"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 tricks
upon him."

It appears, also—and the fact is very
remarkable—that a similar kind of sensation
will produce the same description of dream
in a number of individuals at the same time.
Hence different people will sometimes have
the same dream. We read of a whole regiment
starting up in alarm, declaring they were
dreaming that a black dog had jumped upon
their breasts and disappeared, which curious
circumstance was explained by the discovery,
that they had all been exposed to the influence
of a deleterious gas, which was generated in
the monastery. The effect of music, also, in
exciting delightful dreams, has often been
attested. A French philospher whose
experiments are reported by Magendie, according
to the airs which he had arranged should be
played while he was asleep, could have the
character of his dreams directed at pleasure.
"There is an art," says Sir Thomas Browne
—in his usual quaint style—"to make dreams
as well as their interpretations; and physicians
will tell us that some food makes
turbulent, some give quiet dreams. Cato, who
doated upon cabbage, might find the crude
effects thereof; and Pythagoras might have
had calmer sleeps if he had totally abstained
from beans."

The influence of the day's occurences, and
the thoughts which have occupied the mind
during the day, have been said to give a
corresponding tone and colouring to our dreams
at night. Thus the lover of dreams of his
mistress; the miser of his gold; the merchant of
his speculations; the man of science of his
discoveries. The poets of all ages and nations
adopt this view. Virgil describes Dido
forsaken by Æneas, wandering alone of a desert
shore in pursuit of the Tyrians. Milton
represents Eve relating to Adam the dreams
which were very naturally the repetition of
her waking thoughts. Petrarch invokes the
beauty of Laura. Eloisa, separated from
Abelard, is again happy in his company, even
amidst "dreary wastes" and "low-browed
rocks."

There can be no doubt that the dreams of
many persons are very greatly influenced by
the reflections and emotions they have
experienced the preceding day; but this is by no
means invariably the case. We have known
persons whose dreams refer habitually to
events which occurred to them, perhaps,
twenty years ago, and upon whom recent
events seem to possess no such influence. We
have often been told by ladies happily and
affectionately married, that while they were
engaged, although their thoughts were naturally
much set on their engagement, they
never dreamt of their lovers. So, also, the
father of a family, habitually impressed with
a sense of his responsibility and affection
towards his offspring, will sometimes dream
often enough of his neighbour's children, but
seldom, or, perhaps, never, of his own. Try
to dream on a given subject—resolve and fix
the attention upon it—going to sleep, and no
sooner are our eyelids closed, than fantastic
fancy will conjure up the most opposite and
incongruous imagery. We have heard this
dream-problem explained by referring it to a
principle of antagonism, which, waking or
sleeping, may be observed in the animal
economy. If a limb become fatigued by remaining
too long in one position, it will be relieved by
being thrown into the very opposite condition;
if the eye fatigue itself by gazing intently on
the disk of any bright colour, and the eyelids
close, the very opposite or antagonistic colour
will be depicted upon the retina; in like
manner, when our waking thoughts—in
connection with the nerve matter, which is their
material instrument—have exhausted their
energy, we can easily conceive how the very
opposite condition will be produced. Hence
the most unconnected and preposterous train
of imagery may arise from the very earnestness
with which we desire a contrary effect.
We dream of events which do not concern us,
instead of those in which we are most deeply
interested; we dream of persons to whom we
are indifferent, instead of those to whom we
are attached. But, in the midst of all this
curious and perplexing contrariety, it is
remarkable—and may be esteemed a proof of
the immateriality of the mind—that we
always preserve the consciousness of our own
identity. No man dreams that he is woman,
or any other person than himself;— we have
heard of persons who have dreamt they were
dead, and in a spiritual state; but the spirit
was still their own—they maintained their
identity. Sir Thomas Lawrence once made
an interesting observation on this subject to
Mrs. Butler—then Miss Fanny Kemble: he
pointed out, in conversation, that he never
heard of any lady who ever dreamed that she
was younger than she really was. We retain
in our dreams even the identity of our age.
It has been said—we think by Sir Thomas
Browne—that some persons of virtuous and
honourable principles will commit, as they
fancy, actions in their dreams which they
would shudder at in their waking moments;
but we cannot believe that the identity of
moral goodness can be so perverted in the
dreaming state. We can, however, readily
conceive that, when the mind is oppressed,
or disturbed by the recollection of some
event it dreads to dwell upon, it may be
disturbed by the most terrific and ghastly
images. A guilty conscience, too, will
unquestionably produce restlessness, agitation, and
awe-inspiring dreams. Hence Manfred, in
pacing restlessly his lonely Gothic gallery at
midnight, pictures to himself the terrors of
Sleep;—

       "The lamp must be replenished; even then
           It will not burn so long as I must watch.