CHAPTER VI.

DAYMARE.

I HAVE strong doubts as to the propriety of considering this affection in any way different from the incubus, or nightmare. It seems merely a modification of the latter, only accompanied by no aberration of the judgment. The person endures precisely many of the same feelings, such as dif ficult respiration, torpor of the voluntary muscles, deep sighing, extreme terror, and inability to speak. The only difference which seems to exist between the two states is, that, in daymare, the reason is always unclouded-whereas in incubus it is generally more or less disturbed.

Dr. Mason Good, in his "Study of Medicine," takes notice of a case, recorded by Forestus, "that returned periodically every third day, like an intermittent fever. The patient was a girl, nine years of age, and at these times was suddenly attacked with great terror, a constriction of both the lower and upper belly, with urgent difficulty of breathing. Her eyes continued open, and were permanently continued to one spot; with her hands she

forcibly grasped hold of things, that she might breathe the more easily. When spoken to, she returned no answer. In the meantime, the mind seemed to be collected; she was without sleep; sighed repeatedly; the abdomen was elevated, the thorax still violently contracted, and oppressed with laborious respiration and heavy panting: she was incapable of utterance."

During the intensely hot summer of 1825, I experienced an attack of daymare. Immediately after dining, I threw myself on my back upon a sofa, and, before I was aware, was seized with difficult respiration, extreme dread, and utter incapability of motion or speech. I could neither move nor cry, while the breath came from my chest in broken and suffocating paroxysms. During all this time, I was perfectly awake: I saw the light glaring in at the windows in broad sultry streams; I felt the intense heat of the day pervading my frame; and heard distinctly the different noises in the street, and even the ticking of my own watch, which I had placed on the cushion beside me. I had, at the same time, the consciousness of flies buzzing around, and settling with annoying pertinacity upon my face. During the whole fit, judgment was never for a moment suspended. I felt assured that I labored under a species of incubus. I even endeavored to reason myself out of the feeling of dread which filled my mind, and longed with insufferable ardor for some one to open the door, and dissolve the spell which bound me in its

fetters. The fit did not continue above five min· utes: by degrees I recovered the use of speech and motion and as soon as they were so far restored as to enable me to call out and move my limbs, it wore insensibly away.

Upon the whole, I consider daymare and nightmare identical. They proceed from the same causes, and must be treated in a similar manner.

CHAPTER VII.

SLEEP-WALKING.

In simple dreaming, as I have already stated, some of the cerebral organs are awake, while others continue in the quiescence of sleep. Such, also, is the case in somnambulism, but with this addition, that the dream is of so forcible a nature as to stimulate into action the muscular system as well as, in most cases, one or more of the organs of the senses. If we dream that we are walking, and the vision possesses such a degree of vividness and exciting energy as to arouse the muscles of locomotion, we naturally get up and walk. Should we dream that we hear or see, and the impression be so vivid as to stimulate the eyes and ears, or, more properly speaking, those parts of the brain which take cognizance of sights and sounds, then we both see any objects, or hear any sounds, which may occur, just as if we were awake. In some cases, the muscles only are excited, and then we simply walk, without either seeing or hearing. In others, both the muscles and organs of sight are stimulated, and we not only walk, but have the

use of our eyes. In a third variety, the activity of hearing is added, and we both walk, and see, and hear. Should the senses of smell, taste, and touch be stimulated into activity, and relieved from the torpor into which they were thrown by sleep, we have them also brought into operation. If, to all this, we add an active state of the organs of speech, inducing us to talk, we are then brought as nearly as the slumbering state admits, into the condition of perfect wakefulness. The following passage from Dr. Mason Good will illustrate some of the foregoing points more fully.

"If," observes he, "the external organ of sense thus stimulated be that of sight, the dreamer may perceive objects around him, and be able to distinguish them; and if the tenor of the dreaming ideas should as powerfully operate upon the muscles of locomotion, these also may be thrown into their accustomed state of action, and he may rise from his bed, and make his way to whatever place the drift of his dream may direct him, with perfect ease, and free from danger. He will see more or less distinctly, in proportion as the organ of sight is more or less awake: yet, from the increased exhaustion, and, of course, increased torpor of the other organs, in consequence of an increased demand of sensorial power from the common stock, to supply the action of the sense and muscles immediately engaged, every other sense will probably be thrown into a deeper sleep or torpor than if the whole had been quiescent. Hence,