“Augurs, and soothsayers, astrologers, diviners, and interpreters of
dreams I never consult, and despise their vain pretence to more than
human skill.” And also this caution bequeathed to you by Epictetus:
“Never tell thy dream; for though thou thyself mayest take a pleasure in
telling thy dream, another will take no pleasure in hearing it.”
ASTR. Epictetus was himself a dreamer in this; for the story of a dream
is ever listened to with interest. And what would Epictetus think, were
I to tell him that broad lands and mitres have been gained before now by
the shrewd _putting of a dream_?
EV. I confess, as in the illusion of phantoms, there are records of very
strange coincidences in dreaming, which may be startling to many
superficial minds.
Pereskius, the friend of Gassiendi, after a severe fever, in 1609, was
engaged in the study of ancient coins, weights, and measures. One night,
he dreamed he met a goldsmith at Nismes, who offered him a coin of
Julius Cæsar for four _cardecues_. The next day this incident was
repeated to him _in reality_. But _he_ was a philosopher, and deemed it,
as it was, but a rare coincidence.
There were two sisters, who (as a learned physician has recorded) were
sleeping together during the illness of their brother. One of these
ladies dreamed that her watch, an old family relic, had stopped, and, on
waking her sister to tell of this, she was answered by her thus: “Alas!
I have worse to tell you: _our brother’s breath is also stopped_.” On
the following night, the same dream was repeated to the young lady. On
the morning after this second dream, the lady, on taking out the watch,
which had been perfect in its movement, observed that it had indeed
stopped, and at the same moment she heard her sister screaming; the
brother, who had been till then apparently recovering, had just
_breathed his last_.
These are sequences, and not _con_sequences: and I might adduce a mass
of these mere coincidences, which have been stretched and warped, to
make up a prophecy. Such as the following legend of Sergius Galba, told
by Fulgosius: “Galba had coquetted with two marble ladies,—the Fortune,
at Tusculum, and the Capitoline Venus; and, to adorn the neck of the
first, he had purchased a brilliant diamond necklace. But the charms of
the Venus of the Capitol prevailed over her rival, and the necklace was
at length presented to the goddess of beauty. At night, the form of
Fortune appeared to him in his sleep, upbraiding him with his falsehood,
and telling him that he should be deprived of all the gifts she had
lavished on him, and Galba, as the story goes, soon after died.”
But, if dreams are essentially prophetic, why are they not _all_
fulfilled? and if _one_ is not fulfilled, how know we if _all_ will not
be equally fallacious? The argument for the prophetic nature is merely
_à posteriori_, the shallow “post _hoc_, _ergo_ propter _hoc_,” of the
sophist. On the occurrence of any important event, all the auguries and
dreams which bear the slightest semblance to a prophecy are immediately
adduced, and stretched and warped _to suit_ the superstition; as the
whimsical mother will account for the marks on her child by frights and
longings. When we know that myriads of enthusiasts and hypochondriacs
have, by the failure of their predictions, deserved the stigma of false
prophets, we may surely class these phantasies among the popular
_errors_ of the time.
Yet the fulfilment of a prophecy _may be_ consequence; and that without
the imputation of falsehood or imposition, or of any special
interference. (I am not recanting my opinions, Astrophel.)
1st. Through the effect of an _imparted impetus_.
2nd. _Foresight_, from the study of events and character.
3rd. Constant _thinking_ on one subject.
4th. _Impressions_ of terror or alarm, from spectres, sybils, &c.
As there are dreams from impressions on the body during sleep, so are
there diseased tissues in the brain, which light up phantoms of terror
and death perfectly prophetic. But wherefore so? Merely because they are
_induced_ by that disease which usually terminates _in_ death. Such were
the dreams during the nightmare which preceded, and, I believe, still
precede, the epidemic fevers in Rome, and in those of Leyden, in 1669,
when the patient fell asleep, and was attacked by _incubus_ before each
exacerbation. The _impersonation of death_ was the prevailing phantom of
their dream, and in reality death soon followed.
Among those heathen tribes, where superstition and ignorance form part
of a national creed, there is a degree of blindness and inconsistency
that may truly be termed _mania_. It is the doctrine, not of prophecy,
but of debased and absolute fatalism. The North American Indians not
only regard the dream as prophetic, but often receive it as a solemn
injunction, and are themselves the active agents in its fulfilment. “In
whatever manner,” says Charlevoix, “the dream is conceived, it is always
looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary way in which the
gods make known their will to men. Filled with this idea, they cannot
conceive how we should pay no regard to them. For the most part they
look upon them either as a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius,
or an order from him, and, in consequence of this principle, they hold
it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian, having dreamt of the
amputation of his finger, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke,
first preparing himself for this important action by a feast!”
Among more enlightened people there may be an inducement to action from
the impression of a dream; here, also, the consequence is the fulfilment
of the prophecy. Such, Astrophel, were the dreams of Arlotte and Cadiga;
of Judas Maccabæus; of Sylla; of Germanicus; and of Masulenius; and the
dream of the priestess of Proserpine, on the eve of Timoleon’s
expedition from Corinth to Syracuse, that Ceres volunteered to be his
travelling companion into Sicily. The dream of Olympia, that she was
with child of a dragon, might both have suggested the mode of education,
and incited the warlike spirit of Alexander.
We know that the city of Carthage was rebuilt by Augustus Cæsar, in
consequence of the dream of his uncle Julius.
And we read in the travels of Herbert, that Cangius, the blacksmith of
Mount Taurus, aspired to, and gained dominion over the Tartars from a
similar influence, and from his name has the title of “Chan” been since
conferred on some of the most warlike monarchs of the East.
There was a dream of Ertercules that was warped, by Edebales, into the
interpretation, that Oman should be born to him, and become a great
conqueror.
I have known the dreams of young ladies often prove the inducement to
their marriage.
I may remind you, too, that even a simple waking incident will impart
this power of action. It is a record of history, that Robert Bruce
slept, during his wandering, in the barn of a cottage. As he was lying,
he saw a spider attempt to climb to the roof; twelve times the insect
failed ere it gained its point. This potent lesson of perseverance
instantly flashed across his mind, and in a few days was won the field
of Bannockburn. Be sure the _seers_ termed this an _omen_.
The seduction of Helen was the result of a dream of high promise, made
to Paris by the phantom of Venus.
Scott (who was executed at Jedburgh, in 1823, for murder) confessed that
he had dreamed of such a crime for many years ere its committal.
Of the result of _constant dwelling on an interesting subject_, I may
add these illustrations.
Antigonusa, King of Macedonia, anticipated (according to Plutarch) the
flight of his prisoner Mithridates to the Euxine.
Of such a nature were the dreams of the Emperor Julian and of
Calphurnia, if indeed these were more than fable; and such was the dream
of Cromwell,—that he should be the greatest man in England. In all
these, and a thousand more, the mere constant thinking excited the
dream. The ambitious thought of Cromwell was constantly haunting his
waking moments, pointing to personal aggrandisement, and, of
consequence, imparted a like character to the dream of his slumbers.
Could we have penetrated the privacy of Ireton, and Lambert, and other
Presbyterian leaders, we should discover that such ambitious
prepossessions were not confined to the bosom of the Protector.
The grandfather of the poet Goëthe, on the death of an old counsellor at
Frankfort, assured his wife of his confident belief, that the golden
ball, which elected the vacant counsellor, would be _drawn for him_. And
this belief arose from a dream; in which he went in full costume to
court, when the deceased counsellor rose from his seat and begged him to
occupy the chair, and then went out of the door. Goëthe _was_ elected.
And yet divines especially are determined to look beyond nature for
causes, and refer all this to _divine foreknowledge_, imparted to the
mind of man. There is a solemn letter, written in 1512, by Cardinal
Bembo, to one of the Medici, recounting how he was opposed in a suit
against one Simon Goro, by Giusto, and how his mother dreamed that
Giusto wounded him in the right hand, and besought him not to have
altercation with him. It chanced that Giusto, who, it seems, was
somewhat deranged, snatched Bembo’s papers from his hand, and
afterwards, by the Rialto, wounded him in the second finger of the right
hand. Now is not this a very shallow incident? and yet the sapient
cardinal deems it essential to _confirm his tale_ by a solemn
attestation, thus: “The dream of my mother I look upon as a revelation;
and I declare to you, magnificent lord, by that veneration which we owe
to God himself, that this recital is the pure and single truth.”
The proofs of an apparent prophecy from foresight may be seen in those,
who by reflection have attained either a worldly or a _weather_ wisdom.
The sea captain, who has looked out upon the sky at night, and has
learned the foreboding signs of a storm, will often dream of shipwreck;
and the politician will dream of events, as well as predicate
consequences, from an _enlightened reflection_ on the motives of the
human mind, and the general laws which indeed influence its actions. So
that, with a little latitude, it were easy enough for us all to
construct an almanac column, especially if there be granted to us a
liberal allowance of “more or less about this time.”
Above all, it is our duty to _avert the impressions of evil_ from the
superstitious mind. The _apprehension_ of a misfortune or fatality may
prove its _cause_. Ay, and if the intellect were really gifted with
prescience, how oft would the happiness of life be blighted?
The allegory of the tree of knowledge is a practic precept for our
lives.
ASTR. And yet Virgil has thus alluded to the delight of peeping into
futurity:
“Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas.”
EV. _I_ would rather echo the benevolent precept of Horace, to ensure
the bliss of ignorance on this point:
“Tu ne quæsieris, scire (nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi,
Finem Dii dederint.”
in other words: “Seek not to know the destiny that awaits us.”
And Milton’s wisdom, too:
“Let no man seek
Henceforth, to be foretold what shall befall
Him or his children: evil, he may be sure,
Which, neither his foreknowing can prevent;
And he the future evil shall, as less
In apprehension than as substance, feel
Grievous to bear.”
Listen to the melancholy influence of the dream and death of Glaphyra,
as told by Josephus:
“She was married when she was a virgin to Alexander, the son of Herod,
and brother of Archelaus, but since it fell out so that Alexander was
slain by his father, she was married to Juba, the King of Lydia; and
when he was dead, and she lived in widowhood in Cappadocia with her
father, Archelaus divorced his former wife Mariamne, and married her, so
great was his affection for this Glaphyra, who during her marriage to
him saw the following dream:—she thought she saw Alexander standing by
her, at which she rejoiced and embraced him with great affection, but
that he complained of her, and said to Glaphyra: ‘Thou provest that
saying to be true, which assures us that women are not to be trusted.
Didst not thou pledge thy faith to me? and wast thou not married to me
when thou wast a virgin? and had we not children between us? Yet hast
thou forgotten the affection I bare to thee out of a desire for a second
husband. Nor hast thou been satisfied with that injury thou didst me,
but thou hast been so bold as to procure thee a third husband, and hast
been married to Archelaus—thy husband and my brother. However, I will
not forget my former affection for thee, but will set thee free from
every such reproachful action, and cause thee to be mine again as thou
once wast.’ When she had related this to her female companions, in a few
days’ time she departed this life.”
The fatality which coincided with the prophetic warning of Lord
Lyttelton, might well be adduced as another illustration, were it not
for some imputation of suicidal disposition in that nobleman, which
would more forcibly invalidate the prophetic dignity of his dream.
I may relate another story, not remotely illustrative of this influence,
from Brand’s “Popular Antiquities.”—“My friend, the late Captain Mott,
R. N., used frequently to repeat an anecdote of a seaman under his
command. This individual, who was a good sailor and a brave man,
suffered much trouble and anxiety from his superstitious fears. When on
the night watch, he would see sights and hear noises, in the rigging and
the deep, which kept him in a perpetual fever of alarm. One day the poor
fellow reported upon deck, that the devil, whom he knew by his horns and
cloven feet, stood by the side of his hammock on the preceding night,
and told him that he had only three days to live. His messmates
endeavoured to remove his despondency by ridicule, but without effect.
And the next morning he told the tale to Captain Mott, with this
addition, that the fiend had paid him a second nocturnal visit,
announcing a repetition of the melancholy tidings. The captain in vain
expostulated with him on the folly of indulging such groundless
apprehensions. And the morning of the fatal day being exceedingly
stormy, the man, with many others, was ordered to the topmast to perform
some duty among the rigging. Before he ascended, he bade his messmates
farewell, telling them that he had received a third warning from the
devil, and that he was confident he should be dead before night. He went
aloft with the foreboding of evil on his mind, and in less than five
minutes he lost his hold, fell upon the deck, and was killed upon the
spot.”
Were an aversion to these gloomy fancies inculcated, it might avert many
a fatal foreboding, which, even in our own enlightened era, has closely
resembled the fate of the African victims of Obi; that magic
fascination, which its Syriac namesake, Obh, works by spell, until the
doomed one pines to death, with the deep conviction that he is under the
ban of an enchanter.