climate. I am now writing with the thermometer at ninety-two, and it is seldom below ninety in the day-time, from April till October. I don't mind the heat much, but my wife feels it, and probably the more from having brought me another son last year. She has a strong dislike to many good Christian names of his ancestors, and has therefore called him Campbell. I thought that one Highland name was quite enough in a family, and that two Highland surnames without a Christian name, such as Peter or Daniel, could not be canny. I hope that I shall one day have the pleasure of introducing him to your son John. I see with delight that the Greeks are still on the whole successful. The very gaining of time is gaining an advantage. The longer the contest continues, the more confidence they will have in themselves, and the better qualified they will be to enjoy and preserve independence. You have now, I suppose, taken up your final abode in your own country, after all your toils and wanderings, quite satisfied with what you have done and what you have seen. I, however, have no right to rest, and I must go and see a little of the world like other people. It is, to be sure, rather late, but there is no help for it; it is one of the evils that attend our long employment in India. I shall, therefore, I imagine, soon after I get home, leave it again, in order to visit the Continent, and, if not too dangerous, Greece. I suppose that I must take a Domine to direct me, but on this point there will be time enough to consult you. I was quite rejoiced to hear of the cruel disposition that old Carrick had made in keeping a part of his large fortune from David Buchannan, and giving it to your brother. I should not be at all surprised to meet him in Conduit-street on my arrival, for he has, I fear, been too long about town to have any relish for a country life. I am not sure that even with you, one of the chief enjoyments of your rural abode is not that of going to town and meeting an old shipmate occasionally. We are not much accustomed to quiet in India, and we have, therefore, gone to war with the King of Ava. His subjects, the Burmans, are much inferior as soldiers to the natives of India, and are a very miserable enemy; but there are many difficulties from natural causes in the invasion of Ava; the rains last nearly half the year, during which time military operations are nearly impractica ble. The cattle, &c., for an army, cannot be transported by sea, and by land there are no roads, and the distance is great, and through mountainons and desolate passes. These difficulties will all, however, be overcome; they require nothing but arrangement and perseverance. I am sorry that I shall not be here to see the close of the war, for not expecting any rupture, I wrote last year to be relieved, and my successor will probably be here in January. Yours, affectionately, THOMAS MUNRO.'-422-424. Scattered through this volume, and especially in one long document, which is drawn up with care and impartiality, will be found much valuable information, and many excellent suggestions respecting the course of our future policy towards India. ART. IV.-The Philosophy of Sleep. By Robert Macnish, Author of the Anatomy of Drunkenness. 1 vol. 8vo. Glasgow: W. R. McPhin, 1830. WE read the very singular treatise of this author on the Anatomy of Drunkenness with so much pleasure, that we eagerly turned to the present volume, anticipating no less satisfaction in its perusal. The subject, however, though of universal interest, does not admit of being treated in the same way as that on which Mr. Macnish has already proved so successful. Much less is known, and we fear, can be known, respecting the philosophy of sleep, than about that of intoxication. Hence, instead of a sure and well defined basis for reasoning which we have in one case, we can only proceed in the other instance on a foundation conditionally constructed, and liable to totter every moment from beneath our feet. Mr. Macnish discusses the philosophy of sleep like a good and true phrenologist as he is. He says, 'Sleep exists in two states-in the complete and incomplete. In the former, the sensorial power of the brain, medulla oblongata, and medulla spinalis is suspended, while that of the sympathetic nerve undergoes no suspension. In other words, the functions of voluntary motion of the senses and of the mind are in abeyance, while those essential to life, go on as usual. To produce such a suspension in the above faculties, their sensorial energy must be exhausted; it no longer flows to them, as in the waking state, and a temporary cessation in their wonted actions is the inevitable consequence. The only powers not arrested, are the involuntary ones, such as circulation, secretion, absorption, respiration, and digestion. Towards them the sensorial power is for ever directed from the cradle to the grave; and when it ceases to animate them, death ensues. Such is the case in complete sleep, but where it is incomplete, as in dreaming, only certain of the mental functions are arrested, while others continue to act as usual. In this latter state, also, the organs of sense and volition, though generally, are not necessarily suspended, as may be seen in night, mare, and many cases of sleep-talking and somnambulism. The third of the above conditions, or that which supposes a suspension in the powers of the mind, has been denied by some philosophers, especially the Cartesians, who imagine that the mental faculties are never for a mo ment inactive, but pursue incessantly, whether we be asleep or awake, their career of thought. This doctrine, however, although maintained by some of our best metaphysical writers, is exceedingly unsatisfactory: it receives -no countenance from our own consciousness, and seems unsusceptible of proof of any kind. There ought to be no difficulty in admitting that the mental powers may cease to act in sleep, for the same thing undoubtedly happens in various other conditions. It is impossible to conceive any mental operation taking place during many cases of catalepsy, or an apoplectic attack. In such instances, as well as in the lethargy attendant upon persons recovered from drowning, hanging, or suffocation from noxious vapours, there cannot be a question that the functions of the mind are, for the time being, at an end. This, it is true, does not prove that the same circumstance occurs in sleep, but it shows that there is nothing impossible in these faculties being suspended for a season; and as we have no evidence that they continue to operate during perfect sleep, we are bound to believe that at this time they really are suspended.'-pp. 12—14. He illustrates this theory in the following manner : A heavy meal, especially if the stomach is at the same time weak, is apt to induce sleep. In ordinary circumstances, the sensorial power residing within this viscus is sufficient to carry on its functions, but when an excess of food is thrown upon it, it is then unequal to furnish, from its own resources, the necessary powers of digestion. In such a case it draws upon the whole body-upon the chest, the limbs, &c. These parts supply it with the sensorial power of which it is deficient; and by their aid it is able to perform that which, by its own unassisted means, it never could have accomplished. But mark the consequences of this accommodation! The granters of the draft suffer by their own generosity; and by enabling the stomach to get out of difficulty, they get into it themselves. The extremities become cold, the respiration heavy and stertorous, and the brain torpid. In consequence of the state of the latter organ, sleep ensues. It had parted with that portion of sensorial energy which kept it active and awake; and by supplying another viscus with the means of getting on, is thrown itself into a state of temporary weakness and oblivion. When, therefore, the sensorial power which keeps our faculties in activity is exhausted, we naturally fall asleep. As the exhaustion of this power, however, is a gradual process, so is that of slumber. We glide insensibly into it, as from life into death; and while the mind remains poised, as it were, between sleep and the opposite condition, it is pervaded by a strange confusion which almost amounts to mild delirium; the ideas dissolve their connection from it one by one; those which remain longest behind are faint, visionary, and indistinct; and its own essence becomes so vague and diluted, that it melts away into the nothingness of slumber, as the morning vapours are blended with the surrounding air by the solar heat. Previous to the accession of sleep, a feeling of universal lassitude prevails. This sensation heralds in the phenomena of slumber, and exhibits itself in yawning, heaviness of the eyes, indifference to surrounding objects, and all the characteristics of fatigue. If the person be seated, his head nods and droops; and, in all cases, the muscles become relaxed, and the limbs thrown into that state most favourable for complete muscular inaction. The lying position is, consequently, that best adapted for sleep, and the one which is intuitively adopted for the purpose. The organs of the senses do not relapse into simultaneous repose; but suspend their respective functions gradually and successively;-sight, taste, smell, hearing, and touch, parting with sensation in the order in which they here stand, and gliding insensibly away. In the same manner, the muscles do not become simultaneously relaxed-those of the limbs giving way first, then those of the neck, and lastly the muscles of the spine. Nor do the external senses, on awaking, recover all at once their usual vigour. We, for some seconds, neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch, with our usual acute ness. Ordinary sights dazzle our eyes; ordinary sounds confuse our ears; ordinary odours, tastes, and sensations, our nose, our tongue, and our touch. They awake successively, one after its fellow, and not in the same instant.' pp. 20-22. In his chapter on dreaming, the author developes his meaning in a more ample and defined manner. • Dreaming, therefore, is a state of partial slumber, in which certain parts of the brain are asleep, or deprived of their sensorial power, while others continue awake, or possess their accustomed proportion; and whatever produces dreams has the effect of exhausting this power in one set of faculties, while it leaves it untouched in others. Dreaming, then, takes place when the repose is broken; and consists of a series.of thoughts or feelings called into existence by certain powers of the mind, while the other mental powers which control these thoughts or feelings, are inactive. This theory is the only one capable of affording a satisfactory explanation of all the phenomena of dreams. It embraces every difficult point, and is so accordant with nature, that there is every reason to suppose it founded on truth. Many other doctrines have been started by philosophers, but I am not aware of any which can lay claim even to plausibility.'-pp. 50, 51. 'When dreams take place, it is evident that the whole mind is no longer in a state of inaction. Some one or other of its functions is going on, and evolving its peculiar trains of thought. If a person's memory, for example, be active, he will then recall, with more or less vividness, former scenes or impressions; if his imagination be strongly excited, images of splendour or gloom may appear before his mental eye. These impressions, at the same time, will often possess a character of exaggeration, which would never have belonged to them, had the judgment been awake to control the fancy in its extravagant flights. The latter, at this period, is more active than ever, for it is a rule of nature, that diminished activity of one organ, or organs, strengthens that of others; thus, the blind acquire increased acuteness of hearing, and the deaf of sight. In dreaming, the voluntary powers are generally, but not necessarily suspended: we have a striking proof of this in somnambulism, which is a modification of dreaming. Dreams cannot take place in complete repose, for all the mental faculties are then dormant, and for a short period the person exists in a state of the most perfect oblivion. When, however, one faculty, or more than one, bursts asunder the bonds which enthralled it, while its fellows continue chained in sleep, then visions ensue, and the imagination dwells in that wide empire which separates the waking state from that of perfect sleep. It is the unequal distribution of sensorial energy which gives rise to those visionary phenomena. One faculty exerts itself vividly, without being under the controul of the others. The imagination is at work, while the judgment is asleep; and thereby indulges in the maddest and most extravagant thoughts, free from the salutary check of the latter more sedate and judicious faculty.'-pp. 52, 53. Dr. Mason Good, is, we believe, the person to whom in justice we ought to ascribe this theory; but our author, we think, was bound to save us the trouble of speculating on that point, for eertainly he does not assert, or even insinuate, that the theory is bis own. By whomsoever it has been promulgated, we can but say that it is only a vague guess to establish what nature has not furnished the means of establishing. The whole theory is founded upon that radical error of the phrenologists, when they suppose that an examination of structure will afford the only means of ascertaining the phenomena of mind. We will not pursue the arguments against the principle of this theory-it will be sufficient to shew that the theory is inconsistent with itself. Mr. Macnish tells us in each of the passages just quoted, that it is the exhaustion of its sensorial power that produces the temporary torpor of au organ; and so uniform is this law, that when the stomach draws upon the neighbouring organs for some of their sensorial power, to enable it to discharge an unusual quantity of duty which it is suddenly required to perform, the effect of the transfer is, amongst other things, to make the brain torpid, in which state sleep ensues. In plain language, Mr. Macnish says that a full meal induces sleep. by taking from the brain its sensorial energy. Now what is the consequence, but that the larger the meal the more complete the sleep; for we have to remember, that Mr. Macnish had already said, that in the case of complete sleep, the sensorial power of the brain is suspended. Fill up the stomach then Olympus high, and you gain the most refreshing, healthful, and delightful of all conditions-" complete sleep." But as if Mr. Macnish intended that his book should furnish a full and detailed answer to itself, he tells us in other places, that poets and novel writers were in the habit of supping on indigestible meats-on food which made considerable requisitions on the stomach for sensorial power. What was their object in doing so? Was it to put the brain in a state of torpor, by suspending its sensorial power, and securing the delights of a complete sleep? No such thing; but it was actually to set the brain a-going-to give its 'sensorial power' a sort of holiday-time, to riot in the absence of all constituted authorities. He further, at p. 9, informs us, that we think by the brain.' Surely, if we think by the brain, the torpidity of the brain must be the extinction of thought; and following up this notion, the author actually says, that in complete sleep the functions of the mind. are in abeyance. Now this abeyance, we repeat, is, according to him, produced by the removal of its sensorial energy from the brain but the removal of this sensorial energy is effected by overloading the stomach,-ergo, overloading the stomach is an infallible method of producing the most perfect sleep-quod est absurdum. Mr. Macnish with great justice ridicules the notion that dreams have ever been destined as vehicles of prophecy, with respect to events that are to happen. We are all of us aware that there are |