Addison, the virtuous and religious Addison; often dwells in his writings upon dreams--published many of his stories as the result of them--sometimes treated of them seriously and earnestly, and at others brought all his powers of ridicule into play to expose their absurdity. “Dreams,” he says, “are an instance of that agility and perfection which is natural to the faculties of the mind, where they are disengaged from the body. The soul is clogged and retarded in her operations when she acts in conjunction with a companion that is so heavy and unwieldy in her motions. But in dreams it is wonderful to observe with what sprightliness and alacrity she exerts herself. The flow of speech makes unpremeditated harangues, or converses readily in languages that they are but little acquainted with. The grave abound in pleasantries, the dull in repartee and points of wit. There is not a more painful action of the mind than invention; yet in dreams it works with that ease and activity that we are not sensible of when the faculty is employed. For instance, I believe every one, some time or other, dreams that he is reading papers, books, or letters, in which case the invention prompts so readily that the mind is imposed upon, and mistakes its own suggestions for the compositions of another.” In another part of the same paper he gives the two following problems: “Supposing a man, always happy in his dreams and miserable in his waking thoughts, and that his life was equally divided between them--whether he would be more happy or miserable? Were a man a king in his dreams and a beggar awake, and dreamed as consequentially, and in continued unbroken schemes, as he thinks when awake--whether he would be in reality a king or a beggar, or rather, whether he would not be both?” Addison was of opinion that some useful instruction might be derived even from a dream: “Since we have so little time to spare, that none of it may be lost, I see no reason why we should neglect to examine those imaginary scenes we are presented with in sleep, only because they have less reality in them than our waking meditation. A traveler would bring his judgment in question, who should despise the directions of his map for want of real roads in it, because here stands a dot instead of a town, or a cipher instead of a city, and it must be a long day’s journey to travel through two or three inches. Fancy in dreams gives us much such another landscape of life as that does of countries, and though its appearance may seem strangely jumbled together, we may often observe such traces and footsteps of noble thoughts, as, if carefully pursued, might lead us into proper course of action. There is so much rapture and ecstacy in our fancied misery, that though the inactivity of the body has given occasion for calling sleep the image of death, the briskness of the fancy affords us a strong intimation of something within us that can never die.”