The watchman and southron. [volume] (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, 1910-02-02
THE RIDDLE OF SLEEP
A Mystery That the Mind of Man
Is Unable to Penetrate.
THE CAVERN OF MORPHEUS,
1t Is Pitch Black as Far as Human
Understanding Goes, For We Know
No More About 1t Than We Do About
.ts Twin Mystery, Death.

Understanding Goes, For We Know
No More About 1t Than We Do About
'ts Twin Mystery, Death.
When all is written, how little we
know Of sleep! 1t is closing Of the
eyes, disappearance, a wondering re.
turn. In uneasy slumber. in dreamless
dead rest. In horrid nightmare or in
ecstasies Of sOmnOlent fancies the ewes
are blinded, the body is abandoned.
while the inner essence is we know not
where. We have no other knowledge
or sleep than we have Of death. In de-
l1rium or coma or trance, no less than
In normal sleep and in dissolution. the
soul is gone. In these it returns. in
that 1t does not come again, or so we
ignorantly think.
Yet when reflect OH my death l for
get that l have encountered it MANY
times already and fad myself none
the worse. 1 forget that sleep. The
ny has no shorter existence than
mans. We hustle about for a few
years with ludicrous Importance. as
bottleflies buzz at the window panes.
They. too, may imagine themselves of
Infinite moment in this universe we
share with them. But this is to take
no account OF the prognostics Of sleep.
There Is something hidden, something
secret, some unfathomed mystery
whose presence we feel. but cannot
verify; some permeative thought in
sistently moving In our hearts, some
phosphorescence that glows we know
not whence through our shadowy at
oms.
Neither sleep itself nor half it's prom.
ises nor mysteries have been plumbed.
1t Is the mother Of superstitions and
Of miracles. In dredms we may search
the surface powers Of the freed soul.
Visions In the night are not all hallu-
cinations; voices in the night are not
all mocking. There Is prophet dwells
within the mind-nOt of the mind. but
deeper throned in obscurity.
The brain cannot know of this holy
presence nor Of its life in sleep. The
brain Is mortal and untrustworthy. q
phonOgraph and a camera for audible
and palpab'e existence. Strike It
blow in childhood so that it ceases its
labors and awake it by surgery after
forty years and 1t will repeat the in.
fantile action or word it last recorded
and will take up its task on the in
stant, making no account OF the inter-
mediate years. They are nonexistent
to 1t. Yet to that hidden memory those
diseased years are not blank. 1t knows.
1t has recorded, though the brain has
slept. And in hypnotic or psychic
trance, when that wonderful ruler is
released from the prison Of the body, it
can speak through the atom blent ma
chinery Of the flesh and tell Of things
man himself could not know because
OF his paralyzed brain. This ruler is
not asleep in sleep, nor In delirium is
1t delirious, and in death is it dead?
Through all the ages it has been our
sphinx. which we have .lterrogated in
vain. 1t joins not In our laughter nor
our tears. We have fancied 1t with I'm
mobile, broOding features Of utmost
knowledge and wisdom and sorrow. 1t
has asked us but one question, nor
from the day Of Oedipus unto today
have we answered rightly, so that we
die OF our ignorance. 1t is Osiris liv-
Ing In us. 1t is the unknown God to
whom we erect our affairs, the fire in
the tabernacle, the presence behind the
VEIL Not In normal wakefulness at
least will 1t answer our queries, but in
sleep sometimes 1t will speak. And it
may possibly be that at last, after all
these centuries, we are learning how
to question it and in hypnotic trance
and In the fearful law Of suggestion
are discovering somewhat Of it's mys-
terry and how to employ 1t for our
worldly good. Yet to its essential Sc
cret we are no closer than our fore.
fathers were.
We may define dreams and night
mare, coma and swoon and trance
with what terms we will, search their
physical reasons ard learn to guide
and guard, yet we know no more of
them than Of electricity. We may be-
gin TO suspect that telepathy and clair
voyance and occult forces of the soul
are not superstitious fancies, and we
may even empirically classify and
study and direct them. Yet the soul
itself Is no nearer our inquisition.
Though we should know of its real.
ity, though our finite minds should
fathom the infinitude, of what benefit
would 1t be? Would it modify our be-
Eefs or our hopes or our faiths? Would
1t dictate one action to our passionate
lives? There would be no change In
human nature and no reforms of the
world. We are the children of our IA
theirs, and our children will tread the
prehistoric paths. Dreams are our life.
whether we wake or sleep. We browse
through existence. awaking and dying
and being reborn daily, ever torpescent
and unamazed, and our thousand slum-
berOuS deaths we call restorativa slaon