The analogy is by no means perfect. Does the Doctor mean that a refreshment of the will is all the benefit our bodies receive from sleep? Should we be rested at all, if our corporeal faculties, like our mental, were, during sleep, in a state of constant and ungovernable agitation? We are inclined to think, that the mind is not at all refreshed by dreams; and that it is only from a state of comparative repose, both bodily and intellectual, that any recreation is derived. The Doctor's next idea seems to be more rational. Sleep is a sort of armistice to the conflicting passions, which, when uninterrupted, are apt to lay waste and disorganize the mind. Obstinate vigilance, on the other hand, keeps the passions in perpetual hostility. It becomes a war of extermination; and some master-feeling, or favourite idea, finally gains and keeps the ascendancy. In these cases the Doctor has found the cold or warm bath to be decidedly advantageous. And he quotes the authority of Horace

Transnanto Tiberium, somno quibus est opus alto.'

Intemperance not only shortens life, by making one live too fast-but embitters it, also, by making him melancholy. We al ways pay for unusual elevation of spirits, by a proportionate depression. There is a considerable difference, however, between the various kinds of stimuli,-between what we drink as bona fide fermented liquors, and the 'draughts' which (to use Dr. Reid's phrase) some ingurgitate, in a pharmaceutical shape'-between brandy and opium, in two words. The difference is principally in degree. The elevation produced by ardent spirits is just high enough to involve us in the clouds; while that produced by opium raises us into the region of perpetual sunshine. The fall is proportionate, in both cases, to the elevation. The person who is addicted to opium, feels much more miserable, than the wine bibber, after the exhilaration is over. Dr. Reid says, that opium operates like oil on water; allaying the agitation of the billows and inducing an agreeable stillness and tranquillity.' We suspect, however, that the description is drawn from the fancied analogy between the two substances, and not from the actual state of what he has observed to be the case. He very sensibly remarks, however, that the common method of attempting to reform drunkards is the worst that can be devised; and that, instead of delineating the prospective misery, to which his life must bring him, we ought to show the more encouraging picture of what comforts await the contrary course. Men who take up hard drinking to prevent themselves from reflecting on their misfortunes, are already habituated to the most gloomy and dark imaginings. As it is impossible, therefore, for another to set before them a worse picture than they themselves call up to their minds, so it is impossible, by such means, to frighten them from their course. By painting the consequences of different conduct, however, we place before them a prospect, which is a complete contrast to what they are accustomed to contemplate; and which, therefore,

has a fair chance of giving a beneficial turn to the current of their thoughts.-The Essay is concluded by a description of the ebriety produced by unexampled good fortune. Dr. Reid cannot pretend, that this sort of intoxication is like that produced by ardent spirits; and he should have taken the pains, we think, to point out the difference between them. Instead of this, he only tells us, that prosperity is, in this particular, more efficacious than adversity; as if adversity ever made a man drunk! Indeed, the word drunkenness is always a metaphor, when applied to a man whose head is turned by unexpected good luck;-and this is one of the instances, in which the Doctor has mistaken a figure for a fact, because his habitual use of metaphors has disabled him from distinguishing between the two.

Some hypochondriacs are so afraid of starving to death, that they deny themselves even the common necessaries of life, and die out of mere excess of abstinence.-Morbid affections of the senses-particularly of the eye and ear-are sometimes the causes and sometimes the consequences of nervous diseases. Dean Swift often complained of deafness: Cowper had such a perpetual din in his head, that he could hear nothing aright; and Dr. Johnson says, at one time, that he could not hear the town clock distinctly; and, at another, that he heard his mother calling out Sam'-though she had been dead many years. Blindness is another effect of the malady. In both cases, external applications are ineffectual; and there is no help for the patient, except in some regimen, which reforms the whole tone of his constitution. Lotions, and the like of that, are but sorry specifics.

Dr. Reid asserts, that mental derangement is no sign of constitutional vigour of intellect;-and, in order to prove the assertion, he adduces the fact, that, in those diseases which are accompanied by insanity, the mental change never takes place till the body is excessively debilitated. We do not clearly see the logic of this observation; but it corresponds with the thesis of the next Essaythat physical malady is the occasion of mental disorder. This we do not think is conclusively proved; though we cannot spare room to tell our readers why.-We can make very little of what the Doctor says on the atmosphere of London. In the next Essay, on dyspeptic and hepatic diseases, the epicures and gormandizers have some good advice. The Doctor laments the dissuetude into which fasts have fallen; and recommends to all gluttons, that, in order to treat their stomachs fairly, they should allow them 'a periodical holy-day.'-There are some valuable observations upon idiocy, palsy, spasmodic, and convulsive affections; which, however, we cannot afford to particularize.-Essay XVIII is on the hereditary nature of madness. Dr. Reid says, that it is not so much madness, strictly speaking, as a tendency to it, which is hereditary. It often lies hid in one generation, and breaks out in another.

The Doctor reprobates, with all his might, the conduct of those who marry under a full consciousness of their disposition to insanity. We are obliged to pass by his remarks on old age; which are neither new, nor striking.-He speaks sensibly, however, on the subject of lunatic asylums. As men are often killed, by being interred prematurely; so, says the Doctor, a person may be made insane, by being too soon confined as such. Great caution is requisite in this particular. The Doctor censures the whole of the present system; and is particularly indignant at streight-jackets and shaving. Lunatics, he says, can only be brought back to reason by kind and gentle treatment. Our medical prisons, he calls 'slaughter-houses for the destruction and mutilation of the hu'man mind.' Insanity does not come on like a fit. Its progress is gradual; may be accurately marked, and, with due pains, be effectually counteracted. As one of its most usual prognostics is a constant recurrence of some favourite idea, every pains should be taken to draw off the mind from the contemplation of that particular object.-The Doctor's observations on bleeding, on pharmacy, on ablution, and on bodily exercise, must be past over. In Essay XXVI we learn, that real evils are sometimes a remedy for those which are imaginary. Fancy has often the effect of reality, in creating disease; but fancy can never be so strong as reality; and, accordingly, when some actual disease takes hold of a hypochondriac, not only the disorder created by the imagination, but the very imagination itself, is generally made sound. Sensation calls off the mind to another object; and thus destroys the very aliment of mental disease.--The last Essay is upon occupation. The Doctor makes some good observations on the subject; but we find nothing worthy of particular remark.

We have thus given a short sketch of Dr. Reid's performance. We were induced to notice it, because, from its very nature, it requires little medical learning to examine its contents; and because we are desirous of encouraging every attempt to clear up a subject, which, in consequence of its subtlety, is almost universally neglected. The mysterious connexion which subsists between the mind and the body, has always been a subject of speculation. It yet remains undiscovered; and every essay towards it, therefore, deserves to be taken notice of.--We shall close the article with a letter addressed to us; in which a very curious case of insanity is related.

DEAR SIR,

Most people feel interested in tracing the mental history of the insane. It affords a melancholy pleasure to become acquainted with their strange imaginations; and the thought should not be a stranger to us, that the misfortune which we perceive others are subject to, may befall ourselves. I have heard of a crazy fellow who arose in a church, and said, while the preacher was reminding his hearers of their ingratitude, Not one of you ever thought of thank

ing God for his reason!' Perhaps the following history may convey reproof and instruction; and induce some to be grateful for well ordered minds, who have hitherto considered themselves entitled to uninterrupted sanity.

A few years since I was personally acquainted with a lady of a reputable family, who had an inordinate attachment to splendour and equipage; which the circumstances of her husband would not permit him to indulge. Her mad love of gaudy, but ideal bliss, together with the disappointment of her extravagant wishes, produced a chronical distemper of the mind. Her dress became highly expensive and fantastic: and she would take possession of any elegant carriage which she found drawn up at a neighbour's house; giving the coachman directions to drive to some spacious abode, which she deemed her own. In one of these excursions she was driven to the Lunatic Asylum; and, rather against her will, detained there. It was, however, 'her Palace;' and all the other insane inhabitants of the place were either her servants, or her guests. Among others, who occasionally visited the Asylum, she saw the writer. At this time Napoleon Bonaparte enjoyed the wealth and dignity of a powerful emperor; and who should be the husband of our lady, but the potent monarch of France, and temporary creator of the destinies of Europe! She imagined herself Josephine; and, although, in reality, she had never seen him who is now the exile of St. Helena; yet she had seen an engraving of his face; and the profile was like yes, it was like that of the writer. For many months he was the Emperor, and she was his spouse; confined by him in a splendid castle, that he might make severe trial of the strength of her affection for him. Her husband and daughters she would not so much as recognize, or deign to answer, during all this time of her imaginary exaltation to a throne and a crown. Any thing which the keeper desired me to request of her, she would perform; and any thing which he could persuade her, I had ordered, was a matter of gratification. Her white sattins and florentine silks were not abandoned in the place of confinement; but she would daily appear in all the stateliness and pride of universal domination. The means of writing were not always afforded her; but when they were, Napoleon was the subject of every line. One Lords-day she solicited pen and ink, and was indulged by the keeper, under this express agreement, that she should write only on a serious subject: and so she filled all the blank leaves of a Psalm-book with a rhapsody which began thus: 'I am required to write only on a serious subject. What subject can be more serious to me, than my present separation from my dear Napoleon?'

That your readers may have some opportunity of becoming acquainted with her talents, and her state of mind, I shall subjoin the copies of two letters which she addressed to your corespondent.

DEAR NAPOLEON,

COPY OF LETTER I.

Spain, March 26th, 1816.*

How novel the style-how various and impressive the emotions!-I desired greatly this privilege of addressing you-can scarcely realize the indulgence and yet, how astonishing!-I certainly address the Emperor of the world, as my own dear husband, and consider the implements of conveying a thought, a wish, the greatest favour! Possessing them, what can I say to you? A volume could not contain itand yet, my pen is mute; nor can my hand, my tremulous hand, retrace the great, the vast, the awful ideas that nearly overpower my imagination; nor engage in that converse sweet that is comprised in objects more minute. I certainly have caught the contagion, or mania of objects that surround me. I am bewildered. The sublime, the profound, the infinite; the burlesque and trifling;' the tender and endearing; the repulsive and forbidden; sham quarrels, and checked reconciliations:-grandeur, magnificence in prospect;-real sufferings, indignities and respect,-the sway of the hearts and affections of millions in submissive subjection to a small single control, &c. &c.—are so blended and confounded, that I can give no intelligible expression to any one of them.

The present hour, aided by the powerful stimulant of sense, predominates, and urges you, in all the language that is persuasive or pathetic, by every motive that can affect the heart, towards an object beloved; yes, beloved,-to put a period to my present probation. Let candour prevail, and inform me what depends on myself that may abridge the period of my residence at this Palace, that bars me from intimate communion with you, and causes all this delirium and rhapsody.

Dear husband, our union, so frequently confirmed by the expression of our will, so repeatedly solemnized by our affectionate subjects, in the various cathedrals and chapels we have attended, cannot now be affected by the voice or will of others, be their inclination or influence what it may. Hasten then to the relief of your spouse. An army would be superfluous: your presence and authority would dissolve the charm, and unbar the gates that withhold me from your embrace. Mount your swiftest, fleetest courser, and speed-fly to the relief of your Margaret. Say that this day shall end the perturbation of her mind, or turn all the energies of her emotions into a new channel, by a transit of situation:or hush them into peace and sweet tranquillity by the soothings of endearment and affection-the kindly office of tender friendship, of conjugal love. I wish to say much: do you imagine all for me; being under restraint lest some of the enemy's scouting parties should intercept this, and give it publicity, which would be painful to delicacy, and tenderness that shrinks from the observation and criticism of others. I will only add, hasten to the relief of your affectionate wife Margaret-your own dear

The Emperor Napoleon.

MARGARET BONAPARTE.

P. S. This is conveyed with great risk, by the keeper of the castle. I hope it may arrive safe, and my answer be from your own lips. M. B.

* She should have written A. D. 1811.