Lying Awake
'MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn
almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and
began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius,
the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of
a traveller is crammed; in a word, he was just falling asleep.'
Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a
Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying: not
with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my
nightcap drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I
never wear a nightcap: but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all
over the pillow; not just falling asleep by any means, but
glaringly, persistently, and obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps,
with no scientific intention or invention, I was illustrating the
theory of the Duality of the Brain; perhaps one part of my brain,
being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part which was sleepy. Be
that as it may, something in me was as desirous to go to sleep as
it possibly could be, but something else in me WOULD NOT go to
sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third.
Thinking of George the Third - for I devote this paper to my train
of thoughts as I lay awake: most people lying awake sometimes, and
having some interest in the subject - put me in mind of BENJAMIN
FRANKLIN, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the art of procuring
pleasant dreams, which would seem necessarily to include the art of
going to sleep, came into my head. Now, as I often used to read
that paper when I was a very small boy, and as I recollect
everything I read then as perfectly as I forget everything I read
now, I quoted 'Get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake
the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, then throw the
bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing
undrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold
air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall
asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.' Not a bit of
it! I performed the whole ceremony, and if it were possible for me
to be more saucer-eyed than I was before, that was the only result
that came of it.
Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and
Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my head by an American
association of ideas; but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall was
thundering and tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows
that I left upon the spray when I really did last look upon it,
were beautiful to see. The night-light being quite as plain,
however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand miles further off
than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about Sleep;
which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to
Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of
mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and
heard him apostrophising 'the death of each day's life,' as I have
heard him many a time, in the days that are gone.
But, Sleep. I WILL think about Sleep. I am determined to think
(this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word
Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a
second. I feel myself unaccountably straying, already, into Clare
Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrating the equality
of sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all
classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty, to every grade of
education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen
Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, and here is
Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails.
Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same
Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has
Winking Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued
Parliament, or has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty
dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her
great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable
agitation of mind from taking the chair at a public dinner at the
London Tavern in my night-clothes, which not all the courtesy of my
kind friend and host MR. BATHE could persuade me were quite adapted
to the occasion. Winking Charley has been repeatedly tried in a
worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a vault or
firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern
distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on
her repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is
quite common to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a
little above the ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest,
dialogues with various people, all represented by ourselves; and to
be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us; and to
be indescribably astonished by the secrets they disclose. It is
probable that we have all three committed murders and hidden
bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all desperately wanted
to cry out, and have had no voice; that we have all gone to the
play and not been able to get in; that we have all dreamed much
more of our youth than of our later lives; that - I have lost it!
The thread's broken.
And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up I
go, for no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawn by no
links that are visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard! I have
lived in Switzerland, and rambled among the mountains; but, why I
should go there now, and why up the Great Saint Bernard in
preference to any other mountain, I have no idea. As I lie here
broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that I can
distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I
make that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with
the same happy party - ah! two since dead, I grieve to think - and
there is the same track, with the same black wooden arms to point
the way, and there are the same storm-refuges here and there; and
there is the same snow falling at the top, and there are the same
frosty mists, and there is the same intensely cold convent with its
menagerie smell, and the same breed of dogs fast dying out, and the
same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn to know as humbugs,
and the same convent parlour with its piano and the sitting round
the fire, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a cell,
and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly
rarefied air was like a plunge into an icy bath. Now, see here
what comes along; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the
top of a Swiss mountain!
It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a
door in a little back lane near a country church - my first church.
How young a child I may have been at the time I don't know, but it
horrified me so intensely - in connexion with the churchyard, I
suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat with each of its
ears sticking out in a horizontal line under the brim, and is not
in itself more oppressive than a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of
goggle eyes, and hands like two bunches of carrots, five in each,
can make it - that it is still vaguely alarming to me to recall (as
I have often done before, lying awake) the running home, the
looking behind, the horror, of its following me; though whether
disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can't say, and
perhaps never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve
to think of something on the voluntary principle.
The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think
about, while I lie awake, as well as anything else. I must hold
them tight though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead
are the Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horse-
monger Lane Jail. In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I
recall this curious fantasy of the mind. That, having beheld that
execution, and having left those two forms dangling on the top of
the entrance gateway - the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes as
if the man had gone out of them; the woman's, a fine shape, so
elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was quite
unchanged in its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to
side - I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some weeks,
present the outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible
impression I had received continually obliged me to do) without
presenting it with the two figures still hanging in the morning
air. Until, strolling past the gloomy place one night, when the
street was deserted and quiet, and actually seeing that the bodies
were not there, my fancy was persuaded, as it were, to take them
down and bury them within the precincts of the jail, where they
have lain ever since.
The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There
were the horse, the bull, the parachute, - and the tumbler hanging
on - chiefly by his toes, I believe - below the car. Very wrong,
indeed, and decidedly to be stopped. But, in connexion with these
and similar dangerous exhibitions, it strikes me that that portion
of the public whom they entertain, is unjustly reproached. Their
pleasure is in the difficulty overcome. They are a public of great
faith, and are quite confident that the gentleman will not fall off
the horse, or the lady off the bull or out of the parachute, and
that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. They do not go to
see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There is no
parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody
can answer for the particular beast - unless it were always the
same beast, in which case it would be a mere stage-show, which the
same public would go in the same state of mind to see, entirely
believing in the brute being beforehand safely subdued by the man.
That they are not accustomed to calculate hazards and dangers with
any nicety, we may know from their rash exposure of themselves in
overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe conveyances and places of all
kinds. And I cannot help thinking that instead of railing, and
attributing savage motives to a people naturally well disposed and
humane, it is better to teach them, and lead them argumentatively
and reasonably - for they are very reasonable, if you will discuss
a matter with them - to more considerate and wise conclusions.
This is a disagreeable intrusion! Here is a man with his throat
cut, dashing towards me as I lie awake! A recollection of an old
story of a kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night
to Hampstead, when London was much smaller and the road lonesome,
suddenly encountered such a figure rushing past him, and presently
two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature
indeed, to come into my mind unbidden, as I lie awake.
- The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the
balloons. Why did the bleeding man start out of them? Never mind;
if I inquire, he will be back again. The balloons. This
particular public have inherently a great pleasure in the
contemplation of physical difficulties overcome; mainly, as I take
it, because the lives of a large majority of them are exceedingly
monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle against continual
difficulties, and further still, because anything in the form of
accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so very
serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox
of mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody
supposes that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of
laughter when the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all
diverted by such an occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent
workman in the gallery, who is transported beyond the ignorant
present by the delight with which he sees a stout gentleman pushed
out of a two pair of stairs window, to be slandered by the
suspicion that he would be in the least entertained by such a
spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always
appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the
temporary superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life;
in seeing casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily
and mental suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very
rough sort of poetry without the least harm being done to any one -
the pretence of distress in a pantomime being so broadly humorous
as to be no pretence at all. Much as in the comic fiction I can
understand the mother with a very vulnerable baby at home, greatly
relishing the invulnerable baby on the stage, so in the Cremorne
reality I can understand the mason who is always liable to fall off
a scaffold in his working jacket and to be carried to the hospital,
having an infinite admiration of the radiant personage in spangles
who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside down, and who, he
takes it for granted - not reflecting upon the thing - has, by
uncommon skill and dexterity, conquered such mischances as those to
which he and his acquaintance are continually exposed.
I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with
its ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging up, and
the water dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen
saturated something in the corner, like a heap of crushed over-ripe
figs that I have seen in Italy! And this detestable Morgue comes
back again at the head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories.
This will never do. I must think of something else as I lie awake;
or, like that sagacious animal in the United States who recognised
the colonel who was such a dead shot, I am a gone 'Coon. What
shall I think of? The late brutal assaults. Very good subject.
The late brutal assaults.
(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I lie
awake, the awful phantom described in one of those ghost stories,
who, with a head-dress of shroud, was always seen looking in
through a certain glass door at a certain dead hour - whether, in
such a case it would be the least consolation to me to know on
philosophical grounds that it was merely my imagination, is a
question I can't help asking myself by the way.)
The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of
advocating the revival of whipping for those crimes. It is a
natural and generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of
inconceivable brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely.
Not in the least regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in
far lower estimation than a mad wolf, but in consideration for the
general tone and feeling, which is very much improved since the
whipping times. It is bad for a people to be familiarised with
such punishments. When the whip went out of Bridewell, and ceased
to be flourished at the carts tail and at the whipping-post, it
began to fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and schools and
families, and to give place to a better system everywhere, than
cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be
inadequately punished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many
aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very
contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set
of bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine - a barbarous
device, quite as much out of date as wager by battle, but
particularly connected in the vulgar mind with this class of
offence - at least quadruple the term of imprisonment for
aggravated assaults - and above all let us, in such cases, have no
Pet Prisoning, vain glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, but
hard work, and one unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread
and water, well or ill; and we shall do much better than by going
down into the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments
of the rack, and the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from
the public roads, and the weights that pressed men to death in the
cells of Newgate.
I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so
long that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into my
thoughts most sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no
more, but to get up and go out for a night walk - which resolution
was an acceptable relief to me, as I dare say it may prove now to a
great many more.
-THE END-
Charles Dickens' short story: Lying Awake
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