“I have heard, the spirits of the dead
May walk again: if such things be, thy mother
Appeared to me last night; for ne’er was dream
So like a waking.”
WINTER’S TALE.
ASTR. Evelyn, you have argued fluently on the _nature_ of mind
contrasted with that of matter; but, if desired to _define_ it, how will
you answer?
EV. That it is a _combination of faculties_, and their _sympathy with
the senses_. But this definition presumes not to decide in what intimate
part or texture of the brain is seated the essence itself, as we may
imagine, of the mind—the principle of _consciousness_; whether this be
the “elementary principle” of Stewart, or the “momentary impression of
sense or sensation” of Brown, or the “something differing from
sensation” of Reid, or the “power of feeling that we differ from the
matter around us” of some one else.
ASTR. Yet on this point, (if, indeed, such point be more than
imaginary,) the whole phenomena of intellect must turn. But even if you
can ever hope to determine this locality, it will be long, very long,
ere the student of psychology will rise from his studies, with the
triumphant exclamation, “Τελος!” ere he conclude his deepest researches,
without the humiliating confession that his philosophy wears fetters.
Yet you consider our visions as one tissue of morbid phenomena; although
there are myriads even of profane visions and warning legends, which
bear the certain impress of a prophecy. I never listen to those who
laugh at our interpretations, without remembering that melancholy story
of a youth of Brescia, by Boccaccio, where Andreana, I think, is
relating to her betrothed Gabriello, an ominous dream of the stars, and
of a shadowy demon, which had made her sad and spiritless, and for which
she had exiled her lover for a whole night from her bosom. The youth
smiled in scorn of such a presage; but, in relating a dream of his own
to illustrate their fallacy, fell dead from her enfolding arms.
For once I will grant you, merely for the sake of argument, that there
may be exaggeration in many a legend. I will even yield to your
immolation the host of specious dreams in “Wanley’s Wonders;” you may
pass your anathema on the volumes of Glanville, and Moreton, and Aubrey,
and Mather, and Berthogge, and Beaumont, as a tissue of imposture; call
them, if you will—
“A prophet’s or a poet’s dream,
The priestcraft of a lying world.”
_I_ will ensconce myself snugly behind the _classic_ shields, and ask
you if the pages of Pliny, of Cicero, of Socrates, are mere legends of
fiction or credulity; nay, if the books of mythology and oriental
legends are not many of them founded on real events?
It is clear that there was ever implicit and extensive faith in the
East; the definition of ον ειρω, _I speak the truth_, implies faith in a
dream. The office of the oneirocritic was a profession. Amphyction was
the first (according to Pliny) of the profane expositors, Hieronymus the
most profuse interpreter, and Lysimachus, the grandson of Aristides,
expounded dreams, for money, at the corners of the streets of Athens.
The doors of Junianus Majus, the tutor of Sanagorius, and Alexander ab
Alexandro, were besieged with dreamers in quest of expositions.
The Romans worshipped with divine honours Brizo, the goddess of dreams;
and the Galeotæ, so named from Galei, a Hebrew word signifying to
reveal, flourished in Sicily. So impressed were the Jews with the
importance of the dream, that they convoked a tryad of friends, and went
through certain ceremonies, (as writes Josephus in his twelfth book,)
which they called the benefaction of a dream.
The orientals, the Greeks, and the Romans, then, were all confident in
the truth of these omens. When Nestor urges his army to battle because
Agamemnon had dreamed of such a course, it is but a picture of the
common mind of Greece. Indeed, on great emergencies, it was the custom
to solicit the inspiration of the dream, by first performing religious
rites, and then in the temple, (it may be of Esculapius or Serapis,) to
lie down on the reeking skins of oxen or goats, sacrificed by the
priests.
I may not hope, Evelyn, to convert or alarm you, or I would warn you of
the penalty incurred by the slighting of a vision. You may read in Livy,
that Jupiter imparted his displeasure at the punishment of a slave,
during a solemn procession in the forum to Titus Antinius. But Titus
scorned the vision; when, lo! his son was struck dead at his feet, and
his own limbs were at once paralyzed. In a mood of penitence, he was
borne on a couch to the senate, and after a public confession of his
crime, his limbs immediately began to recover their energy, and he
walked to his house unassisted, amidst the wonder of the people.
In Cicero’s essay on “Divination,” we read the story of two Arcadian
travellers. On their arrival at Megara, these two friends slept in
different houses. In the night a dream came to one of them: the phantom
of his companion appeared to him, and imparted to him that his landlord
was _about_ to murder him. He awoke, and feeling assured that the idea
was but a dream, fell quietly again to sleep; but then came over him a
second dream, and again the phantom _was_ in his chamber, and told him
that the deed of blood was committed, that he was murdered: and in the
morning he learned that the vision was prophetic, and told him truth.
But the records of antiquity teem with tales of fatal prognostics to
heroes, kings, and emperors, whose deaths, indeed, seldom took place
without a prophecy. From Aristotle we learn that the death of Alexander
was foretold in a dream of Eudemius, and that of Cæsar by his wife
Calphurnia. The emperor Marius dreamed that he saw Attila’s bow broken,
and the Hun king died on the same night. And Sylla (according to Appian)
died on the night succeeding that on which he dreamed of such a fate.
Valerius Maximus records the death of Caius Gracchus, immediately after
a dream of it by his mother.
Caracalla (as we learn from Dion Cassius) foretold his own assassination
in a dream.
Cyrus (writes Xenophon) dreamed of the exact moment in which he died.
And the death of Socrates was foretold to him in a dream, by a white
lady, who quoted to him the 363rd line of Homer, in the ninth book.
Of remarkable events there are many strange forebodings; as the dream of
Judas Maccabeus when about to engage the Syrian army; of Sylla before
his engagement with Marius; of Germanicus on the night before his
victory over Arminius (as Tacitus records); and of Masilienus, the
general sent by the emperor Honorius to oppose Gildo, and regain the
possession of Africa. To him St. Ambrose, the late bishop of Milan,
appeared in a dream, and striking the ground at the scene of the vision
thrice with his crozier, said, “Here and in this place;” and on the same
spot, the following morning, Gildo was conquered by Masilienus. Such are
a few of the _fatal_ prophecies of old.
There are others of illustrious _births_ in the olden time, of which I
will recount a few.
Plutarch writes of the dream of Agariste, announcing the birth of her
son Pericles.
Sabellus, of the dream of Accia, the mother of Augustus.
The splendid impostures, as I confess them, of Mahomet, were ushered in
by a dream of Cadiga, that the sun entered her house, and that his beams
illumined every building in Mecca.
In later days, the mother of Joan of Arc dreamed that she brought forth
a thunderbolt; and Arlotte, the mother of the Conqueror, that her
intestines covered the whole land of Normandy.
But I waive a host of ancient dreams, as those of Astyages, the last
king of Media; Ertercules, and Antigonus, and Simonides, and others, for
I study to be brief, and pass to the professors of more modern belief.
Of Pascal Paoli, Boswell, in his account of Corsica, thus writes:
“Having asked him one day, when some of his nobles were present, whether
a mind so active as his was employed even in sleep, and if he used to
dream much; Signor Casa Bianca said, with an air and tone which implied
something of importance, ‘Si, si sogna,’ Yes, he dreams. And upon my
asking him to explain his meaning, he told me that the general had often
seen in his dreams what afterwards came to pass. Paoli confirmed this by
several instances. Said he, ‘I can give you no clear explanation of
it,—I only tell you facts. Sometimes I have been mistaken, but in
general these visions have proved true. I cannot say what may be the
agency of invisible spirits; they certainly must know more than we do;
and there is nothing absurd in supposing that God should permit them to
communicate their knowledge to us.’”
In Walton’s life of Sir Henry Wotton, we read that his kinsmen, Nicholas
and Thomas Wotton (whose family, by the by, were celebrated for their
dreamings) had foretold their death most accurately.
In the beginning of the 18th century, a person in the west of England
dreamed that his friend was on a journey with two men, whose persons
were strongly pictured in his dream, and that he was robbed and murdered
by these companions. It chanced that in a short time he was about to
journey with two men, the _very prototypes_ of his friend’s dream. His
earnest caution against this expedition so planned was slighted, and, on
the spot marked in the dream, was this traveller robbed and murdered,
and by the vivid description of the dreamer, the two men were identified
and executed.
In other cases, the dream has been the means of retribution; for
instance, by the discovery of a murderer. In “Baker’s Chronicle” we read
of the conviction of Anne Waters, for the murder of her husband, through
the circumstantial dream of a friend.
I believe the fate of Corder was decided by a dream; and I may add, that
Archbishop Laud dreamed himself that in his greatest pomp he should sink
down to h—ll.
There is a chain of impressive visions, prophetic of the death of
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, as if some little spirit were flitting to
and fro on a special mission from the realm of shadows.
The sister of the duke, the Countess of Denbigh, dreamed she was with
him in his coach, when the people gave a loud shout, and she was told it
was a cry of joy at the dangerous illness of the duke. She had scarcely
related her dream to one of her ladies, when the bishop of Ely came to
tell her, her brother was murdered by the dagger of Felton. Shortly
before this, a Scotch nobleman asked a seer from the Highlands what he
thought of this Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, then the court favourite:
“He will come to naught,” said he, “for I see a dagger in his heart.”
But the most impressive presage were the visions of an officer of the
wardrobe to the king, as related by the Earl of Clarendon and others.
Parker had been an old _protegé_ of Sir George Villiers, the duke’s
father. On a certain night, in Windsor Castle, he saw, or dreamed of, an
apparition of Sir George Villiers, who entreated him to warn his son not
to follow the counsels of such and such persons, and to avert in every
way the enmity of the people, as he valued his life. A second and a
third night this vision was repeated, and at the last, the phantom drew
a dagger from his gown, and said, “This will end my son, and do you,
Parker, prepare for death.” On a hunting morning this vision was
imparted to Buckingham, at Lambeth Bridge, and, after the chase, the
duke was seen to ride, in a pensive mood, to his mother’s in Whitehall.
The lady, at his departure, was found in an agony of tears, and when the
story of the murder was told, she listened with an apathetic calmness,
as if the brooding over the prophecy had half dulled her heart to the
reality. Well, _the duke was murdered, and Parker soon after died_.
On that night when the Treasury of Oxford was broken open, Sir Thomas
Wotton, then in Kent, dreamed circumstantially of the event, and, I
believe, named and described the burglars.
A clergyman, whose name I forget, was once travelling far from his home,
when he dreamed his house was on fire. He returned, and found his house
a smoking ruin.
I may here cite a very curious dreaming, which, though not exactly
fulfilled, displayed at least a strange coincidence in three minds. The
mother of Mr. Joseph Taylor dreamed of the apparition of her son, who
came to take leave as he was going a long journey. She started, and
said, “Dear son, thou art dead.” On the morrow, a letter came from his
father, expressive of anxiety on account of this dream. The son
instantly remembered his own dream, at the same hour, of having gone to
his mother’s room to bid farewell.
There are many warning visions, which, being happily regarded, were
blessed by the preservation of human life.
When our own Harvey was passing through Dover, on his continental
travels, he was unexpectedly detained for a night by the order of the
governor. On the next day, news came that the packet, in which Harvey
was to have sailed, was lost in a storm; and then it came out, that his
excellency had, on the night before his arrival, a phantom of the doctor
passing before him, which besought him to detain _his substance_ in
Dover for a day.
Alderman Clay, of Newark, dreamed twice that his house was on fire. From
the second dream, he was induced to quit with his family; and, soon
afterwards, it was burned by the engines of Cromwell, which were
bombarding the town. For this providential salvation, an annual sermon
is preached, and bread given to the poor, in Newark.
The lady of Major Griffiths dreamed thrice of her nephew, Mr. D. The
first vision imparted his intention of joining a party of his companions
on a fishing excursion; the second, that his boat was sinking; the
third, that it was actually sunk. At her entreaty, this gentleman was
induced to remain on land; and, in the evening, it was learned, that his
ill-fated friends had been all drowned, by the swamping of the boat.
CAST. I pr’ythee, Astrophel, draw not too largely on our faith; reserve
yourself for a struggle, for I see in the glance of Evelyn’s eye, that
he has taken up your glove.