. Whims and oddities : in prose and verse. for me,might close their uninviting doors. Who would care tosit at the miserable parodies of Lear, Hamlet, and Othello; to say nothing of the Tempest, or the Midsummer Nights Phantasy,—that could commandthe representation of either of those noble Dramas, with allthe sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, andawful reality of a dream ? For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi,there is a recipe extant, that is currently attributed to thelate Mr. Fuseli. I mean, a supper of raw pork ; but, as Inever slept after it, I cannot speak as to
. Whims and oddities : in prose and verse. for me,might close their uninviting doors. Who would care tosit at the miserable parodies of Lear, Hamlet, and Othello; to say nothing of the Tempest, or the Midsummer Nights Phantasy,—that could commandthe representation of either of those noble Dramas, with allthe sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, andawful reality of a dream ? For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi,there is a recipe extant, that is currently attributed to thelate Mr. Fuseli. I mean, a supper of raw pork ; but, as Inever slept after it, I cannot speak as to the effect. Opium, I have never tried, and, therefore, have neverexperienced such magnificent visions as are described byits eloquent historian. I have never been buried for agesunder pyramids; and yet, methinks, have suffered agoniesas intense as his could be, from the common-place inflic-tions. For example, a night spent in the counting of in-terminable numbers,—an Inquisitorial penance — ever-lasting tedium—the Minds treadmill!. MY NATURE IS SUBDUED TO WHAT IT WORKS IN. A DREAM. 151 Another writer, in recording his horrible dreams, de-scribes himself to have been sometimes an animal pursuedby hounds; sometimes a bird, torn in pieces by are flat contradictions of my Theory of Ovidian Metamorphoses never yet entered into myexperience. I never translate myself. I must know thetaste of rape, and hempseed, and have cleansed my giz-zard with small gravel, before even Fancy can turn meinto a bird. I must have another nowl upon my shoulders,ere I can feel a longing for a bottle of chopt hay, or yourgood dried oats. My own habits and prej udices, all thesymptoms of my identity, cling to me in my dreams. Itnever happened to me to fancy myself a child or a woman,dwarf or giant, stone-blind, or deprived of any sense. And here, the latter part of the sentence reminds me ofan interesting question, on this subject, that has greatlypuzzled me; and of which I
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