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valued, as to have caused it to be almost entirely left out of account, when estimating the relative force of customs in giving the tone to our dispositions. The habit we allude to is that known by the name of reverie, or that indolent exercise of the imagination, much easier conceived than defined, to which the poetically fanciful are most addicted. But it is not confined to them; if it were, the subsequent remarks would be unnecessary for reverie is the living fountain of poetry; and to it we are indebted for those beautiful and ethereal creations of imagination which delight and enchant the world. The following remarks are not intended for this high character of thought; but for that "sauntering humour" which the young and solitary student is most liable to indulge, and which, when favoured by an union with a particular sensibility of temperament, is the source of much of the unhappiness and unprofitableness of mature life.
It would occupy much more space than could be well spared to this ar ticle, to trace this species of reverie in its origin, and in its progress to a fixed mental habit; so we will merely remark, before describing some of its effects, the ordinary phenomena of reverie in those who, without judgment to save them from its injurious consequences, have not sufficient vigour of imagination to constitute them poets. Its characteristical features, then are first, that in it the mind is so absorbed by its own internal feeling, as to be insensible (in a degree) to the ordinary appulses of external bodies: secondly, the attention, instead of being steadily anchored by the will, floats passively down the stream of internal feeling, without helm or compass: thirdly, the thoughts and emotions which constitute the reverie, are tinged by a hue of futurity to which it would appear they owe their vividness and pleasure; for by a provision of nature, the wisdom and beneficence of which it is unnecessary to dwell upon, all our prospective emotions are SO brightened to our conception by hope's unclouded sunshine, as to give to any of our other thoughts and feelings with which they may commingle or coexist an interest and fascination which it would be other wise difficult to account for.
The thoughts of reverie, it is evident from these its most striking features, differ but slightly from the dreams of sleep; and accordingly they have been expressively named waking or day-dreams in contradistinction to those of night. Their chief difference is, that in sleep the delusion is greater, because, from the more perfect torpor of external sense, there is the less liability of the perception of external objects giving the lie to the impostures of fancy; on account of the more complete repose of the active faculties (the will and judgment) the attention is more wayward, and the connection between the thoughts more shadowy and evanescent; and lastly, the feeling of prospectiveness does not form so usual or essential a constituent of the dreams of sleep as of the visions of reverie. This diffusion of futurity is very evident in the day-dreams of boyhood. In these delightful moments, in which the mind, escaping from the trammels of will and judgment, riots amid scenes of its own creation, the reverist is transported by his imagination to a world which he believed to exist beyond the bounds of his actual knowledge, and there, anticipating those joys and pleasures that hope and fancy have sketched out for him,-performs a part in stations for which he believes he is in time destined. By being accustomed thus to dwell in a future world of his own, the boy by degrees becomes indifferent and insensible to the actual world around him; and his attention, from its being constantly fixed on a particular train of ideas, which occupy his mind to the exclusion of other intellectual gratifications, is with the greatest difficulty attracted to the ordinary and necessary duties of social existence.
A remarkable instance of this unhappy effect of a habit of reverie is told us by Dr. Crichton, in his work on Mental Diseases. He alludes to a young gentleman of large fortune, who, until the age of 21, had enjoyed a tolerably good state of health. He was of a calm and gentle, but rather unsocial disposition he seemed lost to every thing around him, and would willingly sit nearly a whole day without moving; yet without this he was not like a melancholy patient; for if his countenance were attentively watched, it was easy to discover that
a multiplicity of thoughts were constantly succeeding each other, many of which were gay and cheerful.
He would laugh heartily at times; but his laughter was not of that unmeaning kind we often see in idiotism, but such as any one might indulge who had ludicrous thoughts, and was not under the restraint of society. In a moment after the whole expression of his countenance changed, and he would sink into a deep reverie. In the course of his disorder he became so remarkably inattentive, that even when pressed by some want which he wished to express, he would, after he had gotten half way through the sentence, suddenly stop, as if he had forgotten what to say. When his attention was roused, and he was engaged to speak, he always expressed himself in good language, and with great propriety; and if a question were proposed to him which required the exercise of judgment, and he could be made to attend to it, he judged correctly.
In the latter part of his illness, a total disregard that he had for those whom he formerly loved amounted to a disgust which he expressed rudely, and which could not be conciliated by kindness. When he was placed in such situations as required the exercise of judgment in order to preserve him from danger, he exerted himself until he became familiarized with it, and then grew gradually less attentive. Dr. Crichton prevailed on him to drive a curricle, and accompanied him to watch his mind. For a few days he was all attention, but the irksomeness of the exertion made him soon tire. He drove steadily, and when about to pass a carriage, took pains to avoid it; but when at last he became familiar with this exercise, he would often relapse into thought, and allow the reins to hang loose in his hands. His ideas were for ever varying: when any one crossed his mind that excited anger, the horses suffered for it: but the spirit exhibited at such unusual and unkind treatment, made him soon desist, and re-excited his attention to his own personal safety; as soon as the animals were quieted he would relapse into thought: if his ideas were melancholy the horses were allowed to walk slowly, if gay and cheerful, they were gently en
couraged to go fast. This young man had an early developed disposition to solitary reverie, the evil consequences of which might have been prevented by a more judicious method of education than that adopted towards him, but he was unfortunate enough to have for his tutor a man of unpleasant and austere manners, -a man, says Crichton, whose character was more suited for the severities of a monkish life, than the companion of a man of fortune. It must be evident that a man of this disposition would be the last to wean a youth from so fascinating a habit as that of reverie: on the contrary, as was unfortunately the case with this young man, he could serve no purpose but that of strengthening and confirming it. This extreme effect of reverie did not arise from a connate defect of judgment; for his answers to questions that required the exercise of judgment were remarkable for their accuracy and their propriety of expression. The difficulty of fixing the wandering attention on any particular object is the most striking feature in this case, arising, no doubt, from the unmathematical course of his education, and the unpalatableness of the intellectual food placed before him-transforming the custom of his will throwing the reins on the neck of fancy into a necesṣary and unavoidable habit. shows the importance of an early wholesome discipline of the mental powers, as the only means of strengthening the reasoning faculties, which are thereby enabled to supply the fancy with ballast on her occasional excursions to Utopia. If this young man's intellectual culture had been conducted more judiciously, and his studies thereby rendered alluring and desirable, instead of being insipid and repugnant, his attention thus attracted to suitable objects would have grown into an opposite habit, and prevented the sequel which a different course produced.
There is another remarkable case told us in the Zoonomia, which was successfully treated by the author of that work, who says, that they in whom the temperament of sensibility predominates have the greatest tendency to reverie. The patient was a young lady of seventeen, with light eyes and hair, who (after some nervous attack) fell into a reverie for
about an hour every day for six break the periodical chain of ideas, weeks. She conversed aloud with and by that means to give the maimaginary persons, with her eyes lady a new type. In the next place, open, and could not for an hour be it shows us that, let the mind be brought to attend to the stimulus of never so much absorbed by its own external objects by any kind of vio- internal feelings, we have still some lence which it was proper to use. command over the train of ideas These conversations were quite conwith which the attention is occupied. sistent, and she imagined her com- This was seen in the turn which the panions to answer. Sometimes she sight of the tuberose gave to the was angry, at other times shewed ideas of the young lady, and in the much wit and vivacity, but was remarkable effect of the sunshine in most frequently inclined to melan- giving a cheerful hue to the visions choly. In these reveries she some of the reverie; but more evidently times sang over some music with in the singular but melancholy exaccuracy, and repeated whole pas- pressions, which the sound of the sages of the English poets. In re- passing bell and the sight of her shoe peating some lines from Mr. Pope's gave birth to. "I love the colour works, she forgot some word, and black-a little wider, and a little began again, endeavouring to re- longer, even this might make me a collect it; when she came to the coffin." And lastly, it shows us that, forgotten word, it was shouted aloud when we have succeeded in attractin her ear, and this repeatedly to no ing and then fixing the attention to purpose; but by many trials she at other objects, the cure is accomlength regained it herself. After plished; as was exemplified in the three weeks, the reveries became less recovery of this young lady in about complete, so that she could walk six weeks, through the philosophical about without striking the furniture. treatment of her physician. It would She drank tea, when the apparatus be easy to quote cases that painfully attracted her attention. She once illustrate the pernicious consequences seemed to smell a tuberose (belong of a too freely indulged habit of ing to her sister), which was in reverie; but these will suffice to imflower in her chamber, and delibe- press upon us the necessity of renderrated aloud about breaking it from ing the studies of youth alluring to the stem, saying "it would make the mind, and thereby placing the her sister charmingly angry." At attention within the control of the another time, in her melancholy mo- will. By neglecting to do this, the ments, she heard the sound of a spring of life becomes cheerless and passing-bell, and then taking off unhappy, and, what is of more conone of her shoes, said, "I love the sequence, the three after seasons are colour black-a little wider, and a confounded into one black mass of little longer, even this might make sorrow and despondency. There is me a coffin." Great light thrown a passage in Mr. Locke's work on upon her rendered her ideas less me- Education which we cannot forbear lancholy. Her pulse was unaffected. quoting, as it bears on the subject She never could recollect a single under consideration, and points out idea of what had passed in the re- the necessity of address in ascertainverie. ing the most suitable object for fixing the attention.
This is an exceedingly interesting case, and, by its successful method of treatment, encourages us with the hope of cure, even when the habit of reverie presents the aspect of a formidable malady.
It shews us, in the first place, how apt all aberrations from the mental, as well as corporeal, standard of health are to assume a certain periodical character, which indeed serves as a guide in our endeavours to reclaim the subjects of these aberrations, Accordingly, Dr. Darwin's first efforts were directed to
"Upon the first suspicion a father has that his son is of a sauntering temper, he must carefully observe him whether he be listless and indifferent in all his actions; or whether in some things alone he be slow or sluggish, and in others vigorous and eager. For though he finds that he does loiter at his book, and let a good deal of the time he spends in his chamber-study run idly away, he must not presently conclude that this is from a sauntering humour in his temper. It may be childishness
and a preferring something to his study which his thoughts run on: and he dislikes his book, as is natural, because it is forced upon him as a task. To know this perfectly, you must watch him at play, when he is out of his place and time of study, following his own inclinations; and see there, whether he be stirring and active; whether he designs any thing, and with labour and eagerness pursues it, till he has accomplished what he aimed at; or whether he lazily and listlessly dreams away his time. If then his sloth be only when he is about his book, I think it may be easily cured. If it be in his temper, it will require a little more pains and attentions to remedy it."
There is a prejudice abroad-insisted on principally by the man-milliners of literature, against restraining the fancy in youth; as if indeed there were any hope of diminishing the number of candidates for poetic fame. But" poeta nascitur, non fit" holds good in more senses than one: if nature has endowed the youth with sufficient intellect to convert the sprouts of fancy into vigorous plants of the imagination, the weight of more solid acquirements serves but to condense the elastic "poeticity" of feeling until, time or accident having given it vent, it rushes forth with an expansive energy which it never probably could otherwise have
acquired. We might adduce numberless instances of the truth of this, one of the most recent is that of Alfieri, whose father endeavoured with might and main for twenty years to eradicate the poetic disposition of his son; with what success, his energetic tragedies testify.
To conclude-fixing the attention in youth is laying the surest foundation of that superstructure on which the intellectual and moral happiness of the individual depend. It is the first step towards the developement and perfecting of the reflecting faculties; and he, in whom the reflecting faculties lie torpid and useless, may have that power which wealth and fortune involve, but can never aspire to that empire over the minds of men, which constitutes the true aristocracy and dignity of human nature. To achieve any noble enterprise of intellect, it is first necessary to "gird up the loins of the mind;" and that can be only done by him who has the imaginative faculties under that guidance of the will which is incompatible with a fixed habit of "sauntering" reverie.
"A man's nature," says Lord Bacon, "runs either to herbs or weeds; therefore let him seasonably water the one and destroy the other :" a maxim as instinct with the spirit of poetry as of wisdom.
EXCERPTA ANTIQUARIA; OR, MISCELLANEOUS ANTIQUITIES. MONASTERY OF ST. ALBAN'S.
THE following curious description of the manners and customs, as well as of a deception practised in order to amuse the vulgar, at one of our most celebrated English monasteries, is taken from the manuscript collections of a well-known antiquary and collector, preserved in the Bodleian Library. It is in the handwriting of Dr. Richard Rawlinson, brother to Thomas Rawlinson (the Tom Folio of the Tatler) of bookcollecting notoriety, and himself a very singular person. He first bequeathed his property to the Royal and Antiquarian Societies, and then in a codicil cut them both off without a shilling, for some trifling misunderstanding with one of their officers: in order to be completely revenged,
he directed that no person, whom in any way he benefited by his endowments or bequests, should, so long as he partook of his bounty, become a member of either of those learned bodies; and having quarrelled with some unfortunate native of Scotland, the Doctor moreover decreed that the same ineligibility should attach to every Scotchman or son of a Scotchman, and to all persons born in any of our plantations abroad. With all these infirmities of temper and peculiarities of disposition, the friends of literature are under considerable obligations to Dr. Rawlinson. He founded a lecture for the promotion and encouragement of Anglo-Saxon literature in the university of Oxford, left the principal part of his proper
came thither, they sat at the end of his table. After the monks had waited some time on the abbot, they sat down at two other tables placed on each side of the hall, and had their service brought up by the novices, who when the monks had
dined sat down to their own dinner.
ty to augment the fellowships and scholarships of the college in which he had himself received his education, and bequeathed to the public library a collection of printed books and of manuscripts, embracing almost all subjects, and in almost all languages, but peculiarly abounding in treasures pertaining to the history and anti-rived at St. Albans, the then abbot, for quities of his own country, as well as in miscellaneous English literature. It is from a loose paper, written by Dr. Rawlinson, and inserted in one of these manuscripts, that we have taken the following:
Mr. Robert Shrimpton, grandfather by the mother's side to Mistress Simpson of St. Albans, was four times mayor of St. Albans he dyed about sixty years since, being then about 103 years of age.
He lived when the abby of St. Albans flourished, before the dissolution, and remembered most things relating to the buildings of the abby, the regiment of the house, the ceremonies in the church, the grand processions, which he would often discourse of in his life-time. Among others that in the great hall there was an ascent of fifteen steps to the abbot's table, to which the monks brought up the service in plate, and staying at every five steps, at a landing place, they sung a short hymne. The abbot usually sat alone in the middle of the table, and when any noblemen, ambassadours, or strangers of eminent quality
This Mr. Shrimpton remembered that when the news of Queen Marie's death argrief, took his chamber and dyed within a fortnight. He also remembered the image, erected near St. Albans' shrine, when one being placed to govern the wyres, the eyes would move, and head nodd, according as he liked or disliked the offering; and that, being young, he had many times crept into the hollow of it.
In the grand processions through the town, when the image of St. Alban was carried, it was usually born by twelve monks, and after it had been sett down a while at the markett cross, and the monks assaying to take it up again, they pretended they could not stir it, the abbot coming and laying his crossier upon the image, and using these words, "Arise, arise, St. Alban! arise, and get thee home to thy sanctuary!" it forthwith yielded to be borne by the monks. In the abby was a large room with bedds on each side for the receipt of strangers and pilgrims, where they had lodging and diett for three days, without question made, whence they came, or whither they went? but after that time they staid not without rendring an account of both."
PRINCE CHARLES'S JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. There is no English historian who does not make especial mention of the Spanish match, and of the expedition of King Charles the First (then Prince of Wales) into Spain. It is not however generally known that, in order to quiet the alarms of the people, and probably to mitigate the public displeasure so likely to manifest itself, when the extraordinary situation, if not the imminent danger, to which the heir-apparent of the English throne was exposed should become generally understood, a very particular account of the reception given to the Prince on his arrival at Madrid was printed in England during his residence in the Spanish capital. It is a tract of great rarity; and as it betrays evident signs of having issued from head quarters, and besides throws no small light on the manners of the two courts at that period, we shall give some account of it in our present article.
The pamphlet is entitled A true Relation and Jovrnall of the Manner of the Arrivall and magnificent Entertainment, given to the high and mighty Prince Charles, Prince of Great Britaine, by the King of Spaine in his Court at Madrid. Published by Authority. London, Printed by John Haviland for William Barret. 1623.
From this it appears that the Prince arrived at Madrid on Friday March the 7th, at eight in the evening, attended only by the Marquis of Buckingham, and the postilion with whom they had ridden post the three preceding days. They immediately went to the house of the Earl of Bristol, then ambassador at the Court, hoping that their names and rank might remain concealed. It soon however got whispered abroad that the Marquis was arrived, but the very next morning the Conde de Gondomar was privately informed of the real character of both these illustrious visitors, and instantly repaired to