50 MEMOIR OF GEOEGE WILSON. CHAP. II. 



pass. Iii fact, the appearance of a child sleeping, the lovely 

 smiles on the lips, show the presence of happy dreams : and, 

 oh ! what can be the subject of the dreams of an infant a few 

 days old ? They cannot be dreams like ours, for all ours are 

 tinctured by surrounding circumstances, which have affected us, 

 or are mere versions of commonplace occurrences, rendered 

 ludicrous (when thought over), by those anomalies that take 

 place in dreams only ; or they are horrible imaginings of fearful 

 circumstances, or dreaded events, aggravated to so intense a 

 degree as to make awaking from them positive pleasure. But 

 the visions of infants cannot be tinctured by surrounding objects, 

 or be the exaggerated depictings of every- day occurrences, and 

 the smiles show they must be beautiful, supremely beautiful. 

 Oh ! what can be their subject, what their cause, or what 

 delightful emotions do they feel, ere they seemingly have asso- 

 ciated with aught that could afford subject for thought, or have 

 obtained the power of thinking at all ? But thought is not 

 necessary for dreams, except those of association, and this is 

 proved by the fact of the lower animals dreaming the dog, the 

 elephant, and, I believe, some others. All these circumstances, 

 my dear William, seem to show, that in spite of all that educa- 

 tion produces and experience adds to our knowledge, in spile of 

 all that critics have said and may say, our infancy and childhood 

 is the season of poetry. I think it was so in my own life, and I 

 believe it is the case with all who possess any share of talent at 

 alL I do not need to tell you that by poetry, I mean not writing 

 verse, for who has not felt the most glorious thoughts impossible 

 to express? and the great and ecstatic pleasure of writing or 

 explaining fully an idea, I believe, is always accompanied with 

 the consciousness that more glorious and beautiful ideas can be 

 felt than expressed. Thus childhood may be the most poetical 

 stage though no expressions show it, and though the child is 

 unconscious itself. Now that I have thought over this subject, 

 some reveries and strange recollections, like dreams that have 

 long pleasurably haunted me, seem the relics of those poetical 

 days, and I am sure at times I remember some of them. There 

 is a strange fact, viz., that on the point of sudden drowning, or 

 the like, the whole life of the individual, from his youngest days, 



