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Once more a happy
And joyous New Year.
God the Almighty,

He, too, is near now,

And to your comfort
Will grant us our prayer.
Lord Jesu, last of all may we

Find rest in Paradise with Thee.

The Star of the East is rudely represented by a sun, cut out of paper and fastened on the top of a pole, which is carried by a boy at the head of the troop. It is believed that if anybody strikes one of these Dreikönigskindel (Three Kings' Child) during the singing, the hand of the striker will grow out of his grave. The season from Christmas to the Epiphany is called the Twelve Nights, and it is supposed that during this period all spirits, good and bad, are permitted to roam the earth at will, and are visible even to those mortals who are not Sunday children.1

In every peasant's house, behind the never-failing crucifix over the little house-altar, is preserved a bunch of palm catkins, branches of mistletoe, and a species of juniper tied to a hazel twig, which must, however, be peeled, or else the witches will nestle between the wood and the rind; and this acts as a talisman against fire and lightning.

The Bäuerin carefully treasures in her box a piece of walnut-wood, which has been burnt in a fire lighted before the church on Easter Eve, and likewise a white candle and a red wax taper, both consecrated at Candlemas. When a storm comes by day, the fire is kindled and a bit of the walnut-wood thrown in; if at night, the candle must be lighted. The same occurs at a death-bed, and during a confinement the red wax-taper is wound round the woman's hand.

St. Sylvester's night, December 31st, St. Thomas's night, and the night of the Three Kings, as the Epiphany is called in Germany, are the four Incense Nights. The Bauer takes down the sacred Sangen from the main beam of the roof, where it has been carefully kept during the year. The Sangen consists of grass, flowers, and certain herbs, which must all be gathered with special ceremonies either on the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, August 15th, or during the thirty following days; for a threefold blessing then rests on all the fruits of the earth, and even poisonous creatures become harmless. The dried leaves, mingled with juniper and other materials for frankincense, are strewn in an iron brazier, which the Bauer carries in his left hand. His wife and children precede him, bearing the keys and a light, and, if possible, a handful of snow. The master of the house also holds a stick in his right hand (probably it was a sword in former times), and thus, praying and censing, he perambulates the house, stables, and barn. By this means all evil influences, sickness, and witchcraft are averted. Moreover, on the feast of the Epiphany, the initials of the Three Wise Men of the East are inscribed over all the doors, with a cross between each letter, C. + M. + B., and the following verse is recited:

The Three Kings come from the Eastern Land,
Each bearing gifts in the palm of his hand;
Balthasar drives all foes away,

Black Caspar hallows the house each day,

While Melchior watches o'er bolt and pin,
To keep the blessing safe within.

The chalk used for the inscription is consecrated in church on the eve of the festival.

On St. Stephen's Day, the priest consecrates the salt and water used for the formation of the blessed "saltstone," as the square piece of salt is called. Some grains of it are mixed with the food of sick animals, and the traveller on leaving his home takes a few morsels in his knapsack.

At Candlemas, all the servants in Tyrol change their situations, and the Fashing takes place with all its attendant merriment. One favorite game consists in youths

1 It is a popular belief that children born on Sunday have the power of seeing spirits.

dressing themselves up as old maids, and driving through the village on a cart en route to the Sterzing Morass, which is supposed to be the home of such individuals. There they are forced to spend their time in measuring out the wet moss with their fingers, until the end of the world. Bachelors, on the other hand, are located on the summit of the Rosskopf hard by, and are condemned to pile up the clouds, in which the mountain is constantly enveloped.

Winter is now supposed to be over, and in South Tyrol, the Fashings fires are lit on Shrove Tuesday, to celebrate the beginning of spring, or at Meran on the first Sunday in Lent. At Ulten, the people set fire to maize, and strew sheaves in the fields, and this is called "awaking the corn." In the Vinschgau, boys parade the village on the 22d of February (the marriage of St. Peter) ringing bells and shouting "Peter Langas." They thus announce the arrival of spring, which is called Langas by the peasants. In North Tyrol, winter has a longer reign, lasting till the end of March, and in the Lower Inn Valley," Ringing out the grass," does not take place till the 24th of April, St. George's Day.

It was believed that the beneficial effects of fire, water, salt, bread, meat, etc., became exhausted in the course of the year, and their powers must therefore be renewed at the commencement of a new year. Consequently, on certain days, every fire in the village must be extinguished. The whole population go to the wood in solemn procession, and there, with numerous symbols and ceremonies, a "needfire" or "wild-fire" is created. Two persons, who may either be young boys or a pair of lovers, rub two pieces of dry wood together until a flame is produced, repeating, meanwhile, mysterious rhymes. The head of a household then lights his torch at this sacred flame, produced by nature herself, and thus bears home new fire for the new year. In many parts, should a tree happen to be struck by lightning, all the fires on the hearths are extinguished and the torches are lit from the genuine "wild-fire."

In some valleys water is renewed in a similar manner. Either at Midsummer or on the 1st of May, the village youth run through all the houses, upset the pails, and fetch fresh water from the hallowed spring in the wood.

But these customs are fast disappearing throughout Germany, as well as in Bavaria, and the renewal of the water is now a mere tradition.

HOTEL INCIDENT IN THE RIVIERA.

No one who has sojourned for a while in the Riviera is surprised at the crowds of foreigners that are collected from all parts of Europe into its various nooks and retreats. We English go there to escape mist and fog; the Russians, to avoid extreme cold; the invalid Germans, to put a barrier between themselves and the withering east wind. Some, again, visit it for other than sanitary reasons. Monaco with its gambling attractions entices and detains some, and the mere enjoyment of a climate luxurious even in winter invites many more.

We- that is, my wife and myself - were enjoying a few weeks at one of the large hôtels that are so numerously dotted along this coast. It might have been at Hyères, Cannes, or Nice, at Monaco or Mentone, Bordighera or San Remo, Savona or Pegli; or it might have been at no one of all these.

We had been staying it is sufficient to say at the Hôtel du Bon Vivant about a week, when there appeared at the table-d'hôte a very striking personage. As soon as dinner was over, my wife found herself (by accident) near the visitors' book, and discovered that the new arrival had entered himself as the Baron Monteggiana-Tavernelle. We were chiefly English at the hôtel, there was no Italian there, and our acquaintance with the national Burke was limited; so we easily accepted the theory that this lengthy appellation was one of the most ancient titles in the land. We were subsequently informed by the baron that it was Sicilian, which made our ignorance the more excusable.

EVERY SATURDAY.

I don't think it was his title, or, at least, it was not only that, which made us all so charmed with him. It must have been "his noble bearing, his perfect manners, his evident desire to please, his modest evasion of all topics bearing on his own career, and his handsome face. He appeared to be about thirty years of age, his black hair was as glossy as a raven's plumage, and his black, flashing eyes betrayed a passionate soul; while his thick moustache framed, rather than concealed, a smile that irradiated his intellectual countenance with sweetness and light."

Such, at least, was the description given of him in one of my wife's letters to my mother-in-law; and I am glad I happened to look into that letter, as it has saved me some little trouble in attempting to describe him in words of my own.

The baron mixed very little with his own countrymen, and, as I ventured to suggest to my wife, seemed rather shy of them. He never went to the public amusements, and declined to subscribe to the Circolo. to me in reply, that he was the only nobleman in the She explained place, and was, perhaps, a little haughty towards his compatriots of a lower rank. He had also informed her himself, that he had selected our hôtel for the express purpose of mixing with the English, as he was expecting shortly to receive a government appointment, and for the better discharge of his prospective duties, a little knowledge of English was desirable.

I should have mentioned before, that I only speak my own language; but my wife can converse in Italian with ease and fluency, and the baron very naturally talked with her a good deal, and occasionally condescended to speak to me by her interpretation.

Shortly after the arrival of the Baron MonteggianaTavernelle, we were further enlivened by another. time it was a Russian lady, attended by her maid. There This were no other Russians at the Hôtel du Bon Vivant, and she appeared to have come there rather from necessity than by choice, as there were no rooms vacant in the inn usually frequented by those of her nation. She declined to enter her name in the visitors' book, and for the first two or three days dined in her own room, and held aloof from the rest of us. This, added to the effect produced by a stateliness, not to say grandeur, of deportment, and rich sobriety of dress, prepared us all for the discovery which in a few days oozed out, that she was a Russian princess, a widow, who wished to remain incognita, and to live quietly in the enjoyment of an unconventional freedom from the obligations of nobility-an enjoyment beyond her command at home.

We never fully understood how this oozed out. Her female attendant could understand nothing, and therefore could divulge nothing. The maître d'hôtel assured his guests that he knew no more than the rest of the world; and, by his mysterious shruggings, his self-contradictions, and, above all, by his manner, impressed us all with the firm belief that there was This, of course, confirmed the truth of the report, and it a secret in his possession. became an established fact that the lady was a Russian princess.

After a few days of seclusion, she vouchsafed to make her appearance at the table-d'hôte, and retired with the rest of the ladies to the Salle des Dames afterwards. Then it was that the baron exhibited his inborn as well as inherited nobility. He attended to her little wants, placed her an arm-chair by the fragrant wood-fire, and, on receiving her thanks in his mother tongue, no doubt prevented him from learning any other, - his parents' pride had entered into a respectful and courtly conversation with her. -he There were plenty of other men in the room who could have done it; but the baron was naturally the fittest person to begin; and I will give him credit for boundless selfpossession not to call it impudence.

The acquaintance thus begun grew with a tropical rapidity. The cold northern temperament softly but quickly thawed beneath the warm rays of Italian sweetness and light. Fragments of their talk occasionally reached the ears of my wife and others who could understand them,

[OCTOBER 17,

from which it appeared that their main topic was the

opera.

66

Ah, madame," he was interpreted to me as saying,"if I could but be honored with your presence in my box at Florence! The music would be angelic then." "The signor does me a great favor in expressing the wish."

Yes; it was clear that he was hard hit, and that she knew it, and had no desire to dismiss him. And yet she was in no single point guilty of indiscretion, forwardness, or coquetry, in my opinion.

Sicily a nicer country than Siberia, or wherever it is she "That woman," said my wife, "is abominable! Look how she hunts that poor man down. I suppose she fancies

comes from."

hunting is mutual. Really, I don't see why he should n't
marry her, if they both like it."
"Well, my dear," I replied, "it seems to me that the

know," said she.
"She may be a mere tuft-hunting adventuress, for all we
"I don't believe in her."

for his wealth and title, and is as much a princess as
"Well, but perhaps he knows more than we do.”
I am!"
"I don't believe in her a bit. She's hunting him down

occupied; the very last attic in the Hôtel du Bon Vivant
The season was now at its height, and every room was
book like a man, and his whole demeanor was frank, open,
being secured by a German count, the Count Sigismund
and robust. He was extraordinarily fluent in English, as
von Borokopek. He put down his name in the visitors'
well as in French and Italian; German, of course, was his
his pronunciation arising, he explained, from the circum-
mother-tongue, a few dialectical peculiarities noticeable in
Tokay.
stance of his being partly of Austrian, partly of Hunga-
rian origin; the Borokopek estates being in the vicinity of

know one another pretty well; but somehow the count knew us all better than we knew one another, before he We now numbered about eighty guests, and began to had been a week among us. man, so thoroughly British in appearance, and in his He was a big, burly, fair proficiency in other languages, to believe that he was not a Briton born. He had knocked about the world a good general characteristics, as to render it difficult, but for his deal, he said. Of the forty years he had passed in it, twenty had been spent in travelling, half of which time had been passed in England, and a good deal of the rest in America. Russia, too, he was acquainted with; and on and was evidently as much disposed to admire her as the baron himself. the strength of that he introduced himself to the princess,

66

Indeed, before very long, the attentions paid by Count Sigismund von Borokopek to that lady began seriously to disturb the serenity of the Baron Monteggiana-Tavernelle; interest and amusement of the company progress with it. and in proportion as their rivalry progressed, so did the My dear Charles," said my wife, "is n't she abominable now? She's a regular flirt; and at her age, too! if she's a day. And after entangling the baron, to go and forty, after the other egg on the count, and all in public too! It's bad enough to make love in public at all, but to do it to two men, one making love to her at the same time. You see, the count's I say she's simply abominable! " castles are much nearer to Russia than Sicily is, so perhaps "Well, but, my dear," I expostulated, "they are both she prefers to become Mrs. Count, etc., to the thing." other

Those of us who were not in love with the princess beenough encouragement to make them savagely jealous of gan to wish the absurd affair at an end. The lady was most unfairly fair to each; for she gave each of them eyes, I would compare her to a tableau vivant of Justice one another, without going far enough with either to give holding the scales. I can, however, safely liken her to the other any grounds of complaint. But for her beautiful Helen; for she was setting by the ears not only the two most interested individuals, but also the whole world about

her; and it wanted but a spark to commence a conflagration, certainly an explosion, between those two.

was.

We had an American at the Hôtel du Bon Vivant, a quiet, thoughtful man, too much of an invalid to talk much, and very reserved in his manners. We little thought that the dreaded spark would be dropped by him; but so it The baron was describing to a knot of us, including the count, as we were lounging in the entrance-hall after luncheon, his Syracusan villa, with its exquisite gardens. The American was listening with his usual air of abstraction, and quietly interposed a question. "Did I understand you to say that the Villa d'Aosta in the Strada di Palermo belongs to you?"

"Sì, signor; the Villa d'Aosta you speak of is the one. It is mine. It has been in my family for several generations."

"You've got a tenant there now who's a friend of mine "

"No, signor, no: I do not let my villa, nor other of my residences."

66

Well, that's queer, I consider," said the American. "I came direct from Sicily last month, and a friend of mine was tenant of that villa for the winter, and I stayed a day or two with him in that very house. Guess there's some bunkum somewheres!"

Part of these remarks were made in Italian; some ejacu lated in English.

"Bagatelle!" replied the baron; "you are mistaken, signor! It must have been some other Villa d'Aosta.”

"No, it was n't," returned the American; "and for my part, I think you are no more baron than I'm Julius Cæsar."

He certainly looked offended, though happily the last sentence was in English; in fact, he had been so unaccustomed to be contradicted, that it positively confused him. And I could not help noticing that the count looked excessively tickled, as well as triumphant.

That evening, when the baron advanced to attend the princess to the salon, she declined his offer to place the shawl on her shoulders, as he had always done; and in the most perfect manner, without snubbing or putting him down, allowed him to discover for himself that she was utterly indifferent to him. It was just as if the moon were to take the place of the sun, in a quiet and undemonstrative way, with no explanation given.

But, of course, an explanation was to be demanded; and as soon as the dinner was over, the baron sought, and obtained, a tête-à-tête in the corner of the Salle des Dames. We all had the decency to read Galignani, or play bézique, or otherwise to throw a veil over our curiosity, as we anxiously watched the development of the plot, and tried to hedge our bets before it was too late.

Suddenly the baron started to his feet, and uttered a loud execrative exclamation, which I decline to translate. His soul now most clearly betrayed its passionateness, but there was rather more light than sweetness in his eyes as he glared round the room in search of the hapless American. We all sprang to our feet too; the ladies near the door rapidly retreated, and the men looked at one another, halfamused, half-angrily.

"If I knew who had poisoned the mind of madame, I would dilaniate' him-tear him in pieces," shrieked the baron. "That viper of an American!"

"It was not the American," answered the count, coming quietly out of a recess; "I told madame what he had discovered."

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The baron so far forgot the perfectness of his manners, and evident desire to please, as with his open palm to slap the count on the face. But in another second he found himself in that physical checkmate known as Chancery he had got his head under his rival's left arm, who was holding it down to a convenient level for the right hand to bob his nose - and there, before the princess, in the Salle des Dames, was being displayed a scene from the British ring; chairs and tables going everywhere, as the quadrupedal monster performed its erratic revolutions, amid the

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screams of women, the shouts of men, the groans of the maître, and the indescribable cries of astonishment uttered by the whole staff of the hôtel, which had been gathered together at the door by the first exclamations of the baron. The Anglo-Saxon nationality having, in spite of the principle of non-intervention, separated the Latin and the Teuton, the defeated combatant was assisted to his room, and looked to by an English doctor who happened to be at the hôtel, and who reported that, with the exception of a couple of broken teeth, nothing of consequence was to be apprehended beyond a further requisition of his services at a rencontre of a different character, which, however, would not be possible for some little time, owing to a difficulty his patient had in seeing. And the next morning we found that the maître had given the baron notice to quit the Bon Vivant forthwith; and so we saw no more of the Baron Monteggiana-Tavernelle.

In ten days or so, the count received a letter from him, dated at Florence. In it the baron demanded satisfaction, and required that the count should meet him at Florence, or, if more convenient, at Rome. In reply, the latter expressed his readiness for an interview, but positively declined to fatigue himself with an unnecessary journey. The affair could very well be settled in the place where it began. The letter was carefully and fully directed, registered, and posted by the count himself.

In the ordinary course of events, an answer was due in four or five days at the farthest; but a fortnight passed without any, and at length he received the following, dated from Rome:

"SIR, I beg to acknowledge the honor which you have done me by addressing a letter to me at my house in Florence; and must apologize for my inability to understand it. Your name is strange to me; I was never in the place from which you write; I have not been in Florence for several months; and I must conclude that there is some mistake. It is possible that my name has been assumed by a rascally valet who robbed me last year of several private papers and a considerable sum of money, but whom I could not conveniently prosecute."

Then followed a description which tallied exactly with the appearance of our baron. It seems that the letter, being registered, had been sent on to the real baron at his residence in Rome, instead of being delivered to the false one at the address given by him at Florence.

The princess was, no doubt, overwhelmed with shame at finding that she had been encouraging a valet instead of his master; for she at once admitted the count to the privilege of paying her more attentions than ever. I think too she really liked him. Anyhow, he had proved himself substantially able to protect her; and the scuffle with his rival had in no degree lessened him in her esteem.

Of course we were not behind the scenes; and could only judge of the probable course of events by such little evidences as chance might throw in our way; but it was rumored that the marriage was to take place from our hôtel before Lent.

"The sooner the better," said my wife: " if another man comes forward with better prospects, she 'll throw over the count, just as she did the baron.'

"But you see he was n't a baron, my dear," I remonstrated: "not a real one, I mean, as the children say." "Well; and perhaps this is not a real count." "Dear me! what a joke it would be if he turned out to be somebody's butler! I wish some Yankee would come and ask him a little about his place. We want a little life here just now."

That day we had another fresh face at the table-d'hôte ; this time an Englishman's. He was very taciturn, but liked to look at the company and to listen to the conversa tion, and was much struck with the count. It occurred to nie, too, that the count noticed him a good deal, so much so as to refuse some of the choicest dishes. But no one conversed with the stranger, and after dinner he retired to his - the baron's old room and we saw no more of him

room

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EVERY SATURDAY.

till the next day at dinner. There was the same curiosity
on the part of the count, who, by the way, spoke German
exclusively now; but the stranger was absorbed in his
dinner. Afterwards he strolled into the billiard-room to
smoke a cigar.

By and by the count and I went in to have a quiet game,
and there we found the new arrival comfortably lolling in
an ample rocking-chair by the fire.

The count played badly, missing the easiest strokes. "You're off your play to night, count," I said; " what's the matter?"

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"Don't mind me, gentlemen," said the stranger; "I hope my being here don't make the count nervous,' very remarkable emphasis on the title, - he put a continental way myself, though I do see a good many queer 'I don't play the games at odd times. Now, was you ever in Scarbro', sir?" addressing the count. "No! Leeds? No! Hull, where the steamers start for Bremen? No! Manchester, perhaps? No! Not been to Manchester? Then,". had been sidling gradually nearer and nearer to the door as he talked, and was now between it and the count "then suppose you and I go back together, Mister Alexander Jenkinson, on this warrant I 've got against you, for forgery of a check on Gleeson's Bank at Manchester for three thousand five hundred pounds! Oh yes; it's all right, and it's no good making a row. My name's Inspector Rawlings of the detective police, and me and my man here have had a pretty hunt after you; he and the are waiting for you outside the door." gens d'armes

Poor princess, with two strings to her bow, and both of them rotten! Still my wife would n't pity her yet.

"But, my dear," I expostulated, "the poor thing will have to marry some Russian now, perhaps a Laplander, or one of those fellows that drink train-oil with their dinner. And she such a monstrous fine woman too, to say nothing of her rank."

However, we had but little further call on our sympathy, for the next day she left the hôtel.

"So the princess is off," I said to the maître the same day, while paying my weekly bill.

66 Monsieur said".

"I said the princess is offknow."

66

gone, allée, sortie, partie, you

Oui, oui; but then, the princesse: who does monsieur wish to say, princesse ?"

"Why, of course the Princess of- well, the Russian princess that did n't marry the baron or the "

"Ah, bah! Who would call her a princesse ?" "Why, you made us believe she was," I indignantly rejoined, "by making believe she was n't."

"But monsieur remembers without doubt that I said she was not princesse?"

"So you did; but there's a way of saying no and looking yes.'

66 Pardon, monsieur! The lady desired repose and to be in particular; and I, I assisted that she should so be." "Well -now she 's gone, in fact, what is she?"

66

Monsieur, she is teacher of the dance at Marseilles."

DREAMS.

THE disciple of Lucretius invented by Professor Tyndall at Belfast to impugn Bishop Butler's psychology referred to the story of his master's suicide in despair and disgust at the remembrance of an unworthy dream. This story has been treated also by Mr. Tennyson, in a poetical soliloquy exposing the character of that unwholesome vision, and the revolt of moral and intellectual pride against its degrading sway. It is not expedient here to examine the processes of thought and feeling under the application of a stimulating drug to that particular capability of emotion. But the attitude of the mind during sleep, with regard to the variety of fugitive ideas that present themselves to a dreamer's consciousness, is a topic of general and constant interest.

[OCTOBER 17,

It seems to be agreed by the champions of hostile creeds in philosophy that the will has no control over this stream of mental images in fantastic combination, welling up from every chamber of the brain when the pressure of outward sensation is taken off. This is confessed alike by bodily organization, and by those who claim for "the soul" those who would identify "the man himself" with the a potential independence of the brain and nervous system. The will is felt to be practically inactive in sleep so far as concerns that power of guiding, checking, or diverting the course of thought which we possess while fairly awake, and which may be called the power of mental self-rule. What is sometimes called attention is merely the force with which the mind applies itself to objects which excite a strong feeling at the time. This engrossing devotion to the pursuit in which an immediate interest is felt seems analogous to the momentum of mechanical force. frequently in conflict with the voluntary mental action of It is self-rule; the one is a servant of principle, while the other is too often a slave of passion. Now the latter, in the mind of a sleeper, has all its own way, whereas the former has lost its hold upon the thinking machinery. The higher moral sentiments, which can only be gratified by complete efforts of self-command, not by surrender even to noble impulses, are never consciously mingled with the feelings experienced in a dream. There is, indeed, considerable activity of the social affections. But these affections, before their adoption into the sphere of moral devotedness, rest upon a basis of egotism, as their objects have a personal connection with self, and of familiar association with the habits of life cherished in the past. dreamer is an utter egotist, but he nevertheless loves and hates his fellow-creatures quite as ardently as in waking equity in the abstract. He is arrogant and quarrelsome, hours. He has no pure benevolence, nor any sense of and gets into violent passions for an imaginary cause. Pride and disdain, the desire of social esteem, of rank and praise, of mastery and victory, with fierce resentment of insults and offences, invade the slumbers even of the meek. On the other hand, those who are hard and cold-hearted may sometimes have dream-fits of extreme tenderness, and melt in ecstasies of love and pity.

The

It is consistent with this loosened and partially darkened state of the mind that a certain kind of remorse or self-reproach should be felt during sleep. But this bears no regard to abstract moral principle, the idea of which, and of the highest responsibility, can only be entertained by the full power of the waking mind. In general, mankind seems to be governed by a twofold conscience. There is the higher and inner conscience, resulting from the ideas of absolute and essential obligation and of universal law. There is also the external or customary conscience, formed by recollections of approval or disapproval consequent on particular acts, and this sort of empirical conscience belongs to a well-trained dog. Now, during sleep, as we have above remarked, the higher department of moral consciousness appears to be closed. But the habitual association of particular deeds with agreeable or disagreeable effects upon the moral sensibility is still carried We shall find it worth while to examine its operation within the range of mental activity left to the sleeper.

on.

It was just now observed that the condition of sleep takes away from the will all control over the thoughts. It would be equally correct to say that the will, now detached from the supreme guiding faculty of reason, becomes their sport and prey. Their origin, so far as we

can trace it, seems to lie in the random reminiscences of through the whole past life. Those combinations of sensensations formerly impressed on the brain, and linked together, by millions of complex and subtle associations, entation, or which excite the passions and affections, sible ideas which have gained strength by repeated prespredominate in the floating mass. idiosyncrasy, or natural disposition, and the direction of This constitutes the the current of thoughts in sleep, as in vacant waking hours, is usually determined by this alone. But the ideas so presented never fail to arouse in sleep the feelings

which they would naturally excite in the waking mind. The dreamer must needs surrender his will to these emotions without restraint, since he has nothing else to hold fast by, nor any fixed point in sight. It is like being in a ship without a helm, borne along by wind and wave, the shore being distant and the stars obscured. But, for the dreamer, to will a deed is to dream of instantly doing it, or striving to do it; and then, if his previous waking conceptions of similar deeds were associated with painful or shameful consequences, he feels intense mortification. It never occurs to him, as it so often does to men who are wide awake, if they are sorry for what they have done, that the wrongful act may be excused because their will to resist was overcome by the impulse of passion. The dreamer's consciousness tells him that he had not the slightest will to resist, and that his whole will, acting with its fullest energy, was bent upon doing the evil deed. He is therefore still oppressed with a sense of responsibility, and with a vague terror of the consequences, and a feeling of profound disgrace, though he does not see any other course that he could have pursued. This is because the fatal chain of ideas leading to the excitement of undue passion and to a corresponding resolve is not intersected or accompanied in the dreaming mind by reflections upon an alternative or opposite line of conduct.

Every person in waking hours, yielding to habit or to feeling or to some outward influence, must nevertheless think somewhat of the possibility of doing otherwise, if only to reject that possibility. But it is not so with the man in his sleep, inasmuch as the mind is then deprived of its faculty of comparing the alternatives, as well as of its power to dismiss an objectionable train of ideas, and to commence one preferred by rational judgment. This is the exercise of mind guarded by the higher moral sense or true conscience. The secondary conscience, ordinarily proceeding from the fear of censure and contempt, or from other notions of self-interest, or from mere custom, has no jurisdiction over the thoughts. Its useful office is to reprove the faults of outward action and expression. The apparent capability of the will to commit these faults during sleep is therefore visited by reproaches from what we may call the secondary conscience, which is lively enough in dreams. Yet its operation in this instance is blindly mechanical, and is not more a visitation of justice than any form of physical suffering caused by accident or dis

ease.

The innocent victims of its severity are a very numerous class, and deserve our sincere compassion. It is sad to know that not only the humiliating sense of moral impotence, but the guilt of conscious transgression, is the nightly portion of many wise and virtuous men. The saint in his sleep is sometimes transformed into a blackguard, the hero behaves like a sneak, and the prudent citizen becomes an impertinent fool. The gentlest and kindest find themselves doing murder among their families and friends. The man of honor toils all night to concoct a scheme of fraud. The divine preacher or pastor catches himself uttering horrid blasphemy in church. It is probably the persons most averse, by temperament as well as on principle, to any particular kind of vice who are most liable to dream of it. And such dreams are quite as likely to visit their couch after days faithfully employed in the strict discharge of duty, or in contemplating a noble or sacred ideal. This is not inconsistent with our remark concerning the effect of dominant ideas upon the set of the current of loosened thoughts. The ideas of piety and holiness, of equity, of charity, of sobriety and propriety, have a latent association with their opposites, which may be excluded from the waking mind by discipline and culture, but lurk somewhere in the heap of stored-up mental conceptions. When it seethes and stirs in the unchecked flow of dreaming reminiscences, such images as have been repressed by the voluntary exercise of mental self-control, on account of their connection with the idea of sin, will often emerge with a scandalous air of familiarity.

Every reader of the "Acta Sanctorum" must remember some curious instances of this trouble which is apt to be

set the ascetic devotee, and which used to be ascribed to the interference of mischievous demons practising the queerest tricks of illusion. But the effect is just as natural as that of withdrawing pressure from an elastic spring or an air-cushion, to which may be compared the topical sources of those currents of nervous action, in the brain and organs of sensation, already placed en rapport with the forbidden ideas. When the restraining power of rational discernment and moral resolution is absent, as it is during sleep, those parts of the cerebral and nervous organization which have hitherto been prevented from delivering their charge of representative impressions can take their revenge. They send forth an impetuous throng of concrete imagery grouped around an unperceived central point, which is precisely the forgotten rule of conduct, or ethical principle, for whose sake the will had formerly been exerted to keep those images aloof. The reaction, which is purely physical, comes just where the stress of voluntary repression was directly applied. But unhappily this is not the end of the process. As we have seen, the presence of concrete ideas naturally suggestive of a prohibited action has an instantaneous effect upon the feelings; emotion is followed by volition, and by an imaginary action, which is attended by a real pang of remorse.

There is a less oppressive form of bondage to the nocturnal magician who plays such pranks with the mind shut up in its fleshly prison when the doors and windows of sense are closed. It is not always a malignant Satan, but sometimes a frolicsome Puck or Queen Mab, that slyly touches the hidden strings of the wonderful instrument - gray jelly and white fibres being all we can see-by which the trace of every past impression is preserved, recalled, and wrought into ever new combinations. The greatest of our poets and psychologists, who makes a virtuous hero pray God at midnight to "restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose," describes also, with exquisite humor and truth, the ludricrous incidents which. not less frequently arise in a sleeper's harmless frenzy. He has noted more especially how these lighter casual fancies are sometimes imported into the dream by an actual touch or, it may be, an actual sound - which forces an entrance into the receptacle of sensations, and summons a familiar troop of allied ideas to join it. Queen Mab's tiny chariot is driven across the knee of a courtier, and makes him think of bending that knee before the king. It tickles the hand of a lawyer, and he seems to be fingering a fee; or it passes over a lady's lips, and gives her the pleasure of a lover's kiss. Experiments have often been tried in this way, to the amusement of those who have practised on their sleeping friends, when these are persuaded afterwards to confess the subjects of their dreams. Even a word or two spoken in the sleeper's ear has been known to introduce the idea of its proper meaning into the mind without breaking the chain of slumber, and to originate a fresh dream, or to mix up this idea with those he had before.

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It is by the observation of such facts that we learn how the lapse of a few seconds, or the very moment of waking, may be long enough for a dream that seems to the sleeper of immense duration. The breaking of a glass at the bedside, in Tennyson's "Sea Dreams," raises in the man's laboring fancy a somewhat protracted vision of a fleet of glass ships at sea drifting to wreck upon a reef of golden rocks. In these hullucinations caused by some actual impression from without, the emotional activity is less intense the dream is less profound and less seriously taken to heart-than where the images are evolved wholly from the deep store of old experiences. The affections, having grown up about the ideas presented in the latter case, are prompt to respond at the instant of their reappearance. Both ideas and affections, indeed, may easily be aroused by a half consciousness of some accidental circumstance in the posture of the body. But the sleep is lighter upon these occasions, as the mind is partially awake to outward impressions, and the dream is not attended with very earnest feeling. In the deepest and sincerest of our dreams, as in the imaginative genius of the greatest poet, there is, an element of the richest humor. Its creations are, however,

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