window, told him many anecdotes of Sir
Christopher Wren the architect, and asked him at the same time if he had
ever ascended to the top of the dome. He replied in the negative. The
stranger then inquired if he had dined, and proposed that they should go
to an eating-house in the neighbourhood, adding that after dinner he would
accompany him up St. Paul's. It was a glorious afternoon for a view, and
he was so familiar with the place that he could point out every object
worthy of attention. The kindness of the old gentleman's manner induced
him to comply with the invitation, and they went to a tavern in some dark
alley, the name of which he did not know. They dined and very soon left
the table, and ascended to the ball just below the cross, which they
entered alone.
"They had not been there many minutes, when, while he was gazing on the
extensive prospect and delighted with the splendid scene below him, the
grave gentleman pulled out from an inside coat-pocket something like a
compass, having round the edge some curious figures; then having muttered
some unintelligible words, he placed it in the centre of the ball. He felt
a great trembling, and a sort of horror came over him, which was increased
by his companion asking him if he should like to see any friend at a
distance and to know what he was at that time doing, for if so, the latter
could show him any such person. It happened that his father had been for a
long time in bad health and for some weeks past he had not visited him. A
sudden thought came into his mind, so powerful, that it overcame his
terror, that he should like to see his father. He had no sooner expressed
the wish than the exact person of his father was immediately presented to
his sight in the mirror, reclining in his armchair and taking his
afternoon sleep. Not having fully believed in the power of the stranger to
make good his offer, he became overwhelmed with terror at the clearness
and truth of the vision presented to him, and he entreated his mysterious
companion that they might immediately descend, as he felt himself very
ill. The request was complied with, and on parting under the portico of
the northern entrance, the stranger said to him, 'Remember you are the
slave of the man of the mirror.'"
He returned in the evening to his home, he does not know exactly at what
hour; felt himself unquiet, depressed, gloomy, apprehensive, and haunted
with thoughts of the stranger. For the last three months he has been
conscious of the power of the latter over him. Dr. Arnould adds, "I
inquired in what way his power was exercised? He cast on me a look of
suspicion mingled with confidence, took my arm, and after leading me
through two or three rooms and then into the garden, exclaimed, 'It is of
no use--there is no concealment from him, for all places are alike open to
him--he sees us--and he hears _us now_.' I asked him where the being was
who saw us and heard us? He replied in a voice of deep agitation, 'Have I
not told you that he lives in the ball below the cross on the top of St.
Paul's, and that he only comes down to take a walk in the churchyard and
get his dinner at the house in the dark alley. Since that fatal interview
with the necromancer,' he continued, 'for such I believe him to be, he is
continually dragging me before him in his mirror--he not only sees me
every moment of the day, but he reads all my thoughts, and I have a
dreadful consciousness that no action of my life is free from his
inspection, and no place can afford me security from his power.' On my
reply that the darkness of the night would afford him protection from
these machinations, he said, 'I know what you mean, but you are quite
mistaken--I have only told you of the mirror, but in some part of the
building which he passed on coming away, he showed me what he called a
great bell, and I heard sounds which came from it, and which went to it,
sounds of laughter, and of anger, and of pain; there was a dreadful
confusion of sounds, and I listened with wonder and affright'--he said,
'this is my organ of hearing; this great bell is in communication with all
the other bells within the circle of hieroglyphics, by which every word
spoken by those under my control is made audible to me.' Seeing me look
surprised at him, he said, 'I have not yet told you all, for he practises
his spells by hieroglyphics on walls and houses, and wields his power,
like a detestable tyrant as he is, over the minds of those whom he has
enchanted, and who are the objects of his constant spite within the circle
of his hieroglyphics.' I asked him what these hieroglyphics were, and how
he perceived them? He replied, 'Signs and symbols which you in your
ignorance of their true meaning have taken for letters and words, and
read, as you have thought, _Day and Martin_ and _Warren's blacking_. Oh!
that is all nonsense! they are only the mysterious characters which he
places to mark the boundaries of his dominions, and by which he prevents
all escape from his tremendous power. How I have toiled and laboured to
get beyond the limits of his influence! Once I walked for three days and
three nights, till I fell down under a wall exhausted by fatigue, and
dropped asleep; but on awaking I saw the dreadful sign before my eyes, and
I felt myself as completely under his infernal spell at the end as at the
beginning of the journey.'"
Dr. Pritchard remarks on this singular case of insanity, that this
gentleman had actually ascended to the top of St. Paul's, and that
impressions there received being afterwards renewed in his mind when in a
state of vivid excitement, in a dream or ecstatic revery, became so
blended with the creation of fancy, as to form one mysterious vision, in
which the true and the imaginary were afterwards inseparable.
It is also possible that this person, being of a nervous and susceptible
disposition, had been struck, when on the dizzy height of the cupola, with
a vertigo, or fit, during which these phantasms had struck him in so vivid
a manner as to derange his intellects--the loud and terrific sound of the
bell adding to the horror of his situation. It is well known that persons
have recollected circumstances that occurred around them during an
epileptic and an apoplectic attack. Our worthy visionary was for two years
an inmate of a private asylum.
In regard to the verification of dreams, they may be easily accounted for
by that proneness that most men, especially if of a weak and
impressionable state of mind, experience in courting the object of their
hopes or fears. Thus have the absurd prognostications of fortune-tellers
been too frequently fatal, as we may work up our thoughts to such an
intensity as to bring on the very death that we apprehend. Dr. Pritchard
relates the case of a clergyman, in an indifferent state of health, who,
when standing one day at the corner of a street, saw a funeral procession
approaching him. He waited till it came near him, saw all the train pass
him, with black nodding plumes, and read his own name on the coffin, which
was carried by, and entered, with the whole procession, into the house
where he resided. This was the commencement of an illness which put an end
to his life in a few days.
During a severe fever, in the peninsula, my nightly rest was constantly
disturbed by the threatening appearance of animals with fearful horns and
antlers, incessantly hovering about me. For a long time after my recovery
the spectral illusion continued, and every horse or mule that passed by
me appeared to be armed with immense horns.
It is to be feared that, notwithstanding the ingenuity of the many
physiologists who have sought to investigate the nature of dreams, we
shall never come to any satisfactory conclusion, since we follow too
frequently the example of the German philosopher, Lesage, who, in his
endeavour to throw some light on this obscure subject, sought to ascertain
the intermediate condition of the mind when passing from the waking state
into sleep, a transition which never has been, and, most probably, never
can be ascertained, since sleep, to a certain degree, is a suspension of
all power of attention, perception, volition, and every spontaneous
faculty.