“More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables.”
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
EV. Your holy thoughts, fair Ida, are but an echo of my own. The grand
causes and awful judgments of the inspired æras of the world prove the
truth by the _necessity_ of the miracles, not only in answer to the
Pharisees and Sadducees, who _required a sign_, but even before the eyes
of the early disciples, whose apathetic hearts soon forgot the miracles,
and their divine Master himself; for, as he was walking on the sea, “at
the fourth watch, they thought he was a spirit.”
I would fain, however, adopt the precept of Lord Bacon, to waive
theology in my discussions and my illustrations, because I am unwilling
to blend the sacred truths of spiritual futurity with arguments on the
imperfection of material existence.
In the abstract spiritual evidence of all modern superstition, I have
little faith. These records are scarcely more to be confided in than
fairy tales, or fictions like those of many antique sages: as the
rabbins, that “the cherubim are the wisest, the seraphim the most
amiable, of angels;” or of the visionary Jew of Burgundy, whom, in 1641,
John Evelyn spoke with in Holland,—“He told me that, when the Messias
came, all the ships, barkes, and vessels of Holland should, by the
powere of certaine strange whirle winds, be loosed from their ankers, to
convey their brethren and tribes to the holy citty.” Or even that of
Melancthon, that his sable majesty once appeared to his own aunt in the
shape of her husband, and grasping her hand, so scorched and shrivelled
it, that it remained black ever after. These are fair samples of
credulity.
You will call me presumptuous, but, believe me, Astrophel, it is
superstition which is presumptuous and positive, and not philosophy; for
credulity believes on profane tradition, or the mere assertion of a
mortal. But the glory of philosophy is humility; for they who, like
Newton, and Playfair, and Wollaston, and Davy, look deeply into the
wonder and beauty of creation, will be ever humbled by the contemplation
of their own being,—an atom of the universe. A philosopher cannot be
proud; for, like Socrates, he confesses his ignorance, because he is
ever searching for truth. He cannot be a sceptic; for when he has dived
into the deeps of science, his thoughts will ascend the more toward the
Deity: he has grasped all that science can afford him, and there is
nothing left for his mighty mind but divine things and holy hopes.
Philosophy is not confident either, because she ever waits for more
experience and more weight of testimony.
How often, Astrophel, must we be deceived, like children, by distance,
until experience teaches us truth. By this we know that the turrets of
distant towers are _high_, yet they dwindle in our sight to the mere
vanishing point, _as the child believes them_. Such is the power of
demonstration.
The ancient polytheists could not be other than idolaters and believers
in prophecy. The rabbins were schooled, in addition to the books of
Moses, in those of Zoroaster, in the Talmud, which was the magic volume
of the Jews, and the Takurni, or Persian Almanac, the annual expositor
of natural and judicial astrology in the clime of the sun.
The sages who lived immediately after the light of Christianity had been
shed over the Holy Land, had not forgotten the miracles wrought in the
holy city; but they profaned Omnipotence by making them purposeless.
Superstition then formed a part of the national creed: even a mere word,
as “Epidamnum,” they dreaded to pronounce, as it was of such awful
import; and credulity and blind faith in the prophetic truth of omens
and oracles prevailed. We read in Montfaucon, that twelve hundred
believed in this miracle of Virgil:
“Captus a Romanis _invisibiliter_ exiit, ivitque Neapolim:”
that he rendered himself _invisible_ to the Romans and escaped to
Naples. The influence of this blind infatuation was the spring of many
actions, which, like the daring of the Indian fatalist in battle, were
vaunted as deeds of heroic self-martyrdom.
Marcus Curtius, the trembling of the earth having opened a chasm in the
Roman forum, leaped into it on horseback, when the soothsayers declared
it would not close until the most valuable thing in the city was flung
into it. And the two Decii offered themselves as the willing sacrifice,
to ensure a victory for their country,—one in the war with the Latins,
the other in that of the Etrurians and Umbrians.
Aristotle and Galen were exceptions. It is true, that Socrates believed
himself under the influence of a demon, a sort of delegate from the
Deity,—indeed, that God willed his death; for when his friend pressed
him on his trial to compose his defence, he answered thus:—“The truth
is, I was twice going about to make my apology, but was twice withheld
by my demon.” But remember, Astrophel, the Greek word which the
philosopher employed, τò δαιμóνιον, and you will rather confess that it
implies the _Deity_, as if some divine inspiration taught him; or
perchance, as some of his commentators believe, this invisible monitor
was merely the impersonation of the faculty of judgment, and of that
deep knowledge and forethought with which his mind was fraught.
Cicero, too, is said to have written arguments to prove the divine
origin of the oracle of Delphi; but it is well believed by classics,
that Addison has, in his letter in the Spectator, mistaken Cicero for
Cato.
Recollect, Astrophel, this is an old point with us, when we were reading
the subject of _Auguries_, in his book, “De Divinatione,” in which he
wonders “that one soothsayer can look another in the face without
laughing;” and you remember Lucian ridicules ghost-seeing as the whim of
imagination. You have cited Pliny. True,—Pliny is an interesting
story-teller; although he warps somewhat the phantoms of his dreams. But
what is the first sentence of his letter to Sura?—“I am very desirous
to know your opinion concerning spectres; whether you believe them to
have a real existence, and are a sort of divinities, or are only the
visionary impressions of a terrified imagination.”
And what did Johnson confess?—That “this is a question, which, after
five thousand years, is still undecided; a question, whether in theology
or philosophy, one of the most important that can come before the human
understanding.” So you see the vaunted creed of Johnson was at least
like the coffin of Mahomet, poised between the affirmative and negative
of the proposition. The sage was a strict spiritualist, and, as Boswell
says, “wished for more evidence of spirit in opposition to materialism.”
On some points he was also mighty superstitious, and constantly affirmed
his conviction that he should himself run mad. This augury failed, and
therefore the prophetic nature of second sight needs more convincing
proof than the creed of Johnson.—In his own words, “Foresight is not
prescience.”
As to the second sight of Caledon, he confesses that, although in his
journey he searched diligently, he saw but one seer, and he was grossly
ignorant, as indeed they usually are. “He came away only _willing_ to
believe;” the learned and literary even in the far Hebrides, especially
the clergy, being altogether sceptics.
In the consideration of this question in the study of psychology, it has
been an error to conclude that, because in some certain works arguments
are adduced by imaginary characters, in support of the appearance of
departed spirits: such was the positive belief of their authors. If
then, for instance, the arguments of Imlac, in Rasselas, which aim at
the proof of spectral reality, or rather the appearance of departed
beings, be adduced as an evidence of Johnson’s _own_ belief, I might
observe that it were equally rational to identify the minds or
dispositions of Massinger and Sir Giles Overreach,—of Shakspere and
Iago.
Like the Catholic priesthood, who rule the ignorant by the force of
superstition, leaders have been induced to profess the possession of
this faculty, to overawe their proselytes by their own deeper knowledge;
as Numa vaunted his intimacy with the nymph Egeria at her fountain.
For this purpose, even the Corsican general, Pascal Paoli, assumed the
profession of a seer, and the mystery of his prescience was on the lips
of every Corsican. When Boswell asked, if the fulfilments of his
prophecies were frequent, a Corsican grasped a bundle of his hair, and
whispered, “Tante, tante, signore!”
But I will not play the dullard, Astrophel, while you, with your
legendary romance, charm the listening ears of ladyes fayre. I will have
my turn of story-telling, (avoiding the myriads of queer tales, told by
superstitious and unlettered visionaries, on the look out for marvels,
by servant maids and rustics, and silly people, the chief actors in
ghost stories). And therefore, in the face of these negative
conclusions, even of Johnson, hear one unparalleled story, culled from
the rich treasury of Master Aubrey’s “Miscellanies.” It was of an earl
of Caithness, who, desirous of ascertaining the distance of a vessel
which was laden with wine for his cellars, proposed a question to a
seer. The answer was, “At the distance of four hour’s sail.” It may be
some doubt was expressed of the truth of this oracle; for, to prove his
gift of clairvoyance, he laid before the earl the cap of a seaman in the
ship, which he had that moment taken off his head. The vessel duly
arrived, and lo! a sailor claimed the cap in the seer’s hand, affirming
that, four hours before, it had been blown from his head by the gale. Is
not this the very acme of effrontery?
Carolan, the inspired bard of Erin, confessed he could not compose a
planxty for a certain lady of Sligo, even when he made an effort to
celebrate her wondrous beauty; and one day in despair he threw away his
harp and fell into a lament, that some evil genius was hovering over
him: from his harp strings, (in contrast with those of Anacreon,) he
could sweep only a mournful music, and he thence _prophesied_, and that
truly, the death of the lady within the year.
Dubuison, a dentist of Edinburgh, on the day preceding the death of
President Blair, met him in the street, and was addressed by the
president with a _peculiar_ expression. On the day before the death of
Lord Melville, the dentist was met by him exactly on the same spot, and
accosted by my lord in the very same words. On the death of Lord
Melville, Dubuison exclaimed that he should be the third. He became
immediately indisposed, and died within an hour.
In the “Miscellanies” of Aubrey, we read, that John Evelyn related to
the Royal Society the case of the curate of Deptford, Mr. Smith, who, in
November, 1679, was sick of an ague. To this reverend clerk appeared the
phantom of a master of arts, with a white wand in his hand, who promised
that if he lay on his back three hours, from ten to one, his ague would
leave him. And this prophecy was also to the very letter fulfilled.
Napoleon, when he was marching upon Acre, had a djerme, or Nile boat,
with some of his troops, destroyed; the boat’s name was _L’Italie_; and
from this he said, “Italy is lost to France.” And so it was.
During the siege of Jerusalem, for seven days a man paraded round the
walls, exclaiming with a solemn voice, “Woe to Jerusalem!” and on the
seventh day he added, “Woe to Jerusalem, and _myself_!” When, at the
moment of this anathema, a missile from the enemy destroyed him.
Do you wonder that the prophecy of Monsieur Cazotte of his own
decapitation, recorded in his “Œuvres de M. de la Harpe,” should have
been fulfilled? for in 1788, when this prophecy was uttered, the
guillotine was daily reeking with patrician blood; and the Duchess of
Grammont, Vicq d’Azyr, Condorcet, and Cazotte himself, among a host of
others, were dragged to the scaffold.
When dark events were overclouding Poland, to Sorvenski the warrior, a
convert to magnetism, it was imparted in a vision, that Warsaw should be
deluged in blood, and that he should fall in battle. In two years these
forebodings were fulfilled.
It is known that Lord Falkland and Archbishop Williams both warned
Charles I. of his fate; but it required no ghost to tell him that. And I
have known many deeply interested in the fate of absent friends; and
knowing their circumstances and locality, so prophesy, that they seemed
to have all the faculty of clairvoyance. The young ladies of Britain,
during the Peninsular war, were often dreaming of the apparitions of
their lovers, _perhaps_ at the hour of their expiring on the field of
battle: coincidences that must make a deep impression on sensitive
minds. Were I justified in divulging secrets and confessions, I might
relate some curious stories of these inauspicious dreams.
At the moment of the duel between Mr. Pitt and Mr. Tierney, on Wimbledon
Common, a lady of fashion in London exclaimed, “This is the important
moment!”
Oliver Cromwell had reclined on his couch, and extreme fatigue forbad
the coming on of sleep. On a sudden his curtains opened, and a gigantic
female form imparted to him, that he should be the greatest man in
England. The puritanical faith and ambition of Cromwell might have
raised, during the distracted state of the kingdom, something even
beyond this; and who may decide, if the spectre had whispered, “Thou
shalt be king hereafter,” that the protector would have refused the
crown, as, on the feast of Lupercal, it had been refused by Cæsar?
“General Oglethorpe,” writes Boswell, “told us that Prendergast, an
officer in the Duke of Marlborough’s army, had mentioned to many of his
friends, that he should die on a particular day. Upon that day a battle
took place with the French; and after it was over, and Prendergast was
still alive, his brother officers, while they were yet in the field,
jestingly asked him, where was his prophecy now? Prendergast gravely
answered, ‘I shall die, notwithstanding what you see.’ Soon afterwards
there came a shot from a French battery, to which the orders for a
cessation of arms had not yet reached, and he was killed upon the spot!”
But can these shallow stories be cited as _prophecies_? The links in the
chain of causation are evident, and the veriest sceptic cannot doubt
their sequence, where there was so strong a probability. It is merely by
reflecting on the past and judging the future by analogy. Natural events
of human actions have laws to govern them, and there is seldom foresight
without the reflection _on_ these laws. Lord Mansfield, when asked how
the French revolution would end, replied, “It is an event without a
precedent, and therefore without a prophecy.”
ASTR. Then you do not believe, where you cannot develop the _causes_ of
events. Like all _rational_ philosophers, you must have demonstrative
proof. In which class of sceptics shall I enrol you, Evelyn?—As a
proselyte of Aristotle, who will deny not only the existence of spirits,
but affirm heaven and hell to be a fable, and that the world is
self-existent: or with the Epicureans, who believed the impious doctrine
of blind chance,—that the sun and stars were vapours, and the soul
perishable; or with the modern lights of reason,—Sir Isaac Newton, who
confessed the Paradise Lost to be a fine poem, though it proved nothing;
or the Abbé Lauguerne, who, for the self-same reason, despised the
brilliancy of Racine and Corneille; or with the Sadducees themselves,
who denied both prophecy and spirit?
EV. Perhaps the Sadducees might have referred visions to the _right_
cause, for phantoms differ little from Locke’s “substance which thinks.”
But the mere metaphysician blinks the question (as Lord Bacon does that
of experimental chemistry,—“Vix unum experimentum adduci potest quod ad
hominum statum levandum et juvandum spectat”); thus wofully depreciating
the progress of chemical science, as if the discoveries of Wollaston, of
Davy, of Dalton, and of Faraday were fruitless. Remember, modern
philosophers are not like Xenophon, who (says Socrates) called all
_fools_ who differed from his opinion.
Even Baxter confesses the frequency of imposture in ghost stories, yet
leans to the belief of all which he _cannot account for_.
Now if philosophy had not doubted, science would be stationary. We might
still believe, with Heraclitus, that the sun was only a foot in breadth;
or, with Copernicus, that it revolved in its orbit, while the earth was
at rest. Remember, Astrophel, the way to the temple of Science is
through the portals of doubt: it is a mark of weakness, “jurare in verba
magistri.” Even the prince philosopher of Denmark doubted the prophetic
truth of his father’s ghost on its mere appearance—(“The spirit I have
seen may be a devil,”)—until the scene of the play, and the stricken
conscience of the king, and _then only_, he believed that “it was an
honest ghost.”
“It is true,” as Lord Chesterfield wrote in 1653, “I know that God can
make any such things to appear, but because he _can_, therefore to
conclude that he _doth_, is ill argued: and though divers books are full
of such stories, yet the soberest sort of men in all ages have doubted
the truth of them.” I might add to these the visions which have been so
strangely warped to interpret a subsequent event. Those of William
Rufus, and Innocent the Fourth, and Henry the Second of France, and a
thousand others from ancient history, between the assumed prophecy and
fulfilment of which, there is about as much truth as when Lady Seymour
dreamt of having found a nest of nine finches, and soon after was
married to Finch, Earl of Winchelsea, and was blessed with a brood of
nine children.
With the coincidences of life we have all been struck; the ignorant and
timid and superstitious among us with wonder: but how comparatively
trivial are these tiny drops in the wide ocean of events, and what
myriads of dreams and visions from which there are no results!
A simple incident occurred to me in the autumn of last year, which was
so complete in its association as to be for a moment startling to
myself.
Influenced by a sort of veneration for the memory of the good Gilbert
White of Selborne, I made a pilgrimage to that calm and rustic village,
so exquisitely embosomed among green meads, and beech-crowned chalk
hills, and forests embrowned with heath and fern.
On my entrance to the village, I was reflecting on the “idiot boy” who
fed on honey which he pressed from the bees he caught, when lo! at the
first door a figure, which grinned at me, and mowed and muttered, but
without the slightest _verbal_ utterance. He was an idiot, but not
White’s idiot; yet a visionary mind might readily for a moment believe
it to be a phantom of the foolish boy, immortalized, as it were, in the
“Natural History of Selborne.”
There was an imposing occurrence also, during the funeral procession of
Sir Walter Scott to Dryburgh. A halt took place for many minutes (in
consequence of an accident) precisely on the summit of the hill at
Bemerside, where a beautiful prospect opens, to contemplate which, Sir
Walter was ever wont to rein up his horse.
“In 1811,” writes Lord Byron in a letter to Mr. Murray, “my old school
and form fellow Peel, the Irish secretary, told me he saw me in St.
James’s Street; I was then in Turkey. A day or two afterwards he pointed
out to his brother a person across the way, and said, ‘There is the man
I took for Byron:’ his brother answered, ‘Why, it is Byron, and no one
else.’ I was at this time _seen_ to write my name in the Palace Book. I
was then ill of a malaria fever. If I had died, here would have been a
ghost story.”
While Lord Byron was at Colonna, his dervish Tahiri, as we read in his
notes to the “Giaour,” who professed the faculty of _second hearing_,
prophesied an attack of the Mainotes as they passed a certain perilous
defile, but _nothing came of it_: the attack was not made; and it is
probable that some ringing in the ears of the dervish, and a knowledge
that the defile was a haunt of brigands, were the springs of this
notion.
And there are events, too, which have all the intensity of romance and
seem involved in the deepest mystery, and which, like Washington
Irving’s tale of the “Spectre Bridegroom,” assume all the air of the
supernatural, until the enigma is solved, and then we cry, “How clear
the solution!”
Among the myriads of _explained_ mysteries in the north, I will cite
that of the farmer of Teviotdale, who, in the gloom of evening, saw on
the wall of a cemetery a pale form throwing about her arms, and mowing
and chattering to the moon. With not a little terror he spurred his
horse, but as he passed the phantom it dropped from its perch, and, like
Tam o’ Shanter’s Nannie, fixing itself on the croup, clasped him tightly
round the waist with arms of icy coldness. He arrived at home; with a
thrill of horror exclaimed, “Tak aff the ghaist!” and was carried
shivering to bed. And what was the phantom? A maniac widow, on her
distracted pilgrimage to the grave of her husband, for whom she had
indeed mistaken the ill-fated farmer.
The president of a literary club at Plymouth being very ill during its
session, the chair out of respect was left vacant. While they were
sitting, his apparition, in a white dress, glided in and took formal
possession of the chair. His face was “wan like the cauliflower;” he
bowed in silence to the company, carried his empty glass to his lips,
and solemnly retired. They went to his house, and learned that he had
just expired! The strange event was kept a profound secret, until the
nurse confessed on her death-bed that she had fallen asleep, that the
patient had stolen out, and, having the pass-key of the garden, had
returned to his bed by a short path before the deputation, and had died
a few seconds after.
In the records of his life, by Taylor, we read of a trick of the great
actor, who, like Brinsley Sheridan, had an inkling for practical jokes.
It was on a professional visit of Dr. Moncey. “Garrick was announced for
King Lear on that night, and when Moncey saw him in bed he expressed his
surprise, and asked him if the play was to be changed. Garrick was
dressed, but had his night-cap on, and the quilt was drawn over him to
give him the appearance of being too ill to rise. Dr. M. expressed his
surprise, as it was time for Garrick to be at the theatre to dress for
King Lear. Garrick, in a languid and whining tone, told him that he was
too much indisposed to perform himself, but that there was an actor
named Marr, so like him in figure, face, and voice, and so admirable a
mimic, that he had ventured to trust the part to him, and was sure the
audience would not perceive the difference. Pretending that he began to
feel worse, he requested Moncey to leave the room in order that he might
get a little sleep, but desired him to attend the theatre, and let him
know the result. As soon as the Doctor quitted the room, Garrick jumped
out of bed and hastened to the theatre. Moncey attended the performance.
Having left Garrick in bed, he was bewildered by the scene before him,
sometimes doubting and sometimes being astonished at the resemblance
between Garrick and Marr. At length, finding that the audience were
convinced of Garrick’s identity, Moncey began to suspect a trick had
been practised upon him, and instantly hurried to Garrick’s house at the
end of the play; but Garrick was too quick for him, and was found by
Moncey in the same state of illness.” These are truths which are indeed
stranger than fiction.
Were a miracle once authenticated, our scepticism might cease, but we
cannot be convinced of supernatural agency till something be done or
known which could not be so by common means, or which through the medium
of deception or contrivance _imposes_ on the mind such belief; of which
impression Alston the painter once told Coleridge a melancholy story.
’Twas of a youth at Cambridge, who dressed himself up in white as a
ghost to frighten his companion, having first drawn the bullets from
pistols which he kept at the head of his bed. As the apparition glided
by his bed, the youth laughed and cried out, “Vanish! I fear you not.”
The ghost did not obey him, and at length he reached a pistol and fired
at it, when, seeing the ghost immoveable and invulnerable as he
supposed, a belief in a spirit instantly came over his mind, and
convulsion succeeding, his extreme terror was soon followed by his
death.
I have read (I believe in Clarendon), that the decapitation of Charles
I. was augured (_after death_) from his coronation robes being of white
velvet instead of purple; and this it was remembered was the colour of a
victim’s death-garment; and in Blennerhasset’s history of James II.,
that the crown at his coronation tottered on his head, and at the same
moment the royal arms fell from the altar of some London church. All
this is too childish to be spoken of seriously, and reminds me of the
General Montecuculi, who on some saint’s day had ordered bacon in his
omelette. At the moment it was served, a peal of thunder shook his
house, when he exclaimed, “Voilà bien du bruit pour une omelette!”
We wonder not to find Lily, into whose moth-eaten tomes I have sometimes
peeped for amusement, prating thus of consequences. There is an old
paper of his graced with “the effigies of Master Praise God Barebone,”
where, among other _judgments_, the blindness of Milton is recorded as a
penal infliction of the Deity, for “that he writ two books against the
kings, and Salmasius his defence of kings.” But we do wonder at such a
weakness in Sir Walter Raleigh, that he should thus write in his History
of the World,—“The strangest thing I have read of in this kind being
certainly true, was, that the night before the battle of Novara, all the
dogs which followed the French army ran from them to the Switzers; and
lo! next morning the Switzers were beaten by the French.”
And yet a greater wonder is, that so many solemn stories should have
crept into our national legends, in which there is _no truth_: in which
philosophers and divines have very innocently combined to bewilder us.
There is an _assumed_ incident associated with a melancholy event in the
noble family of Lansdowne, most illustrative of my observation. In the
“Literary Recollections” of the Rev. Richard Warner, is recorded the
interesting story of the apparition of Lord William Petty, at Bowood,
related to Mr. Warner by the Rev. Joseph Townsend, rector of Pewsey in
Wiltshire, and “confirmed by the dying declaration of Dr. Alsop, of
Calne.”
It is affirmed that Lord William Petty, who was under the care of Dr.
Priestley, the librarian, and the Rev. Mr. Jervis, his tutor, was
attacked, at the age of seven, with inflammation of the lungs, for which
Mr. Alsop was summoned to Bowood. After a few days, the young nobleman
seemed to be out of danger; but, on a sudden relapse, the surgeon was
again sent for in the evening.
“It was night before this gentleman reached Bowood but an unclouded moon
showed every object in unequivocal distinctness. Mr. Alsop had passed
through the lodge-gate, and was proceeding to the house, when, to his
astonishment, he saw Lord William coming towards him, in all the
buoyancy of childhood, restored apparently to health and vigour. ‘I am
delighted, my dear lord,’ he exclaimed, ‘to see you, but, for Heaven’s
sake, go immediately within doors,—it is death to you to be here at
this time of night.’ The child made no reply, but, turning round, was
quickly out of sight. Mr. Alsop, unspeakably surprised, hurried to the
house. Here all was distress and confusion, for _Lord William, had
expired a few minutes before he reached the portico_.
“This sad event being with all speed announced to the Marquis of
Lansdowne, in London, orders were soon received at Bowood, for the
interment of the corpse, and the arrangement of the funeral procession.
The former was directed to take place at High Wickham, in the vault
which contained the remains of _Lord William’s mother_; the latter was
appointed to halt at two specified places, during the two nights on
which it would be on the road. Mr. Jervis and Dr. Priestley attended the
body. On the first day of the melancholy journey, the latter gentleman,
who had hitherto said little on the subject of the appearance to Mr.
Alsop, suddenly addressed his companion with considerable emotion in
nearly these words: ‘There are some very singular circumstances
connected with this event, Mr. Jervis, and a most remarkable coincidence
between a dream of the late Lord William and our present mournful
engagement. A few weeks ago, as I was passing by his room door one
morning, he called me to his bedside,—‘Doctor,’ said he, ‘what is your
Christian name?’ ‘Surely,’ said I, ‘you know it is Joseph.’ ‘Well,
then,’ replied he, in a lively manner, ‘if you are a _Joseph_, you can
interpret a _dream_ for me, which I had last night. I dreamed, Doctor,
that I set out upon a long journey; that I stopped the first night at
_Hungerford_, whither I went without touching the ground; that I flew
from thence to _Salt Hill_, where I remained the next night; and arrived
at High Wickham on the third day, where my dear mamma, beautiful as an
angel, stretched out her arms and caught me within them.’ ‘Now,’
continued the Doctor, ‘these are precisely the places where the dear
child’s corpse will remain on this and the succeeding night, before we
reach his mother’s vault, which is finally to receive it.’”
Now here is a tissue of events, as strange as they are circumstantial;
and I might set myself to illustrate the apparition by the agitated
state of Mr. Alsop’s mind, were it not for the _utter fallacy_ of this
mysterious story, on which the late Rev. Mr. Jervis, of Brompton, whom I
knew and esteemed, deemed it essential to publish “Remarks,” in the year
1831. From these, you will learn that Mr. Warner is in error regarding
the “address, designation, and age of the Hon. William Granville Petty,
the nature and duration of his disorder, and the name of the place of
interment.” And then it comes out that neither Dr. Priestley nor Mr.
Jervis attended the funeral, nor conversed at any time on the
circumstance. And, regarding Mr. Alsop’s death-bed declaration, Mr.
Jervis, who was in his intimate confidence, never heard of such a thing
until Mr. Warner’s volume was pointed out to him.
This strange story, believed by good and wise men, involved a seeming
mystery, until we read in Mr. Jervis’s “Remarks,” one simple sentence in
reference to the gentleman by whom it was first told,—that “the
enthusiasm of his nature predisposed him to entertain some visionary and
romantic notions of supernatural appearances.”