the voices rising from an indistinct whisper to plain
speech. I knew an instance, (which at least is
not related in the very curious work of M. Boismont
on the “Natural History of Hallucinations,”)
where an invalid, recovering from illness, could hear
for half a night the debates and doings of an imaginary
association in the next chamber, the absurdity of which
often made him laugh so that he could with difficulty
keep quiet enough to listen; while occasionally extracts
would be read from books written in a style whose
precision and eloquence excited his admiration, or
whose affecting solemnity moved him deeply, though
he knew perfectly well that the whole came from his
own brain. This he could either cause or permit,
and could in an instant change the subject of the conversation
or command it into silence. He would sometimes
throw his pillow against the wall and say, “Be
still! I’ll hear no more till daybreak!”
And this has taken place when he was in calm health
in mind, and, except weakness, in body, and broad
awake. What was singular, the voices would cease
at his bidding, and in one instance (which might have
startled him, had he not known how common it is for
persons to wake at an hour they fix) they awoke him
at the time appointed. Their language would bear
the ordinary tests of sanity, and was like that we
see in daily newspapers; but the various knowledge
brought in, the complicated scenes gone through, made
the whole resemble intricate concerted music, from
the imperfect study of which possibly came the power
to fabricate them. That they were owing to some
physical cause was shown by their keeping a sort of
cadence with the pulse, and in the fact, that, though
not disagreeable, they were wearisome; especially
as they always appeared to be got up with some remote
reference to the private faults and virtues of that
tedious individual who is always forcing his acquaintance
upon us, avoid him however we may,—one’s
self.
Shall we suppose that Shakspeare wrote in such an
opium dream as this? Did his “wood-notes
wild” come from him as tunes do from a barrel-organ,
where it is necessary only to set the machine and disturb
the bowels of it by turning? Was it sufficient
for him to fore-plan the plots of his plays, the story,
acts, scenes, persons,—the general rough
idea, or argument,—and then to sit at his
table, and, by some process analogous to mesmeric
manipulations, put himself into a condition in which
his genius should elaborate and shape what
he, by the aid of his poetic taste and all other faculties,
had been able to rough-hew? How far did his consciousness
desert him?—only partially, as in the instance
just given, so that he marvelled, while he wrote,
at his own fertility, power, and truth?—or
wholly, as in a Pythonic inspiration, so that the
frenzy filled him to his fingers’ ends, and he
wrote, he knew not what, until he re-read it in his
ordinary state? In fine, was he the mere conduit
of a divinity within him?—or was he in his
very self, in the nobility and true greatness of his
being and the infinitude of his faculties, a living
fountain,—he, he alone, in as plain and
common a sense as we mean when we say “a man,”
the divinity?