Part 23

We must confess, with Socrates, that the extent of our knowledge is indeed but a conviction of our ignorance. The metaphor of Sir Isaac Newton, on the insignificance of his own scientific attainments, is well known. Sir Joshua Reynolds so highly appreciated perfection in his art, that he was ever discontented with his own paintings; and frequently, as I have heard, by repeated touches, destroyed the effect of a picture, which had been in its early stages beautiful. And Dr. Johnson, after astonishing the world with his perfect specimen of lexicographical composition, confessed that he “had not satisfied his own expectations.” May I add to these the frequent _discontent_ of the unrivalled Paganini?

IDA. The desire of the mind is, indeed, unlimited; and when this is intense, it wishes to appropriate to itself all which it can _comprehend_. But disappointment _must_ ensue; for all wish to be the whole, when they form but a part. Thus will ever be proved the futility of _worldly_ ambition,—it is never satisfied. But the desires of religion are not a phantom, or an incubus. True devotion, which aspires to heaven, as the hart panteth for the water-brooks, will never fail. Its fervent hopes and devout prayers, we believe, will be blessed by their accomplishment.

CAST. Then the visitations of the incomparable Mab are nought but the infliction of the night-mare? Gentle Master Evelyn, how should I be aweary of your philosophy, but that I am half won over to believe it true? In good faith,

“The Gordian knot of it you do unloose Familiar as your garter.”

EV. Then, I pray you, let me counsel you not to court such visits, dear Castaly. There is some peril in the touch both of Mab and Mara; for although rare and transient cases of night-mare excite no alarm, yet its repetition, in a severe form, is not to be slighted. It sometimes has been the forerunner of _epilepsy_; its immediate cause being obstruction to the course of the blood by which the brain especially is surcharged, and the action of the lungs and heart impeded, as we prove by the extreme labour of breathing at the time we awake.

I believe that there is usually a fulness of blood, also, in the vessels of the spinal marrow; as, although nightmare may occur in the _sitting_, it is far more frequent in the _recumbent_ position. Thus the marrow is oppressed, and there is then no force transmitted by the nerves to put the muscles into action.

Distention of the stomach should be prevented, as the _diaphragm_ is thus pushed up against the lungs, and the gas is accumulated in the cavity. All these conditions often occur in our waking moods, but _then_ our judgment tells us how to relieve them speedily; whereas, _in sleep_, the load accumulates. All indigestible substances, therefore, should be avoided, as nuts, cucumbers, shell-fish, &c.

Early and light suppers we advise to those whom Madame Mara so unmercifully overlies. A mattress should be our couch, and we should endeavour to compose ourselves _on one side_, having, previous to our rest, taken _gentle exercise_.

SOMNILOQUENCE.—SOMNAMBULISM.

“It is a sleepy language; and thou _speak’st_ Out of thy sleep.” TEMPEST.

“_Doct._ You see, her eyes are open. _Gent._ Ay, but their _sense_ is shut.”

“_Doct._ A great perturbation in nature. To receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effect of watching.” MACBETH.

EV. In the common dream, ideas float through the _mind_, but the body is passive. When the power of _expressing_ these ideas by _speech_ is added, it is _somniloquence_. When there is the _conscious_, yet _powerless_, will to move, it is _incubus_. When the _unconscious_ power of _moving_ in accordance with the ideas or wishes of the dream exists, it is _somnambulism_.

The common dreams of sleep are not unfolded to us until the waking recollections of the dreamer relate them; but the matter of a dream may be half developed during its existence, by the curious propensity to unconscious talking and walking in the sleep.

Sleep-talking is the slightest of these phenomena, and, indeed, closely resembles the speaking _reveries_ of some absent people, and the raving of a maniac. The sleep is, at this time, little deeper than a reverie.

The voice of the somniloquist is usually _natural_, but as again, in the cases of mania and of delirious excitement, a common voice may become sweetly melodious, and there will be an imparted fluency allied to the inspiration of the improvisatore.

Indeed, in some young ladies, subject to _hysteria_, I have known, at certain periods as it were, a new accomplishment—a style of singing which was far beyond their power in waking moments. Dr. Dewar relates a case of a girl who, when awake, discovered no knowledge of astronomy or the sciences in any way; but when she was _asleep_ she would define the rotations of the seasons, using expressions the most apt to the subject, such as “the globe is now set agee.” It is probable that this was the memory in slumber of some geographical lesson which she had heard, but did not remember while her _senses_ were active, that is, in her waking moments. And an American lady, during a fever, commenced a course of nocturnal prating, composing most eloquent sermons, chiefly made up, however, of _remembered_ texts of Scripture.

I am informed, too, that a lady of Edinburgh, during her somnolent attacks, recited somewhat lengthy poems; and it was curious to notice that each line commenced with the final letter of the preceding.

These sleep-talkings are sometimes the mere lispings of an idiot; although Astrophel, perchance, may contend that the following, written down from the lips of a servant-maid, is a proof of special inspiration, converting a rustic girl into an improvisatrice.

“You may go home and wash your hose, And wipe the dew-drops from your nose, And mock no maiden here. For you tread down grass, and need not; Wear your shoes, and speed not, And clout leather’s very dear; But I need not care, for my sweetheart Is a cobbler.”

I have heard this trash cited as a proof of facility of composition in slumber. You do not believe it such; like other specimens, it was a ruse of a wanton girl to excite admiration. In the magnetic somnambulism of Elizabeth Okey, that cunning little wench, who was the _prima buffa_ of the magnetic farces enacted at the North London Hospital, would often skip about and sing snatches of equal elegance:

“I went into a tailor’s shop To buy a suit of clothes; But where the money came from, G—— Almighty knows.”

These are indeed the very burlesque of somniloquence. And yet Okey _was_ an invalid, and presumed on the credulity of those who ministered to her.

True somniloquence is often preceded by a cataleptic state; and in girls like this, the senses are often so dull, that the firing of a pistol close to the ear does not rouse them, until the poetic fit is over.

CAST. Were sleep-talking more common, it would indeed be a very dangerous propensity. If the confessor were to prate in his sleep of the peccadilloes of the fair penitents that kneel at his confessional; if the minister on his couch were to divulge his state secrets or his fine political schemes; where would be the tranquillity of domestic or national society? Yet the lips of the love-sick maiden have not seldom whispered in sleep her bosom’s secret; and sometimes the unconscious tongue has awfully betrayed even the blood-stain on the hand.

Thus did the ill-mated Parisina of Byron:

“Fever’d in her sleep she seems, And red her cheek with troubled dreams; And mutters she, in her unrest, A name she dare not breathe by day.”

The fate of Eugene Aram, I believe, may be imputed to such an unfortunate propensity; and in Lady Macbeth’s “Out, damned spot!” was confessed her participation in the murder of Duncan and the grooms.

Somewhat like this, too, was the half-sleeping exclamation of Jarvis Matcham, after he had committed the murder of the drummer boy. Starting from his bed, when roused by the waiter, his first words were: “My God! I did not kill him.”

EV. A dream will sometimes half wake even a child to a state of terror, although children are with difficulty completely roused. I have known instances in which children would sit up in bed, with their eyes open, sobbing, and talking, and staring, in a sort of trance; nay, they will sometimes start from bed, but still asleep, and, after a time becoming calm, they have again composed themselves to slumber.

I have known sleep-talkers, who have not remembered one iota of their wanderings when awake; and even the ecstatic somnambulist, who pretends to prophecy wisdom, recollects nothing when the ecstacy is over. It is clear also, that the mind _varies_ in sleep and waking, in regard to its memory; for it has been proved that persons who often talk in their sleep, have renewed the exact points of a subject which terminated their last sleep-talking, although, in the waking interval, it was to them oblivion.

Somnambulism is the most perfect paradox among the phenomena of sleep, as it exhibits actions without a consciousness of them; indeed, so complete a suspension of sensibility, that contact, nay, intense inflictions, do not produce that mental consciousness which is calculated to excite alarm, or even attention.

There is a somewhat remote analogy to this, in the want of balance between the judgment and volition of ambitious minds. In the campaign of Russia, Napoleon’s march was a sort of somnambulism, for he must have been madly excited to action against his better judgment. In this he forms a curious contrast with his royal predecessor; for in Louis XVI. we observe a mind that might _conceive_ great things, but which volition hesitated to accomplish.

The points of the _mystery_ of somnambulism were never more forcibly illustrated, to my own mind, than in the following cases:

In 1833, a man was brought before Alderman Thorp, who had a parcel _cut from his arm_, although he had strapped it tightly on to prevent this, as he was often falling asleep, even during his walk. Yet, even then, he usually took the parcels to their proper directions.

The crew of a revenue boat on the coast of Ireland, about two o’clock in the morning, picked up a man swimming in the water. He had, it appeared, left his house about twelve; and walked two miles over a most dangerous path, and had swum about one mile. After he was taken into the boat, he could not be persuaded that he was not still in his warm bed at home.

In 1834, Marie Pau was admitted into the hospital at Bordeaux, her left hand and arm covered with deep and bleeding gashes, its tendons projecting and the bones broken. She had, in her sleep, gone into a loft to cut wood with a hedging bill. Thinking she was cutting the wood, she had hacked her fore-arm and hand, until she fainted away, and fell bathed in her blood. _She had felt no pain_, but merely had a sensation as if the parts were pricked with pins.

Some time ago, (I believe in the year 1832,) a journal thus records a case analogous in its nature, although less unhappy in its effects:

“Some fishermen at Le Conquest, near Brest, were surprised at finding, at two o’clock in the morning, a boy about twelve years old, up to his waist in the sea, fishing for flounders, of which he drew up five or six. Their surprise however was increased to wonder, when, on approaching him, they found that he was _fast asleep_. He was taken home and put to bed, but was immediately afterwards attacked with a raging fever.”

IDA. These walkers were of _low degree_; I presume philosophy is not altogether exempt from the fault.

EV. Oh no: Galen was a somnambulist; and Franklin assures us, that in a warm bath at Southampton, he floated on his back nearly an hour _in his sleep_.

Now that there is an apathy of the senses during somnambulism is clear, for the eyelids are unclosed, and if a candle be held to the eye of the somnambulist, the _actions_ of the _iris_ are seen, but there is seldom aversion of the head to avoid the glare. Was Mrs. Siddons aware of this, when she _smelt_ to her bloody hand, but _did not look upon it_? In sleep-walking, indeed, there is always _one_ at least of the five senses asleep. The actions of somnambulists often appear almost automatic without a reason for them; somewhat resembling instinct, as the beaver will still build his dome for shelter, even under a roof; or as monomaniacs will do a work in _three or four different places_, forgetful of their previous labour. It is evident, too, that there is a dulness of reflection when the progress is impeded. The somnambulist will try to _move on in a straight line_, overturning things in his course: thus Mathews, in _Somno_, overturned the tables, but had not the judgment to _go round_ them. Under very great obstruction to their progress, the somnambulists will sometimes burst into tears.

Gall relates the case of a miller, who every night got up and worked in his mill, _asleep_; and Martinet, of a saddler, who also worked nightly in his sleep; and Dr. Pritchard, of one who had been subject to epileptic fits, thus: “They ceased entirely until the nineteenth year of his age, when he became a somnambulist, working during the night at his trade as a saddler, getting out on the roof of the house, going out to walk, and occupying himself in a thousand various ways. Soon after this the fits of epilepsy reappeared, occurring every five or six days, increasing in duration, and commencing from that time only with a sensation of heat, which from the _epigastrium_ rapidly extended to the head, and produced complete insensibility. He was, at various times, relieved by bleeding; and, in the twenty-fourth year of his age, being then a soldier, he escaped three months without a return of his epilepsy. In the following year, he was astonished to find himself one night on the roof of the house, wet with rain; the impression which he thence conceived, produced, some time afterwards, an attack of epilepsy, followed by contraction of his fingers and toes.”

In many cases, however, there is some predeterminate motive for the walk, which excites the memory in the sleep. The somnambulist has been _thinking deeply, ere he retires to rest_, and the walk occurs early in the night; so that we might believe a mood of musing had really _prevented sleep_, and itself been the cause of the phenomena.

Thus may be explained the miracle recorded by Fulgosius. Marcus, the freedman of Pliny, dreamed that a barber, sitting on his bed, had shaved him, and awoke well trimmed;—Marcus had _unconsciously shaved himself_.

And also other cases related by Dr. Pritchard, of which I will offer you a fragment.

“——He is just recovering from a singular state of reverie, in which he has passed twenty-four hours. It began in the evening, with a _rigor_, which continued more or less the whole night. From that time he remained constantly in motion, walking up and down the room or about the house. He kept his eyes open, but was unconscious of external impressions; sometimes he muttered to himself, and by his gestures and the motions of his hands it appeared that he fancied himself to be working in his usual occupation. In this state he remained all the ensuing night and a part of the following day. During that time, he never ate or drank any thing in a natural manner; he sometimes caught hold of a piece of bread, and, having bitten it hastily, threw it down, and drank in the same way, immediately continuing his work. If he was spoken to, he was some time without taking any notice, and then would reply hastily, as a person does who is disturbed by a question when in a reverie.”

Our study of these curiosities of mind teaches us how intimately combined in their essence are all the species of illusion.

Somnambulism is a very common feature in epileptic idiots. In confirmed insanity also, we observe in an intense degree that fearless daring and almost preternatural power which characterise somnambulism. A Highland woman, in a state of _puerperal mania_, which was increased by a terrific dream, escaped to the gorges of the mountain, and herded with the deer. She became so fleet of foot that it was impossible to overtake her. One day, an awful tempest drove her and her “velvet companions” to the valleys, when she was secured. Providence, which “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” had covered her body with hair.

The dreamer walks and talks with imaginary people,—spectral illusion. The following is a perfect illustration of this night-fantasy. It is a story told to Sir Walter Scott by a Lisbon trader:—

“Somnambulism and other nocturnal deceptions lend their aid to the formation of such phantasmata as are formed in the middle state betwixt sleeping and waking. A most respectable person, whose active life had been spent as master and part-owner of a large merchant vessel in the Lisbon trade, gave an account of such an instance, which came under his observation. He was lying in the Tagus, when he was put to great anxiety and alarm by the following incident and its consequences:—One of his crew was murdered by a Portuguese assassin, and a report arose that the ghost of the slain man haunted the vessel. Sailors are generally superstitious, and those of my friend’s vessel became unwilling to remain on board the ship; and it was probable they might desert, rather than return to England with the ghost for a passenger. To prevent so great a calamity, the captain determined to examine the story to the bottom. He soon found that, though all pretended to have seen lights and heard noises, and so forth, the weight of the evidence lay upon the statement of one of his own mates, an Irishman and a catholic, which might increase his tendency to superstition; but in other respects a veracious, honest, and sensible person, whom Captain S. had no reason to suspect would wilfully deceive him. He affirmed to Captain S., with the deepest obtestations, that the spectre of the murdered man appeared to him almost nightly, took him from his place in the vessel, and, according to his own expression, worried his life out. He made these communications with a degree of horror, which intimated the reality of his distress and apprehensions. The captain, without any argument at the time, privately resolved to watch the motions of the ghost-seer in the night, whether alone, or with a witness, I have forgotten. As the ship-bell struck twelve, the sleeper started up with a ghastly and disturbed countenance, and lighting a candle proceeded to the galley, or cock-room, of the vessel. He sat down with his eyes open, staring before him, as on some terrible object which he beheld with horror, yet from which he could not withhold his eyes. After a short space he arose, took up a tin can or decanter, filled it with water, muttering to himself all the while, mixed salt in the water, and sprinkled it about the galley. Finally, he sighed deeply, like one relieved from a heavy burden, and, returning to his hammock, slept soundly. In the next morning, the haunted man told the usual precise story of his apparition, with the additional circumstances that the ghost had led him to the galley; but that he had fortunately, he knew not how, obtained possession of some holy water, and succeeded in getting rid of his unwelcome visitor. The visionary was then informed of the real transactions of the night, with so many particulars as to satisfy him he had been the dupe of his imagination. He acquiesced in his commander’s reasoning, and the dream, as often happens in these cases, returned no more after its imposture had been detected.”

The case I am about to relate occurred within my own experience.

A butcher’s boy, about sixteen years old, apparently in perfect health, after dosing a few minutes in his chair, suddenly started up, and began to employ himself about his usual avocations. He had saddled and mounted his horse, and it was with the greatest difficulty that those around him could remove him from the saddle and carry him within doors. While he was held in the chair by force, he continued violently the actions of kicking, whipping, and spurring. His observations regarding orders from his master’s customers, the payment at the turnpike-gate, &c. were seemingly rational. The eyes when opened were perfectly sensible to light. It appears that flagellation even had no effect in restoring the patient to a proper sense of his condition. The pulse in this case was 130, full and hard; on the abstraction of thirty ounces of blood it sunk to 80, and _diaphoresis_ ensued. After labouring under this phrenzy for the space of an hour, he became sensible; was astonished at what he was told had happened, and stated that he recollected nothing subsequent to his having fetched some water and moved from one chair to another, which indeed he _had_ done immediately before his delirium came on.

CAST. In the monastery of ——, this story was told to a party of Alpine travellers, to beguile our winter’s evening.

A melancholic nobleman of Italy, Signor Augustin, walked usually at the waning of the moon. The walk was always preceded by his lying on his back, with eyes fixed and open. At this time the beatings of his heart were scarcely perceptible. During this state, he noticed none of his companions around him; but if any noise was made by them, his steps were hurried and agitated, and if the noise was increased, a sort of maniacal state was induced. In his sleep he would saddle and mount his horse, he would listen at a key-hole if he heard noises in another room, and, if he entered his billiard-room, he would seem to be playing with the cue. On returning to his bed, he usually slept for ten hours after his walk. Tickling would always rouse him.

In a Gazette of Augsburg, I have read this sad story: “Dresden was the theatre of a melancholy spectacle on the 20th ult. As early as seven in the morning a female was seen walking on the roof of one of the loftiest houses in the city, apparently occupied in preparing some ornaments as a Christmas present. The house stood as it were alone, being much higher than those adjoining it, and to draw her from her perilous situation was impossible. Thousands of spectators had assembled in the streets. It was discovered to be a handsome girl, nineteen years of age, the daughter of a master baker, possessing a small independence bequeathed to her by her mother. She continued her terrific promenade for hours, at times sitting on the parapet and dressing her hair. The police came to the spot, and various means of preservation were resorted to. In a few minutes the street was thickly strewn with straw, and beds were called for from the house, but the heartless father, influenced by the girl’s stepmother, refused them. Nets were suspended from the balcony of the first floor, and the neighbours fastened sheets to their windows. All this time the poor girl was walking in perfect unconsciousness, sometimes gazing toward the moon, and at others singing or talking to herself. Some persons succeeded in getting on the roof, but dared not approach her for fear of the consequences if they awoke her. Towards eleven o’clock she approached the very verge of the parapet, leaned forwards, and gazed upon the multitude beneath. Every one felt that the moment of the catastrophe had arrived. She rose up, however, and returned calmly to the window by which she had got out. When she saw there were lights in the room she uttered a piercing shriek, which was reechoed by thousands below, and fell dead into the street.”