It is, I believe, one of the numerous theories on the mysterious subject of dreams, that they are merely trains of recollections, touched in some way we know not of, and influenced by various causes over which we have no sort of control; and that, although they are very strangely jumbled and combined, they always relate, so exclusively, either to past events, or to past thoughts, that no ideas strictly new ever enter our minds in sleep.
Be this true or false, I find that, on reading over the scanty notes above alluded to, written at Bermuda more than six-and-twenty years ago, I am made conscious of a feeling a good deal akin to that which belongs to dreaming. Many objects long forgotten, are brought back to my thoughts with perfect distinctness; and these, again, suggest others, more or less distinctly, of which I possess no written record. At times a whole crowd of these recollections stand forward, almost as palpably as if they had occurred yesterday. I hear the well-known voices of my old messmates—see their long-forgotten faces—and can mark, in my memory’s eye, their very gait, and many minute and peculiar habits. In the next minute, however, all this is so much clouded over, that by no effort of the imagination, assisted even by the journal, can I bring back the picture as it stood before me only a moment before. It sometimes also happens in this curious retrospect, that a strange confusion of dates and circumstances takes place, with a vague remembrance of hopes, and fears, and wishes, painful anticipations, and bitter passing thoughts, all long since gone. But these day dreams of the past sometimes come rushing back on the fancy, all at once, in so confused a manner, that they look exceedingly like what is often experienced in sleep. Is there, in fact, any other difference, except that, in the case of slumber, we have no control over this intellectual experiment, and, in the other, we have the power of varying it at pleasure? When awake we can steer the mental vessel with more or less precision—when asleep our rudder is carried away, and we must drift about at the capricious bidding of our senses, over a confused sea of recollections.
It may be asked, what is the use of working out these speculations? To which I would answer, that it may often be highly useful, in the practice of life, for people to trace their thoughts back, in order to see what have been the causes, as well as the effects, of their former resolutions. It is not only interesting, but may be very important, to observe how far determinations of a virtuous nature had an effectual influence in fortifying us against the soft insinuations, or the rude assaults of temptation; or how materially any original defect or subsequent omission in such resolutions may have brought us under the cutting lash of self-reproach.
It would probably be very difficult, if not impossible, for any person to lay open his own case so completely to the view of others, that the rest of the world should be enabled to profit, as he himself, if he chooses, may do, by his past experience in these delicate matters. I shall hardly attempt such a task, however; but shall content myself with saying, that, on now looking back to those days, I can, in many instances, lay my hand upon the very hour, the very incident, and the very thought and feeling, which have given a decided direction to many very material actions of the intervening period. In some cases, the grievous anguish of remorse has engraved the lesson so deeply on the memory, that it shews like an open wound still. In others, it has left only a cicatrice, to mark where there has been suffering. But even these, like the analogous case of bodily injuries, are liable to give their twitches as the seasons vary.
It is far pleasanter, however, and a still more profitable habit, I am quite sure, to store up agreeable images of the past, with a view to present and future improvement, as well as enjoyment, than to harass the thoughts too much by the contemplation of opportunities lost, or of faculties neglected or misused. Of this cheerful kind of retrospect, every person of right thoughts must have an abundant store. For, let the croakers say what they please, ‘this brave world’ is exceedingly fertile in sources of pleasure to those whose principles are sound, and who, at all times and seasons, are under the wholesome consciousness, that while, without higher aid, they can essentially do nothing, there will certainly be no such assistance lent them, unless they themselves, to use a nautical phrase, ‘bend their backs like seamen to the oar,’ and leave nothing untried to double the Cape of their own life and fortunes. It is in this vigorous and sustained exertion that most persons fail—this ‘attention suivie,’ as the French call it, which, as it implies the absence of self-distrust, gives, generally, the surest earnest of success.
It has sometimes struck me as not a little curious, that, while we have such unbounded faith in the constancy of the moon’s motions, and rest with such confidence on the accuracy of our charts and books, as to sail our ships, in the darkest nights, over seas we have never before traversed; yet that, in the moral navigation of our lives, we should hesitate in following principles infinitely more important, and in which we ought to have a faith at least as undoubting. The old analogy, indeed, between the storms of the ocean, and those of our existence, holds good throughout this comparison; for the half-instructed navigator, who knows not how to rely on his chart and compass, or who has formed no solid faith in the correctness of the guides to whom he ought to trust his ship, has no more chance of making a good passage across the wide seas, than he whose petty faith is bounded by his own narrow views and powers, is likely to be successful in the great voyage of life.
There is a term in use at sea called ‘backing and filling,’ which consists at one moment in bracing the yards so that the wind shall catch the sails in reverse, and, by bringing them against the masts, drive the ship stern-foremost; and then, after she has gone far enough in that direction, in bracing up the yards so that the sails may be filled, and the ship again gather headway. This manœuvre is practised in rivers when the wind is foul, but the tide favourable, and the width of the stream too small to admit of working the vessel regularly, by making tacks across. From thus alternately approaching to the bank and receding from it, an appearance of indecision, or rather of an unwillingness to come too near the ground, is produced, and thence the term is used to express, figuratively, that method of speaking where reluctance is shewn to come too near the abrupt points of the subject, which yet must be approached if any good is to be done. I confess, accordingly, that, just now, I have been ‘backing and filling’ with my topic, and have preferred this indirect method of suggesting to my young friends the fitting motives to action, rather than venturing to lecture them in formal terms. The paths to honour, indeed, every man must trace out for himself; but the discovery will certainly be all the easier if he knows the direction in which they lie.
The following brief specimen of a midshipman’s journal will shew, as well as a whole volume could do, the sort of stuff of which such documents are made. The great fault, indeed, of almost all journals consists in their being left, like Chinese paintings, without shading or relief, and in being drawn with such a barbarous perspective, that every thing appears to lie in one plane, in the front of the picture.
“Bermuda, Sunday, April 22.
“Wind south. Last night I had the first watch. Turned out this morning at seven bells. Breakfasted on a roll and some jelly. Wind blowing pretty hard at south. Struck lower yards and top-gallant masts. After breakfast read one or two tales of the Genii. Dressed for muster, and at six bells beat to divisions. I asked leave to go on shore to dine with Capt. O’Hara, but was refused. So I dined upon the Old thing—salt junk and dough. The captain landed in the pinnace. Employed myself most of the afternoon in reading Plutarch’s Lives. Had coffee at four o’clock. Blowing harder than ever, and raining very much. Read the Bible till six; then went on deck. At nine went to bed. Turned out at four in the morning.