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in arms, knowing his susceptibility, used constantly, to amuse themselves by practising the whispering. . ‘They could produce in him any kind of dream by whispering into his ear, especially if this was done by a friend with whose voice he was familiar. At one time they conducted him through the whole progress of a quarrel, which ended in a duel; and when the parties were supposed to be met, a pistol was put into his hand, which he fired, and was awai.ened by the report. On another occasion, they found him asleep on the top of a locker or bunker in the cabin, when they made him believe he had fallen overboard, and exhorted him to save himself by swimming. He immediately imitated all the motions of swimming. They then told him that a shark was pursuing him, and entreated him to dive for his life. He instantly did so, with such force as to throw himself entirely 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 down, they named his particular friends. At last they told him that the man next himself in the line had fallen, when he instantly sprung from his bed, rushed out of the tent, and was roused from his danger and his dream together by falling over the tent-ropes.” (p. 278.) e. Of the five external senses, touch is the most excitable during sleep. In continually changing, as we do, our position during sleep, we are influenced by tactile sensations of which the bed and the bed-clothes are the causes. We are most easily awaked by being touched, the slightest tickling in the nose or the sole of the foot being sufficient for the purpose. And as regards the operation of sensations of touch in modifying dreams, let it suffice to observe generally, that those by which we are awaked may call up, in the interval between the touch and the waking, ideas of various causes of touch which will be pleasurable or painful ideas according to other circumstances. f. Sensations of bodily pain, or of disorganization (as they have been named by Mr. Mill, who has been the first to treat of the munder a separate head), including the sensations of heat and cold, frequently occur to modify dreams. Hobbes has enunciated this modifying circumstance with distinctness, interweaving however a somatological hypothesis for its explanation which is neither necessary nor correct; but this hypothesis may be kept apart from the enunciation of the fact. “And seeing dreams are caused by the distemper of some of the inward parts of the body, divers distempers must needs cause different dreams; and hence it is that lying cold breedeth dreams of fear, and raiseth the thought and image of some fearful object (the motion from the brain to the inner parts, and from the inner parts to the brain being reciprocal); and that as anger causeth heat in some parts of the body when we are awake; so when we sleep, the over-heating of the same parts causeth anger, and raiseth up in the brain the imagination of an enemy.” (Leviathan, i. 2.)—Dr. Abercrombie furnishes us with the following instance of a dream caused by cold. Dr. Gregory, who had recently been reading an account of Hudson's Bay, dreamt one night that he spent a winter in that part of the world, and suffered intensely from frost; and upon awaking he found that he had thrown off his bed-clothes during sleep (p. 276). Heat arising from an accumulation of bed-clothes will lead to a dream of an opposite character, the particular ideas associated with the sensation of heat which come in to make up the scenes being dependent, as in the case of Dr. Gregory's dream, on particular circumstances.—The same Dr. Gregory having applied a bottle of hot water to his feet one night in consequence of indisposition, dreamt that he was walking up Mount AEtna, and felt the ground under him warm. Dr. Reid, having one night a blister applied to his head, dreamed that he was scalped by a party of Indians. (Abercrombie, id.; Stewart's Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. i. p. 335.) The writer of this article, when suffering once from acute pains in the back during a rheumatic fever, dreamt that he was pursued by enemies, who were shooting arrows at him, and whose every arrow told.

D R E able and sometimes painful, have a very important influence on dreams. These sensations indeed influence very considerably our waking trains of ideas; and much more, inasmuch as in sleep there are no external objects to call us away from the ideas which these sensations call up, do the influence our sleeping trains. When the digestion is good, and we have ate nothing which weighs upon or disagrees with the stomach, our dreams are, generally speaking, pleasurable. When, on the other hand, we suffer from indigestion, which, in respect of the effect, is but a name for an aggregate of painful sensations in the alimentary canal, we are afflicted with dreams of the most painful character. The exhilarating effects of opium and of intoxicating draughts, which effects are neither more nor less than sensations in the alimentary canal, are also discernible in dreams. And in connexion with this topic, we may allude to the dreams caused by the uneasy sensations attendant on obstructed respiration, which, sometimes caused by and sometimes combined with indigestion, constitute the most dreadful evils to which in sleep we are subject, and which are known to all under the name of nightmare. We have thus explained the law of association which determines the formation of dreams, and have exemplified its operation. Thus far, it will be observed, we have spoken of dreams only in their generic character of trains of ideas ; or, at least, any reference which we have made to the specific circumstances which distinguish them from trains of ideas in the waking state has been incidental. It remains, in order to complete the psychological theory of dreams, to state and explain the circumstances distinguishing dreams, as trains of ideas during sleep, from trains of ideas as they generally occur in the waking state. We say as they generally occur, because in the waking state there are trains of ideas, which occur under peculiar circumstances, resembling dreams, and differing from the generality of trains of ideas in the wakin state in those very points by means of which dreams, an the generality of waking trains, are to be distinguished from one another. The trains of ideas which in the waking state occur thus under peculiar circumstances are those called reveries, or, more expressively, waking dreams; and again, those which present themselves to the mind during delirium. 1. Ideas which occur in dreams are believed to be sensations: scenes fashioned by the fancy are believed to be real. What has been already said, when we were resolving this belief in the presence of external objects not present into its component elements, in order to exemplify the operation of the law of association in dreams, has expedited the explanation of this phenomenon. When we are awake we are conscious continually of two different states of mind, belief in the existence . external objects present, and belief in the existence of external objects not present. These two states of mind differ only in this point, that the former comprehends certain sensations of sight, while the latter, in the place of the sensations themselves, has but the ideas of the sensations. Now, when we are awake, ideas are compared with sensations, the belief in the existence of external objects not present with the belief in the existence of external objects present; and ideas are seen to be less vivid than sensations, the former belief than the latter belief. Thus, and thus alone, are these states of mind respectively distinguished from each other when we are awake; but when we are asleep we have no sensations with which to compare our ideas, and no external objects present, with the belief in whose presence we can compare the belief in their existence when they are not present. Ideas therefore, no longer viewed relatively, take the place of sensations; they are the most vivid representations which present themselves to the mind of the qualities of external objects; and, being the most vivid, are believed to be sensations. Whence it follows that the belief in the existence of external objects not present takes the place also of the belief in the existence of external objects present, or (changing the phrase) the belief in the presence of external objects. It may also be, that ideas when we are asleep are, from bodily causes which we cannot trace, actually more vivid than are the same ideas when we are awake: if this be so, which we cannot positively say, but which is probable, it will combine with the previous consideration to explain the above-mentioned phenomenon. Pr; Hartley wrote upon this point with great sagacity; and the only fault in the following extract is the intrusion

g. Sensations in the alimentary canal, sometimes pleasur

of a material hypothesis at the end of it “The scenes which

present themselves are taken to be real. Now this happens, first, because we have no other reality to oppose to the ideas which offer themselves, whereas in the common fictions of the fancy, while we are awake, there is always a set of real external objects striking some of our senses, and precluding a like mistake there, or if we become quite inattentive to external objects, the reverie does so far put on the nature of a dream as to appear a reality; secondly, the trains of visible ideas which occur in dreams are far more vivid than common visible ideas, and therefore may the more easily be taken for actual impressions. For what reasons these ideas should be so much more vivid, I cannot presume to say. I guess that the exclusion of real impressions has some share, and the increased heat of the brain may have some likewise. The fact is most observable in the first approaches of sleep, all the visible ideas beginning then to be more than usually glaring.” (Observations on Man, vol. i. p. 398, ed. 1810.) Thus it is that we never dream of a past event as a past event. Any historical event of which we dream is believed to be taking place before our eyes, and any historical individual to be our companion. Another singular consequence is observable in the case of dreams produced by sensations of bodily pain. The sensation of the pain may call up, as well as kindred ideas of pain and its causes, an idea of that which will remove the pain, which, when we are awake, must often follow the sensation of pain; and this idea will be taken for the actual presence of that which is fitted to relieve us. When, for instance, we hunger or thirst in sleep, these uneasy sensations call up respectively the ideas of food or drink; we believe that we have food or drink in our possession, but (the hunger or thirst of course continuing) we go on to dream of some occurrence which prevents the satisfaction of our appetites; or perhaps we have the idea of the taste of the food or drink, and believe that we have the sensation of tasting, but yet the hunger or thirst is not allayed. Immediately some other viand or beverage presents itself to us; again are we debarred from the enjoyment, or again do we taste and profit not; and thus does the dream proceed until we awake. The incongruity of dreams, or (in other words) the grouping of objects in our dreams which could not exist together in reality, results immediately from this mistaking of ideas for sensations. There is no more incongruity in the collocation of our ideas themselves during sleep, than in that of our ideas in the waking state. In both states they follow one another according to the same law. But when we have ideas of objects during sleep, we believe that the objects are themselves present ; and though the collocation of the ideas is natural, and such as would excite no surprise in the waking state, the collocation of the objects is strange, and would then also excite surprise. Dreams, though only trains of ideas, are believed at the time (as has been explained) to be successions of objects; and when afterwards remembered as such, they seem strange and incongruous. Dryden's poetical description and instance may here relieve the weariness of our own prose:— * Dreams are the interludes which fancy makes: When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes, Compounds a medley of disjointed things, A court of coblers or a mob of kings.' 2. There being no sensations in sleep, as in the waking state, to break off the trains of our ideas, the associations which have been at any previous time or times formed be. tween these ideas have more uninterrupted play when we are asleep than when we are awake. When we are awake, one idea calls up another, this perhaps a third, and thus a train of ideas is commenced, when of a sudden we see some object; the sensation then takes possession of the mind, and (in the common phrase) the attention is withdrawn from the train of ideas. When we are asleep this cannot happen; and an association between any two ideas has to give way only to a stronger association between one of them and a third. The greater coherency, than if they were made by us when awake, of speeches or essays which we believe in our dreams that we speak or write, has been already noticed. Thus it is that we often go through a repetition in our dreams with considerably greater ease than we can do it when awake. For the same reason again, ideas occur to us in our dreams of which we have not for a very long time been conscious when awake, and which we have been perhaps unable, when anxious to do so, to call up; and trains of ideas are gone through, which we have

perhaps wished to complete, when awake, but to no purpose, inasmuch as the associations between the several pairs of ideas in the trains are too faint to bear up against the continual interruptions of sensations. These ideas and trains of ideas occurring in dreams, which we are unable to call up when we are awake, are said to have been forgotten. Dr. Abercrombie gives an instance of a gentleman who, having been something of a Greek scholar in his youth. had afterwards so entirely forgotten the language that he could not even read the words, but who often dreamt of reading Greek works which he had used at college, and in such manner as to understand them. (p. 284.) Sir Walter Scott relates a very extraordinary dream of this kind in his Notes to ‘The Antiquary, in the last edition of the Waverley Novels, to which we must content ourselves with referring the reader. We may observe, that the same revival of long-forgotten ideas and trains of ideas takes place often during delirium, the similarity between our trains in which state and our dreams we have already alluded to. A very singular instance of such revival during delirium is related by Mr. Cole. ridge, in his ‘Biographia Literaria' (vol. i. chap. vi.). To this head is to be referred a remark generally made concerning dreams, that the mind exercises no control over the ideas which compose them, or (as it is otherwise expressed) that the mind does not exert its will upon them, as it does upon ideas composing trains in the waking state. The mind is not diverted from the trains of ideas which pass before it by the occurrence of sensations; thus it need not desire, as it continually does in the waking state, to have the ideas composing the trains rather than the sensations; and thus the ideas are not presented to it, as they continually are in the waking state, in that particular combination which is called desire of the ideas, or willing of the ideas. This, we believe, is the full extent to which the remark concerning the absence of will (as it is called) over ideas in dreams is true; though, from the manner in which it is expressed, it seems, and indeed it is generally intended, to imply much more. When we are awake, we are said to will bodily actions, and to will mental actions or ideas. Now, when we are asleep, we will bodily actions likewise; but from the manner in which the body is affected during sleep, the actions do not follow the state of mind called will, as they do when we are awake. We will to run from an enemy who, we believe, is pursuing us, but we cannot run; the muscles are so affected in sleep that their action does not follow the state of mind called will, as it does when we are awake. Every one who has dreamed must have experienced such a dream as this, and must remember the fear which follows it. But the circumstance that the action does not follow by no means affects the existence of the state of mind called will during dreams; and in sleep therefore, as in the waking state, we will bodily actions. Again, as regards mental actions or ideas, we exert our will over these, in the waking state, either by attending to them, or by endeavouring to recollect them, and in no other way; and every one who has dreamed must be conscious of attention to trains of ideas during his dreams, and of endeavours to recollect ideas. Thus neither as regards mental actions is there any absence during dreams of the state of mind called will. The only difference in respect of this state of mind between dreams and waking trains is, as we have said, that in the former there is not so much need of attention to the ideas as in the latter; inasmuch as dreams are not interrupted by sensations, as are trains of ideas in the waking state. 3. Qur measure of time during dreams appears not to coincide with that in the waking state. Having fallen asleep for a few moments, we believe that we go through, before we awake, a series of events which would occupy, did they really happen, days or months, or even years. And the same takes place often, when a sensation occurs to awake us, in the brief interval between the having of the sensation and the waking. Dr. Abercrombie gives the fol. lowing instance, which will serve us as well as any other for illustration:—“A gentleman dreamed that he had en listed as a soldier, joined his regiment, deserted, was applehended, carried back, tried, condemned to be shot, and at last led out for execution. After all the usual preparations, a gun was fired: he awoke with the report, and found that a noise in an adjoining room had both produced the dream and awaked him.” (p. 279.) Again: “Afriend of mine,' says

Dr. Abercrombie, ‘dreamed that he crossed the Atlantic, and spent a fortnight in America. In embarking on his return, he fell into the sea; and having awaked with the fright, discovered that he had not been asleep above ten minutes.’ This discrepancy between our notions of time when we are asleep and when we are awake may be very easily explained. The idea of time is only an idea of so many successions of events, or of ideas, whether called up by these events or otherwise. On looking back through any period of our mental history, if we remember many feelings that have succeeded the one to the other, we have the idea of a long time; if few, of a short one. Now ideas are remembered in proportion as they are interesting or vivid. In the waking state and in sleep the same ideas would pass before the mind during the same time; but in the waking state they would be viewed as ideas only, and the greater number would not be remembered. But in sleep they are believed to be sensations, the events thought of are believed actually to take place, and the ideas thus become interesting to such a degree that they cannot be forgotten. Looking back through these ideas, and remembering every one of them, we judge the time during which they have passed before the mind to have been a long time. 4. It remains to speak of the absence of surprise in dreams. It is not indeed true that the feeling of surprise is altogether absent from dreams, as is generally asserted; while in those cases in which it is absent, and in which its absence is thought worthy of remark, the explanation is simple. In our dreams we believe that we see persons who are either dead or in a distant country, and we are not surprised; we believe that we witness events which happened a very long time ago, and we are not surprised. Now we have the ideas of the persons and events, and we have not at the same time the ideas of the death or the distant country or the distant time at whieh the event took place; having the ideas of the persons and events, we believe these ideas, as has been already explained, to be sensations; and as we have not, together with the apparent sensations, the ideas of the death, distant country, &c., we have no ideas with which the apparent sensations are incongruous; and there being no incongruity, there is nothing to surprise us. We think of the persons or events, as we might think of them when awake, without certain additional ideas; and not having these additional ideas, we are not surprised at seeing, or believing that we see, the persons or events, any more than we should be surprised at seeing (could we by possibility do so) the same persons or events when we were awake, if we knew not that the person had died or was in another country, or that the event was one of history. This explanation is confirmed by those instances in which we do feel surprise. The idea of a person or event believed to be seen may call up any of the additional ideas that have before been absent. e believe that we see a person, and we then think of his death ; we are immediately surprised; and we dream that we are dreaming. Every one who has dreamed must have experienced such a dream as this. II. This second part of the article was to contain so much of the little that is known concerning the state of the body in sleep as is relevant to the subject of dreams. The organs of the five external senses are so affected by sleep, that the sensations which respectively pertain to them are either not felt at all, or are felt very much less often, and very much less, than when we are awake, and even when they are felt they generally awake us. But of this we have already spoken. We have also spoken of the effects of sensations of bodily pain and of internal sensations on dreams. The manner in which sickness, through the medium of internal sensations, intensifies dreams, is familiar to every one. It is a question whether sleep operates on the mind as well as on the body; whether, while it suspends the action of the body, it also, either through the body or otherwise, suspends the action of the mind. This is a question on which we cannot speak positively, and on which our opinion can be determined only by the greater probability of the one side or of the other. Some writers assert that we do not always dream when we are asleep. They say that the proper effect of sleep is to suspend the action of the mind as well as of the body, and that, to the extent to which we dream, sleep is impaired. They speak of two kinds of sleep, the one in which we do not dream, and which they call perfect sleep; the other, in which we dream, and which they

call imperfect. One of these writers is Mr. I ocke, who has expressed a very decided opinion that during sleep we do not always think; his arguments in favour of the opinion being, that all of us are conscious of having no dreams during a considerable portion of the time that we sleep, that some persons even do not dream at all, and that a supposition that the dreams are forgotten almost the very moment after they have taken place is absurd. (Essay on the Human Understanding, 2, i. sec. ii.) If however we do not dream always, how is the beginning of our dreams accounted for? The mind is, on this supposition, at a particular period of sleep, void of ideas; an idea suddenly enters it, and dreaming begins. Now the idea was not called up by an idea antecedent to it, for antecedently there was no idea in the mind. How then did it come to enter the mind? This consideration appears to us adequate to set the question at rest as to whether we dream always or not. Dreaming always, we may remember or forget our dreams according to whether our sleep is deep or slight, and remember them in proportion as it is not deep. One part of the same fit of sleep is more intense than another; the dreamer remembers the dreams of this last part, but forgets those of the first, as regards which it is the same as if he had not dreamt at all. In one state of health the same person has a greater amount of deep sleep than in another; he in consequence remembers his dreams better, or (as he would most probably express it) he dreams more in the second state of health than in the first. Again, one person's bodily constitution is such as to make his sleep generally more intense than that of another person, and in consequence he is less of a dreamer. There have been instances of persons who do not remember ever to have dreamed, and of others who have not remembered any dreams until at a very advanced period of life. III. As regards the instances of dreams which we propose to relate, there are three possible cases; they are either untrue, or true and explainable by ordinary or natural means, or else true and not so explainable, and therefore (in the common phrase) supernatural. Now these instances are so far authenticated, that we are not authorized altogether to discredit them. . Not discrediting them, we are yet unable to explain them by the ordinary means; though it is possible, certainly, that as the dreams and their attendant circumstances come to us, there may be both some exaggeration in the dreams themselves, and some omission of incidents, previous to the occurrence of the dreams which might help to explain the attendant circumstances. On the other hand, the instances (and we are about to give merely a selection) are numerous. And again, there is another set of incidents, also well authenticated, which, like these instances of dreams, are, if we believe them as they are related, unsusceptible of explanation by ordinary or natural means. We refer to the many stories told of the appearance of persons, at the moment of death, to friends or relations at a distance from the spot where the death takes place. Now these incidents pave the way to some extent for a belief in the supernatural character of such dreams as we are about to relate. If these incidents are believed to be supernatural, there is no reason why there should not also be supernatural dreams. We must observe however that in calling either the incidents to which we have referred or the dreams supernatural, we mean no more than that they cannot be explained by natural means. We cannot say how they were brought about; neither can we say, looking at the particular circumstances under which they happened and the particular persons to whom they happened, why they were brought about. The first instance that we give is of a dream which occurred to a gentleman now alive, and which was related by him to members of his family who are also now alive, and to other persons, on the day after he dreamt it, and before the event which he seems to have foreseen in his dream was known. We extract the account of the dream, making some immaterial alterations, from a book called the ‘Royal Book of Dreams, in which it is given with the greatest particularity. “In the night of the 11th of May, 1812, Mr. Williams, of Scorrior House, near Redruth, in Cornwall, awoke his wife, and, exceedingly agitated, told her that he had dreamt that he was in the lobby of the House of Commons, and saw a man shoot with a pistol a gentleman who had just entered the lobby, who was said to be the chancellor; to which Mrs. W. replied that it was only a dream, and recommended him to go to sleep as soon

as he could. He did so ; but shortly after he again awoke her, and said that he had, a second time, had the same dream. The same vision was repeated a third time; on which, notwithstanding his wife's entreaties that he would lie quiet and endeavour to forget it, he arose (then between one and two o'clock) and dressed himself. At breakfast the dreams were the sole subject of conversation; and in the forenoon Mr. W. went to Falmouth, where he related the particulars of them to all of his acquaintance that he met. On the following day, Mr. Tucker, of Trematon Castle, accompanied by his wife, a daughter of Mr. W., went to Scorrior House on a visit. Mr. W. related to Mr. T. the circumstance of his dreams; on which Mr. T. observed that it would do very well for a dream to have the chancellor in the lobby of the House of Commons, but that he would not be found there in reality. Mr. T. then asked what sort of a man he appeared to be, when Mr. W. described him minutely. Mr. T. replied, “Your description is not at all that of the chancellor, but is very exactly that of Mr. Perceval, the chancellor of the exchequer.” He then inquired whether Mr. W. had ever seen Mr. Perceval, and was told that he had never seen him, nor had ever had anything to do with him; and further, that he had never been in the House of Commons in his life. At this moment they heard a horse gallop to the door of the house; and immediately after a son of Mr. Williams entered the room, and said that he had galloped out from Truro, having seen a gentleman there who had come by that evening's mail from town, and who had been in the lobby of the House of Commons on the evening of the 11th, when a man called Bellingham had shot Mr. Perceval. After the astonishment which this intelligence created had a little subsided, Mr. W. described most minutely the appearance and dress of the man that he saw in his dream fire the pistol at the chancellor, as also of the chancellor. About six weeks after, Mr. W. having business in town, went, accompanied by a friend, to the House of Commons, where, as has been already observed, he had never before been. Immediately that he came to the steps at the entrance of the lobby, he said, “This place is as distinctly within my recollection, in my dream, as any room in my house;” and he made the same observation when he entered the lobby. He then pointed out the exact spot where Bellingham stood when he fired, and which Mr. Perceval had reached when he was struck by the ball, where he fell. The dress both of Mr. Perceval and Bellingham agreed with the description given by Mr. W., even to the most minute particulars.’ This dream is related also by Dr. Abercrombie (p. 300), with a slight variation as to the time that elapsed between the dream and the announcement of the event, and with some additional circumstances. The two following are among many instances mentioned by Dr. Abercrombie, who vouches for their truth. A Scotch clergyman, who lived near Edinburgh, dreamt one night, while on a visit in that town, that he saw a fire, and one of his children in the midst of it. On awaking, he instantly got up and returned home with the greatest speed. He found his house on fire, and was just in time to assist in saving one of his children, who in the alarm had been left in a place of danger. Two sisters had been for some days attending a sick brother, and one of them had borrowed a watch from a friend, her own being under repair. The sisters were sleeping together in a room communicating with that of their brother, when the elder awoke in a state of great agitation, and roused the other to tell her that she had had a frightful dream. “I dreamt, she said, that Mary's watch stopped; and that when I told you of the circumstance, you replied, “Much worse than that has happened; for 's breath has stopped also,”’—naming their sick brother. The watch, however, was found to be going correctly, and the brother was sleeping quietly. The dream recurred the next night; and on the following morning, one of the sisters having occasion to seal a note, went to get the watch from a writing-desk in which she had deposited it, when she found that it had stopped. She rushed into her brother's room in alarm, remembering the dream, and found that he had been suddenly seized with a fit of suffocation, and had expired. (Abercrombie's Intellectual Powers, pr. 289-302.) The following is written in the fly-leaf of an old copy of Cotton's Concordance, belonging to a friend of the writer of this article. Its circumstantial manner of narration entitles it to belief; and the prediction of the beheading of Charles P. C., No. 549.

I. and of the fire to the old woman is no more extraordinary than that of the death of Mr. Perceval to a gentleman who had never seen him, and was in no way connected with him. It is signed Richard Fiennes, to whom, it is to be presumed, the Concordance once belonged; and it is dated September 14th, 1666, the year of the fire of London. “In the yeare 1653, on the 26th day of May, Mr. Fortescue of Ware, in the county of Devon, a person of greate honoure and sobriety, told me at Heanton in the said county, in the presence of my nephew, Roll, and other gentlemen of quality, that there was a woman of his knowledge, that was then living, that many yeares before the warres had a vision of them, and of the king's beheading, and amongst many other particulars, of the destruction of London. This I writt down in my Almanack for the yeare 1653, the same day it was told me with Avertat Deus under it; but it hath pleased God that for our sinne London is allsoe now consumed. I pray God we may all receive instruction by it.” We shall conclude these instances with an account of two concurrent dreams furnished by Dr. Abercrombie, which were not, like those we have already given, followed by the event on which they are said to have turned, but of which the coincidence is very extraordinary. . “A young man, who was at an academy a hundred miles from home, dreamt that he went to his father's house in the night, tried the front-door, but found it locked; got in by a back-door, and, finding nobody out of bed, went directly to the bed-room of his parents. He then said to his mother, whom he found awake, “Mother, I am going a long journey and am come to bid you good bye.” On i. she answered under much agitation, “Oh dear son, thou art dead!” He instantly awoke, and thought no more of his dream, until a few days after, he received a letter from his father, inquiring ves anxiously after his health, in consequence of a frightfu dream his mother had on the same night in which the dream now mentioned occurred to him. She dreamt that she heard some one attempt to open the front-door, then go to the back-door, and at last come into her bed-room. She then saw it was her son, who came to the side of her bed, and said, “Mother, I am going a long journey and I am come to bid you good bye;” on which she exclaimed, “Oh dear son, thou art dead!” But nothing unusual happened to either of the parties.” (p. 295.) Instances of such dreams as these have been related in all times. The dream of Caesar's wife, Calpurnia, the night before the assassination (Sueton. Caesar, 81), is such an instance. There are many dreams recorded both in the Old and the New Testament, which, together with the attendant circumstances, rest on very strong historical evidence, resembling the instances occurring in what is called profane history; and a supernatural agency being admitted in them, there is no reason why it should not exist also in other instances of dreams. For when once we allow the inadequacy of natural means for the explanation of a particular phenomenon, we cannot stop where we please, and say there is a reason why supernatural causes should have operated in this case, but there is none why they should have operated in that. In speaking of supernatural causes or of supernatural agency, phrases to which we attach no definite posttive meaning, and which we can only explain negatively, we confess our inability to account for the manner in which an event or events came to pass; and if unable to account for the manner, we cannot take upon ourselves to explain the reason of the occurrence. The supernatural interpositions to which, in our difficulty, we resort for aid, must, if they exist, be determined by general laws, which in the course of time it either may or may, not be given to men to know. At present we see only the particular interpositions, particular events belonging to another system, which we call supernatural, which is governed, however, doubtless, like our own or the natural system, by general laws, and which moves perhaps co-ordinately with this to a common end; and knowing not the laws of that system, nor the connexion between it and our own, we can do no more at present than record the particular instances. It is certainly not philosophical to refer each particular interposition to a particular providence, as is done by Bishop Bull in his sermon concerning the “Holy Office of Angels;' but in an admission of our own ignorance, combined with an opinion that the interpositions (as they are called) are regulated by general laws, there seems to be nothing to be objected to. Vol. IX.-U

ings), a part of the town once an unproductive waste, and first laid out as gardens by some Bohemian gardeners, who settled here in 1730, but the site of which is becoming gradually occupied by handsome residences. It contains a playhouse and baths, a house of industry, schools for the indigent and for the garrison of Dresden, and a spacious cemetery. The house for the reception of bodies of unknown persons has been lately decorated with the Dance of Death, a rude sculpture in stone containing 24 figures. In the list of public establishments not hitherto noticed are a High School (the Kreutz-schule,) conducted by 12 masters, and attended by about 400 pupils; two schools for teachers, in which the deaf and dumb are taught; 23 free and elementary schools for about 3000 Protestant children; an asylum for the reformation of depraved children; three infant schools; several public schools for the children of the townsmen; the Schmalz foundation for educating poor children; and a public school for girls. Dresden contains altogether 71 establishments for Protestant education. The Catholics have a High School, the Josephina Foundation, for the education of the superior class of females, two ordinary schools, a free school, and a school for educating 12 soldiers' children, attached to the latter. To these should be added the Free Masons' School (with about 100 children) and a Veterinary School. The number of institutions for the sick and maimed and orphans is eight, including three hospitals. There are a variety of learned and other societies, the chief of which are the Academy of Arts, the Society of Economy, which promotes the various interests connected with Saxon industry, the Mineralogical, the Natural History and Medical, the Bible, the Missionary, and the Saxon Antiquities Societies. The number of benevolent institutions and societies of all descriptions is 78. Dresden has no external trade or manufactures of much importance. It is a place of transit for colonial and other foreign produce from Mo Hamburg, &c., and has five general fairs, besides a yearly fair in June, at which a considerable quantity of wool is sold. Its mechanics have obtained some note in Germany for the manufacture of mathematical, mechanical, and musical instruments, engraving on steel and stone, the making of gloves, carpets, turnery ware, jewellery, straw hats, painters’ colours, &c. These mechanics are incorporated into 60 fraternities. Morocco and other leather, refined sugar, tobacco, white lead, tin ware, glass, stockings, cotton goods, &c. are also manufactured, but not on an extensive scale. There is a foundry for bomb-shells and cannon, and a yearly exhibition of Saxon manufactures. The municipal expenses of the town are about 49,000 dollars (6900l.) a year. The immediate vicinity of Dresden abounds in places of public resort, and its environs are full of attractions for strangers, among which we may notice the villages of Lochwitz, Kreischa, and Dohna, the scenery called the Schlottwitzer, and Plauische Grund, the antient burg of Tharant, the vale of Seifersdorf, the Saxon Switzerland, Pillnitz, with its summer palace, and the village of Schandau. DREUX, a town in France, the chief place of an arrondissement in the department of Eure et Loir. It is on the river Blaise, a tributary of the Eure, 41 miles from Paris, in a straight line west by south, or 50 miles by the road through Versailles and Houdan; in 48° 43' N. lat., and 1° 21' E. long. It is on the great western road to Alençon, Laval, Rennes, St. Brieuc, and Brest. Dreux was known under the Romans by the name Durocasses, and appears to have been included in the territories of the Carnutes. From Durocasses the name was contracted into Drocae, from which the modern form Dreux is derived. The town with the surrounding district, forming the county of Dreux, was included in the acquisitions made by the Northmen or Normans in France, but was early taken from them, and became part of the domain of the French crown. It continued, after several changes, to be held by a remote branch of the Bourbon family up to the time (we believe) of the French Revolution. In December, 1562, a severe action was fought in the plain of Dreux, between the rivers Eure and Blaise, between the royal Catholic army under the Constable Montmorency and the army of the Calvinists under the prince of Condé and the Admiral Coligny. The Calvinists were defeated, and the prince of Condé taken prisoner. In A.D. 1593, Dreux, which was in the possession of the party of the League, was taken by Henri IV. after a vigorous resistance of 15 or 18 days. The town, which is in a pleasant country, is traversed by

the Blaise. On a hill which commands the town are the remains of the antient castle of the counts of Dreux: in the midst of these ruins rises the new chapel built on the site of a former collegiate church by the late duchess dowager of Orléans. The houses of the town are partly of brick, partly of wood, and partly of plaster: there is a small promenade, an alley of trees planted along the river, and called Boulevart. The town-hall is a Gothic building; and there is, beside the chapel mentioned above, a parish church, also Gothic: before the Revolution there were two parish churches. The population, in 1832, was 5166 for the town, or 6249 for the whole commune. The inhabitants manufacture serges, blankets, hosiery, and other woollen goods, hats, and leather: there are tan-mills and dye-houses: beside the articles which they manufacture, they carry on trade in sheep and cattle. There are three fairs in the year. There is a good hospital and a high school. The arrondissement of Dreux had, in 1832, a population of 70,532.

DRIFFIELD. [Yorkshire.]

DRILL, the course of instruction in which the soldier is taught the use of arms and the practice of military evolutions.

DRILL HUSBANDRY. [DRILLING..]

DRILLING is a mode of sowing by which the seed is deposited in regular equidistant rows, at such a depth as each kind requires for its most perfect vegetation. It has been practised by gardeners from time immemorial, and from the garden it has gradually extended to the field. In those countries where maize or Indian corn is extensively cultivated the seed is always deposited in rows; and during the growth of the plants the soil in the intervals is repeatedly hoed and stirred to a considerable depth, as is likewise the practice in vineyards. This cultivation not only keeps the land free from weeds, but by allowing the dews and the influence of the atmosphere to penetrate into the i. greatly encourages the vegetation and growth of the plants.

It was no doubt from observing the effect produced by stirring the soil that Jethro Tull and his followers adopted the theory, that finely-divided earth formed the chief food of plants; and this led to the adoption of the row culture for every species of plant, and horse-hoeing the intervals, from which the practice obtained the name of the horsehoeing husbandry. This was at one time thought so important a discovery as to be called the new husbandry, which was expected by its most zealous supporters entirely to supersede the old methods.

The system of Tull has been long proved to have been founded on erroneous principles. Tull himself was ruined by his experiment; and his warmest admirers, Du Hamel, Du Monceau, and De Châteauvieu, were forced to admit its fallacy, after having suffered considerable loss by adopting its practice. But the advantage of sowing the seed in rows or drills has stood the test of experience; and the drill huso by combining the advantages of continued tillage with those of manure and a judicious rotation of crops, is a decided improvement on the old methods of sowing all seeds broad-cast. The crops which are now most generally drilled are potatoes, turnips, beans, peas, beet-root, coleseed, and carrots; and in general all plants which require room to spread, whether above or under the ground. The distance between the rows in these crops is generally such as to allow the use of a light plough or horse-hoe to be drawn by a horse between them without endangering the growing plants. The most common distance is twenty-seven inches, where the row culture is practised in its greatest perfection, which is in the north of England and in Scotland. The Northumberland mode of cultivating turnips, which is adopted by most scientific farmers, and seems to have decided advantages, consists in placing the manure in rows immediately under the line in which the seed is to be drilled, and keeping the intervals in a mellow and pulverized state by repeated stirring. In this mode of sowing the seeds vegetate more rapidly, and are sooner out of danger from the fly, and the crop is more certain as well as heavier. Should the turnips fail, which with every precaution will sometimes happen, the land has had the benefit of a complete fallow, and is well prepared for any other crop. The instrument used for sowing turnips and other seeds in single rows is sometimes a small light wheel-barrow, which a man pushes before him; hence called a drill-barrow. It has a box in which the seed is put, with a slide to regulate

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