the Celtic
theory of dreaming, of which I have since often thought. Two young men
had been spending the early portion of a warm summer day in exactly such
a scene as that in which he communicated the anecdote. There was an
ancient ruin beside them, separated, however, from the mossy bank on
which they sat, by a slender runnel, across which there lay, immediately
over a miniature cascade, a few withered grass stalks. Overcome by the
heat of the day, one of the young men fell asleep; his companion watched
drowsily beside him; when all at once the watcher was aroused to
attention by seeing a little indistinct form, scarce larger than a
humble-bee, issue from the mouth of the sleeping man, and, leaping upon
the moss, move downwards to the runnel, which it crossed along the
withered grass stalks, and then disappeared amid the interstices of the
ruin. Alarmed by what he saw, the watcher hastily shook his companion by
the shoulder, and awoke him; though, with all his haste, the little
cloud-like creature, still more rapid in its movements, issued from the
interstice into which it had gone, and, flying across the runnel,
instead of creeping along the grass stalks and over the sward, as
before, it re-entered the mouth of the sleeper, just as he was in the
act of awakening. "What is the matter with you?" said the watcher,
greatly alarmed. "What ails you?" "Nothing ails me," replied the other;
"but you have robbed me of a most delightful dream. I dreamed I was
walking through a fine rich country, and came at length to the shores of
a noble river; and, just where the clear water went thundering down a
precipice, there was a bridge all of silver, which I crossed; and then,
entering a noble palace on the opposite side, I saw great heaps of gold
and jewels, and I was just going to load myself with treasure, when you
rudely awoke me, and I lost all." I know not what the asserters of the
clairvoyant faculty may think of the story; but I rather believe I have
occasionally seen them make use of anecdotes that did not rest on
evidence a great deal more solid than the Highland legend, and that
illustrated not much more clearly the philosophy of the phenomena with
which they profess to deal.

Of all my cousins, Cousin George was the one whose pursuits most nearly
resembled my own, and in whose society I most delighted to share. He did
sometimes borrow a day from his work, even after his marriage; but then,
according to the poet, it was