Among them I found a sketch with the name of 'Anthony Bullpit' at the foot, and I remembered that it was a fancy drawing I had made of my grandmother's lover, after reading the account of his arrest by the detective Vinnicombe, elsewhere narrated; a sneaking figure was Anthony Bullpit, as I had represented him, with his hang-dog look and hypocritical face, gnawing at his finger-nails. I pushed it out of sight, and turned again to the contemplation of my sketches of Jessie, over which I spent a sad and tender quarter of an hour. Then, with a sigh, I closed the box and locked it, and went to bed. It was my habit of a night to lie awake for a few minutes with the candle alight on a chair close to my bed. Generally I passed these minutes in reading, but on this night 'I lay a-thynkinge,' and did not open my book. Directly opposite the head of my bed was the mantelshelf, with the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone on it, and this was the last thing that presented itself to my sight before I blew out the light. Restless as I was with the events of the evening, and with the conversation which had taken place between my mother and myself, I was tired enough to fall asleep within a very few moments. But I was not too tired to dream; my body was asleep, but my imagination was never more active. To me, the most wonderful feature in the physiology of dreams has always been the fact that Time, the dominant and inexorable tyrant which rules and guides our course, and regulates the passions and emotions of life, is in our sleep utterly set at naught; a lifetime is compressed in a moment, as it were, and between waking and sleeping a hundred years of history are played out. I think I must have dreamt of every important event in my life, and of many in the lives of others; they presented themselves to me without coherence or sequence, and there was but one consistent feature in my fancies--the figure of the monkey-man, which was never absent. I dreamt of Snaggletooth and Snaggletooth's wife. She was relating the stories of the Cock-lane Ghost and Old Mother Shipton, as she had related them in the kitchen on the night my father lay dying upstairs, but in my dream she was not speaking to me, but to the monkey-image, which gravely wagged its head at her as she proceeded; Snaggletooth was running up and down the stairs, and poking in the oddest corners, in his search for the long stocking, and the monkey-man was assisting him frantically, running at his heels, and tearing things open with fiendish haste; I was in the mourning coach, following my father's body to the churchyard, and the monkey-man was sitting opposite to me, grinning at me; Snaggletooth was carrying me out of the churchyard, and as I opened my eyes, the monkey-man, squatting on Snaggletooth's shoulder, squinted at me. In the same way the image presented itself in every incident connected with Jessie and my mother and uncle Bryan;