‘MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost
down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle
up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French Opera, the
Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s Chop-house in London, and all the farrago of
noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed; in a word,
he was just falling asleep.’
Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a
Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying: not with
my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my nightcap
drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I never wear a
nightcap: but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all over the pillow;
not just falling asleep by any means, but glaringly, persistently, and
obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps, with no scientific intention or
invention, I was illustrating the theory of the Duality of the Brain;
perhaps one part of my brain, being wakeful, sat up to watch the other
part which was sleepy. Be that as it may, something in me was as
desirous to go to sleep as it possibly could be, but something else in me
would not go to sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third.
Thinking of George the Third—for I devote this paper to my train of
thoughts as I lay awake: most people lying awake sometimes, and having
some interest in the subject—put me in mind of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, and so
Benjamin Franklin’s paper on the art of procuring pleasant dreams, which
would seem necessarily to include the art of going to sleep, came into my
head. Now, as I often used to read that paper when I was a very small
boy, and as I recollect everything I read then as perfectly as I forget
everything I read now, I quoted ‘Get out of bed, beat up and turn your
pillow, shake the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, then
throw the bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing
undrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold air
unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and
your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.’ Not a bit of it! I performed
the whole ceremony, and if it were possible for me to be more saucer-eyed
than I was before, that was the only result that came of it.
Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and Benjamin
Franklin may have put it in my head by an American association of ideas;
but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall was thundering and tumbling in
my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows that I left upon the spray when I
really did last look upon it, were beautiful to see. The night-light
being quite as plain, however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand
miles further off than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about
Sleep; which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to
Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of mine
(whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and heard him
apostrophising ‘the death of each day’s life,’ as I have heard him many a
time, in the days that are gone.
But, Sleep. I will think about Sleep. I am determined to think (this is
the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word Sleep, tight and
fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a second. I feel myself
unaccountably straying, already, into Clare Market. Sleep. It would be
curious, as illustrating the equality of sleep, to inquire how many of
its phenomena are common to all classes, to all degrees of wealth and
poverty, to every grade of education and ignorance. Here, for example,
is her Majesty Queen Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night,
and here is Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty’s
jails. Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same
Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has Winking
Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued Parliament, or
has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty dress, the
deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her great uneasiness.
I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable agitation of mind from taking
the chair at a public dinner at the London Tavern in my night-clothes,
which not all the courtesy of my kind friend and host MR. BATHE could
persuade me were quite adapted to the occasion. Winking Charley has been
repeatedly tried in a worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a
vault or firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern
distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on her
repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is quite common
to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a little above the
ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest, dialogues with various
people, all represented by ourselves; and to be at our wit’s end to know
what they are going to tell us; and to be indescribably astonished by the
secrets they disclose. It is probable that we have all three committed
murders and hidden bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all
desperately wanted to cry out, and have had no voice; that we have all
gone to the play and not been able to get in; that we have all dreamed
much more of our youth than of our later lives; that—I have lost it! The
thread’s broken.
And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up I go, for
no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawn by no links that are
visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard! I have lived in Switzerland,
and rambled among the mountains; but, why I should go there now, and why
up the Great Saint Bernard in preference to any other mountain, I have no
idea. As I lie here broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that
I can distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I
make that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with the same
happy party—ah! two since dead, I grieve to think—and there is the same
track, with the same black wooden arms to point the way, and there are
the same storm-refuges here and there; and there is the same snow falling
at the top, and there are the same frosty mists, and there is the same
intensely cold convent with its ménagerie smell, and the same breed of
dogs fast dying out, and the same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn
to know as humbugs, and the same convent parlour with its piano and the
sitting round the fire, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a
cell, and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly
rarefied air was like a plunge into an icy bath. Now, see here what
comes along; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the top of a
Swiss mountain!
It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a door in a
little back lane near a country church—my first church. How young a
child I may have been at the time I don’t know, but it horrified me so
intensely—in connexion with the churchyard, I suppose, for it smokes a
pipe, and has a big hat with each of its ears sticking out in a
horizontal line under the brim, and is not in itself more oppressive than
a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of goggle eyes, and hands like two
bunches of carrots, five in each, can make it—that it is still vaguely
alarming to me to recall (as I have often done before, lying awake) the
running home, the looking behind, the horror, of its following me; though
whether disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can’t say, and
perhaps never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve to
think of something on the voluntary principle.
The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think about,
while I lie awake, as well as anything else. I must hold them tight
though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead are the
Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horse-monger Lane Jail.
In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I recall this curious fantasy
of the mind. That, having beheld that execution, and having left those
two forms dangling on the top of the entrance gateway—the man’s, a limp,
loose suit of clothes as if the man had gone out of them; the woman’s, a
fine shape, so elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was
quite unchanged in its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to
side—I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some weeks, present the
outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible impression I had
received continually obliged me to do) without presenting it with the two
figures still hanging in the morning air. Until, strolling past the
gloomy place one night, when the street was deserted and quiet, and
actually seeing that the bodies were not there, my fancy was persuaded,
as it were, to take them down and bury them within the precincts of the
jail, where they have lain ever since.
The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There were
the horse, the bull, the parachute,—and the tumbler hanging on—chiefly by
his toes, I believe—below the car. Very wrong, indeed, and decidedly to
be stopped. But, in connexion with these and similar dangerous
exhibitions, it strikes me that that portion of the public whom they
entertain, is unjustly reproached. Their pleasure is in the difficulty
overcome. They are a public of great faith, and are quite confident that
the gentleman will not fall off the horse, or the lady off the bull or
out of the parachute, and that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes.
They do not go to see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There
is no parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody
can answer for the particular beast—unless it were always the same beast,
in which case it would be a mere stage-show, which the same public would
go in the same state of mind to see, entirely believing in the brute
being beforehand safely subdued by the man. That they are not accustomed
to calculate hazards and dangers with any nicety, we may know from their
rash exposure of themselves in overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe
conveyances and places of all kinds. And I cannot help thinking that
instead of railing, and attributing savage motives to a people naturally
well disposed and humane, it is better to teach them, and lead them
argumentatively and reasonably—for they are very reasonable, if you will
discuss a matter with them—to more considerate and wise conclusions.
This is a disagreeable intrusion! Here is a man with his throat cut,
dashing towards me as I lie awake! A recollection of an old story of a
kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night to Hampstead,
when London was much smaller and the road lonesome, suddenly encountered
such a figure rushing past him, and presently two keepers from a madhouse
in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature indeed, to come into my mind
unbidden, as I lie awake.
—The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the balloons. Why
did the bleeding man start out of them? Never mind; if I inquire, he
will be back again. The balloons. This particular public have
inherently a great pleasure in the contemplation of physical difficulties
overcome; mainly, as I take it, because the lives of a large majority of
them are exceedingly monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle
against continual difficulties, and further still, because anything in
the form of accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so
very serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox of
mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody supposes
that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of laughter when the
baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all diverted by such an
occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent workman in the gallery, who
is transported beyond the ignorant present by the delight with which he
sees a stout gentleman pushed out of a two pair of stairs window, to be
slandered by the suspicion that he would be in the least entertained by
such a spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always
appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the temporary
superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life; in seeing
casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily and mental
suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very rough sort of poetry
without the least harm being done to any one—the pretence of distress in
a pantomime being so broadly humorous as to be no pretence at all. Much
as in the comic fiction I can understand the mother with a very
vulnerable baby at home, greatly relishing the invulnerable baby on the
stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can understand the mason who is
always liable to fall off a scaffold in his working jacket and to be
carried to the hospital, having an infinite admiration of the radiant
personage in spangles who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside
down, and who, he takes it for granted—not reflecting upon the thing—has,
by uncommon skill and dexterity, conquered such mischances as those to
which he and his acquaintance are continually exposed.
I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with its
ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging up, and the water
dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen saturated
something in the corner, like a heap of crushed over-ripe figs that I
have seen in Italy! And this detestable Morgue comes back again at the
head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories. This will never do. I
must think of something else as I lie awake; or, like that sagacious
animal in the United States who recognised the colonel who was such a
dead shot, I am a gone ’Coon. What shall I think of? The late brutal
assaults. Very good subject. The late brutal assaults.
(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I lie awake,
the awful phantom described in one of those ghost stories, who, with a
head-dress of shroud, was always seen looking in through a certain glass
door at a certain dead hour—whether, in such a case it would be the least
consolation to me to know on philosophical grounds that it was merely my
imagination, is a question I can’t help asking myself by the way.)
The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of
advocating the revival of whipping for those crimes. It is a natural and
generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of inconceivable
brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely. Not in the least
regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in far lower estimation than
a mad wolf, but in consideration for the general tone and feeling, which
is very much improved since the whipping times. It is bad for a people
to be familiarised with such punishments. When the whip went out of
Bridewell, and ceased to be flourished at the carts tail and at the
whipping-post, it began to fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and
schools and families, and to give place to a better system everywhere,
than cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be
inadequately punished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many
aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very
contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set of
bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine—a barbarous device, quite as
much out of date as wager by battle, but particularly connected in the
vulgar mind with this class of offence—at least quadruple the term of
imprisonment for aggravated assaults—and above all let us, in such cases,
have no Pet Prisoning, vain glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats,
but hard work, and one unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread and
water, well or ill; and we shall do much better than by going down into
the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments of the rack, and
the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from the public roads, and
the weights that pressed men to death in the cells of Newgate.
I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so long
that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into my thoughts most
sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no more, but to get up
and go out for a night walk—which resolution was an acceptable relief to
me, as I dare say it may prove now to a great many more.