And first I am bound to present a faithful picture of my own peculiar nature relatively to sleep.  I do not doubt that were every individual to imitate me, it would be found that among many circumstances peculiar to their individual nature, a sufficiently general resemblance would be found to prove the connexion existing between those peculiarities and the most universal phenomena.  I shall employ caution, indeed, as to the facts which I state, that they contain nothing false or exaggerated.  But they contain no more than certain elucidations of my own nature; concerning the degree in which it resembles, or differs from, that of others, I am by no means accurately aware.  It is sufficient, however, to caution the reader against drawing general inferences from particular instances.

I omit the general instances of delusion in fever or delirium, as well as mere dreams considered in themselves.  A delineation of this subject, however inexhaustible and interesting, is to be passed over.  What is the connexion of sleeping and of waking?

2.  I distinctly remember dreaming three several times, between intervals of two or more years, the same precise dream.  It was not so much what is ordinarily called a dream; the single image, unconnected with all other images, of a youth who was educated at the same school with myself, presented itself in sleep.  Even now, after the lapse of many years, I can never hear the name of this youth, without the three places where I dreamed of him presenting themselves distinctly to my mind.

3.  In dreams, images acquire associations peculiar to dreaming; so that the idea of a particular house, when it recurs a second time in dreams, will have relation with the idea of the same house, in the first time, of a nature entirely different from that which the house excites, when seen or thought of in relation to waking ideas.

4.  I have beheld scenes, with the intimate and unaccountable connexion of which with the obscure parts of my own nature, I have been irresistibly impressed.  I have beheld a scene which has produced no unusual effect on my thoughts.  After the lapse of many years I have dreamed of this scene.  It has hung on my memory, it has haunted my thoughts, at intervals, with the pertinacity of an object connected with human affections.  I have visited this scene again.  Neither the dream could be dissociated from the landscape, nor the landscape from the dream, nor feelings, such as neither singly could have awakened, from both.

But the most remarkable event of this nature, which ever occurred to me, happened five years ago at Oxford.  I was walking with a friend, in the neighbourhood of that city, engaged in earnest and interesting conversation.  We suddenly turned the corner of a lane, and the view, which its high banks and hedges had concealed, presented itself.  The view consisted of a wind-mill, standing in one among many plashy meadows, inclosed with stone