WAKING AND SLEEPING; AND HOW THE DWELLER IN THE TEMPLE
SOMETIMES LOOKS ABROAD.
TO begin with the most simple—or rather, I should say, the most
ordinary—class of phenomena, for we can scarcely call that simple, the
mystery of which we have never been able to penetrate—I mean
dreaming—everybody’s experience will suffice to satisfy them that their
ordinary dreams take place in a state of imperfect sleep, and that this
imperfect sleep may be caused by any bodily or mental derangement
whatever, or even from an ill-made bed, or too much or too little
covering; and it is not difficult to conceive that the strange,
confused, and disjointed visions we are subject to on these occasions,
may proceed from some parts of the brain being less at rest than the
others; so that, assuming phrenology to be fact, one organ is not in a
state to correct the impressions of another. Of such vain and
insignificant visions, I need scarcely say it is not my intention to
treat; but, at the same time, I must observe, that when we have admitted
the above explanation, as far as it goes, we have not, even in regard to
_them_, made much progress toward removing the difficulty. If dreaming
resembled thinking, the explanations might be quite satisfactory; but
the truth is, that dreaming is not thinking, as we think in our waking
state, but is more analogous to thinking in delirium or acute mania, or
in that chronic condition which gives rise to sensuous illusions. In our
ordinary normal state, conceiving of places or persons does not enable
us to see them or hold communion with them, nor do we fancy that we do
either. It is true, that I have heard some painters say that, by closing
their eyes and concentrating their thoughts on an object, they can bring
it more or less vividly before them, and Blake professed actually to see
his sitters when they were not present; but whatever interpretations we
may put upon this curious faculty, his case was clearly abnormal, and
connected with some personal peculiarity, either physical or psychical;
and, after making the most of it, it must be admitted that it can enter
into no sort of comparison with that we possess in sleep, when, in our
most ordinary dreams, untrammelled by time or space, we visit the
uttermost ends of the earth, fly in the air, swim in the sea, listen to
beautiful music and eloquent orations, behold the most charming as well
as the most loathsome objects; and not only see, but converse with our
friends, absent or present, dead or alive. Every one, I think, will
grant that there is the widest possible difference between conceiving of
these things when awake, and dreaming them. When we dream, we do, we
see, we say, we hear, &c., &c., that is, we believe at the time we do
so; and what more can be said of us when we are awake, than that we
_believe_ we are doing, seeing, saying, hearing, &c. It is by external
circumstances, and the results of our actions, that we are able to
decide whether we have actually done a thing or seen a place, or only
dreamt that we have done so; and as I have said above, after some lapse
of time we are not always able to distinguish between the two. While
dreaming, we frequently ask ourselves whether we are awake or asleep;
and nothing is more common than to hear people say, “Well, I think I
did, or heard, so and so; but I am not sure whether it was so, or
whether I dreamt it.” Thus, therefore, the very lowest order of
dreaming, the most disjointed and perplexed, is far removed from the
most vivid presentations of our waking thoughts; and it is in this
respect, I think, that the explanations of the phenomena hitherto
offered by phrenologists, and the metaphysicians of this country, are
inadequate and unsatisfactory; while, as regards the analogy between the
visions of sleep and delirium, whatever similarity there may be in the
effects, we can not suppose the cause to be identical: since, in
delirium the images and delusions are the result of excessive action of
the brain, which we must conclude to be the very reverse of its
condition in sleep. Pinel certainly has hazarded an opinion that sleep
is occasioned by an efflux of blood to the head, and consequent
compression of the brain—a theory which would have greater weight were
sleep more strictly periodical than it is; but which, at present, it
seems impossible to reconcile with many established facts.
Some of the German physiologists and psychologists have taken a deeper
view of this question of dreaming, from considering it in connection
with the phenomena of animal magnetism; and although their theories
differ in some respects, they all unite in looking toward that
department of nature for instruction. While one section of these
inquirers, the Exegetical Society of Stockholm included, calls in the
aid of supernatural agency, another, among whom Dr. Joseph Ennemoser, of
Berlin, appears to be one of the most eminent, maintains that the
explanation of the mystery is to be chiefly sought in the great and
universal law of polarity, which extends not only beyond the limits of
this earth, but beyond the limits of this system, which must necessarily
be in connection with all others; so that there is thus an eternal and
never-ceasing inter-action, of which, from the multiplicity and
contrariety of the influences, we are insensible, just as we are
insensible to the pressure of the atmosphere, from its impinging on us
equally on all sides.
Waking and sleeping are the day and night sides of organic life, during
which alternations an animal is placed in different relations to the
external world, and to these alternations all organisms are subject. The
completeness and independence of each individual organism, are in exact
ratio to the number and completeness of the organs it develops; and thus
the locomotive animal has the advantage of the plant or the zoophyte,
while, of the animal kingdom, man is the most complete and independent;
and, although still a member of the universal whole, and therefore
incapable of isolating himself, yet better able than any other organism
to ward off external influences, and comprise his world within himself.
But, according to Dr. Ennemoser, one of the consequences of this very
completeness is a weak and insignificant development of instinct; and
thus the healthy, waking, conscious man, is, of all organisms, the least
sensible to the impressions of this universal inter-communication and
polarity; although, at the same time, partaking of the nature of the
plant and the animal, he is subject, like the first, to all manner of
atmospheric, telluric, and periodic influences; and frequently exhibits,
like the second, peculiar instinctive appetites and desires, and, in
some individual organizations, very marked antipathies and
susceptibilities with regard to certain objects and influences, even
when not placed in any evident relation with them.
According to this theory, sleep is a retrograde step—a retreating into
a lower sphere; in which condition, the sensuous functions being in
abeyance, the instincts somewhat resume their sway. “In sleep and in
sickness,” he says, “the higher animals and man fall in a
physico-organical point of view, from their individual independence, or
power of self-sustainment; and their polar relation, that is, their
relation to the healthy and waking man, becomes changed from a positive
to a negative one; all men, in regard to each other, as well as all
nature, being the subjects of this polarity.” It is to be remembered,
that this theory of Dr. Ennemoser’s was promulgated before the
discoveries of Baron von Reichenback in magnetism were made public, and
the susceptibility to magnetic influences in the animal organism, which
the experiments of the latter go to establish, is certainly in its
favor; but while it pretends to explain the condition of the sleepers,
and may possibly be of some service in our investigations into the
mystery of dreaming, it leaves us as much in the dark as ever, with
respect to the cause of our falling into this negative state; an inquiry
in which little progress seems to have been hitherto made.
With respect to dreaming, Dr. Ennemoser rejects the physiological
theory, which maintains, that in sleep, magnetic or otherwise, the
activity of the brain is transferred to the ganglionic system, and that
the former falls into a subordinate relation. “Dreaming,” he says, “is
the gradual awakening of activity in the organs of imagination, whereby
the presentation of sensuous objects to the spirit, which had been
discontinued in profound sleep, is resumed. Dreaming,” he adds, “also
arises from the secret activity of the spirit in the innermost sensuous
organs of the brain, busying the fancy with subjective sensuous images,
the objective conscious day-life giving place to the creative dominion
of the poetical genius, to which night becomes day, and universal nature
its theatre of action; and thus the super-sensuous or transcendent
nature of the spirit becomes more manifest in dreaming than in the
waking state. But, in considering these phenomena, man must be viewed in
both his psychical and physical relations, and as equally subject to
spiritual as to natural operations and influences; since, during the
continuance of life, neither soul nor body can act quite independently
of the other; for, although it be the immortal spirit which perceives,
it is through the instrumentality of the sensuous organs that it does
so; for of absolute spirit without body, we can form no conception.”
What is here meant seems to be, that the brain becomes the world to the
spirit, before the impressions from the external world do actually come
streaming through by means of the external sensuous organs. The inner
spiritual light illumines, till the outward physical light overpowers
and extinguishes it. But in this state the brain, which is the
storehouse of acquired knowledge, is not in a condition to apply its
acquisitions effectively; while the intuitive knowledge of the spirit,
if the sleep be imperfect, is clouded by its interference.
Other physiologists, however, believe, from the numerous and
well-attested cases of the transference of the senses, in disease, to
the pit of the stomach, that the activity of the brain in sleep _is_
transferred to the epigastric region. The instances of this phenomenon,
as related by Dr. Petetin and others, having been frequently published,
I need not here quote. But, as Dr. Passavant observes, it is well known
that the functions of the nerves differ in some animals; and that one
set can supply the place of another; as in those cases where there is a
great susceptibility to light, though no eyes can be discovered.
These physiologists believe, that, even during the most profound sleep,
the spirit retains its activity, a proposition which, indeed, we can not
doubt; “it wakes, though the senses sleep, retreating into its infinite
depths, like the sun at night; living on its spiritual life undisturbed,
while the body sinks into a state of vegetative tranquillity. Nor does
it follow that the soul is unconscious in sleep because in waking we
have frequently lost all memory of its consciousness; since, by the
repose of the sensuous organs, the bridge between waking and sleeping is
removed, and the recollections of one state are not carried into the
other.”
It will occur here to every one, how often in the instant of waking we
are not only conscious that we have been dreaming, but are also
conscious of the subject of the dream, which we try in vain to grasp,
but which eludes us, and is gone for ever the moment we have passed into
a state of complete wakefulness.
Now, with respect to this so-called dreaming in profound sleep, it is a
thing no one can well doubt who thoroughly believes that his body is a
temple built for the dwelling of an immortal spirit; for we can not
conceive of spirit sleeping, or needing that restoration which we know
to be the condition of earthly organisms. If, therefore, the spirit
wakes, may we not suppose that the more it is disentangled from the
obstructions of the body the more clear will be its perceptions; and
that, therefore, in the profound natural sleep of the sensuous organs we
may be in a state of clear-seeing. All who have attended to the subject
are aware that the clear seeing of magnetic patients depends on the
depth of their sleep; whatever circumstance, internal or external, tends
to interrupt this profound repose of the sensuous organs, inevitably
obscures their perceptions.
Again, with respect to the not carrying with us the recollections of one
state into the other, should not this lead us to suspect that sleeping
and waking are two different spheres of existence; partaking of the
nature of that _double life_, of which the records of human physiology
have presented us with various instances wherein a patient finds himself
utterly divested of all recollection of past events and acquired
knowledge, and has to begin life and education anew, till another
transition takes place, wherein he recovers what he had lost, while he
at the same time loses all he had lately gained, which he only recovers,
once more, by another transition, restoring to him his lately-acquired
knowledge, but again obliterating his original stock, thus alternately
passing from one state to the other, and disclosing a double life—an
educated man in one condition, a child learning his alphabet in the
next!
Where the transition from one state to another is complete, memory is
entirely lost; but there are cases in which the change, being either
gradual or modified, the recollections of one life are carried more or
less into the other. We know this to be the case with magnetic sleepers,
as it is with ordinary dreamers; and most persons have met with
instances of the dream of one night being continued in the next.
Treviranus mentions the case of a student who regularly began to talk
the moment he fell asleep, the subject of his discourse being a dream,
which he always took up at the exact point at which he had left it the
previous morning. Of this dream he had never the slightest recollection
in his waking state. A daughter of Sir George Mackenzie, who died at an
early age, was endowed with a remarkable genius for music, and was an
accomplished organist. This young lady dreamed, during an illness, that
she was at a party, where she had heard a new piece of music, which made
so great an impression on her by its novelty and beauty, that, on
awaking, she besought her attendants to bring her some paper, that she
might write it down before she had forgotten it—an indulgence which,
apprehensive of excitement, her medical attendant unfortunately forbade;
for, apart from the additional psychological interest that would have
been attached to the fact, the effects of compliance, judging from what
ensued, would probably have been soothing rather than otherwise. About
ten days afterward, she had a second dream, wherein she again found
herself at a party, where she descried on the desk of a pianoforte, in a
corner of the room, an open book, in which, with astonished delight, she
recognised the same piece of music, which she immediately proceeded to
play, and then awoke. The piece was not of a short or fugitive
character, but in the style of an overture. The question, of course,
remains, as to whether she was composing the music in her sleep, or, by
an act of clairvoyance, was perceiving some that actually existed.
Either is possible, for, although she might have been incapable of
composing so elaborate a piece in her waking state, there are many
instances on record of persons performing intellectual feats in dreams,
to which they were unequal when awake. A very eminent person assured me
that he had once composed some lines in his sleep (I think it was a
sonnet) which far exceeded any of his waking performances of that
description.
Somewhat analogous to this sort of double life is the case of the young
girl mentioned by Dr. Abercrombie and others, whose employment was
keeping cattle, and who slept for some time, much to her own annoyance,
in the room adjoining one occupied by an itinerant musician. The man,
who played exceedingly well, being an enthusiast in his art, frequently
practised the greater part of the night, performing on his violin very
complicated and difficult compositions; while the girl, so far from
discovering any pleasure in his performances, complained bitterly of
being kept awake by the noise. Some time after this, she fell ill, and
was removed to the house of a charitable lady, who undertook the charge
of her; and here, by-and-by, the family were amazed by frequently
hearing the most exquisite music in the night, which they at length
discovered to proceed from the girl. The sounds were those of a violin,
and the tuning and other preliminary processes were accurately imitated.
She went through long and elaborate pieces, and afterward was heard
imitating, in the same way, the sounds of a pianoforte that was in the
house. She also talked very cleverly on the subjects of religion and
politics, and discussed with great judgment the characters and conduct
of persons, public and private. Awake, she knew nothing of these things;
but was, on the contrary, stupid, heavy, and had no taste whatever for
music. Phrenology would probably interpret this phenomenon by saying
that the lower elements of the cerebral spinal axis, as organs of
sensation, &c., &c., being asleep, the cluster of the higher organs
requisite for the above combinations were not only awake, but rendered
more active from the repose of the others: but to me it appears that we
here see the inherent faculties of the spirit manifesting themselves,
while the body slept. The same faculties must have existed when it was
in a waking state, but the impressions and manifestations were then
dependent on the activity and perfection of the sensuous organs, which
seem to have been of an inferior order; and consequently, no rays of
this in-dwelling genius could pierce the coarse integument in which it
was lodged.
Similar unexpected faculties have been not unfrequently manifested by
the dying, and we may conclude to a certain degree from the same cause,
namely, that the incipient death of the body is leaving the spirit more
unobstructed. Dr. Steinbech mentions the case of a clergyman, who, being
summoned to administer the last sacraments to a dying peasant, found
him, to his surprise, praying aloud in Greek and Hebrew, a mystery which
could be no otherwise explained than by the circumstance of his having,
when a child, frequently heard the then minister of the parish praying
in those languages. He had, however, never understood the prayers, nor
indeed paid any attention to them; still less had he been aware that
they lived in his memory. It would give much additional interest to this
story had Dr. Steinbech mentioned how far the man now, while uttering
the words, understood their meaning; whether he was aware of what he was
saying, or was only repeating the words by rote.
With regard to the extraordinary faculty of memory manifested in these
and similar cases, I shall have some observations to make in a
subsequent part of this book.
Parallel instances are those of idiots, who, either in a somnambulic
state, or immediately previous to death, have spoken as if inspired. At
St. Jean de Maurinne, in Savoy, there was a dumb _cretin_, who, having
fallen into a natural state of somnambulism, not only was found to speak
with ease, but also to the purpose; a faculty which disappeared,
however, whenever he awoke. Dumb persons have likewise been known to
speak when at the point of death.
The possibility of suggesting dreams to some sleepers by whispering in
the ear, is a well-known fact; but this can doubtless only be
practicable where the sensuous organs are partly awake. Then, as with
magnetic patients in a state of incomplete sleep, we have only revery
and imagination in place of clear-seeing.
The next class of dreams are those which partake of the nature of second
sight, or prophecy, and of these there are various kinds; some being
plain and literal in their premonitions, others allegorical and obscure;
while some also regard the most unimportant, and others the most grave
events of our lives. A gentleman engaged in business in the south of
Scotland, for example, dreams that on entering his office in the
morning, he sees seated on a certain stool a person formerly in his
service as clerk, of whom he had neither heard nor thought for some
time. He inquires the motive of the visit, and is told that such and
such circumstances having brought the stranger to that part of the
country, he could not forbear visiting his old quarters, expressing at
the same time a wish to spend a few days in his former occupation, &c.,
&c. The gentleman, being struck with the vividness of the illusion,
relates his dream at breakfast, and, to his surprise, on going to his
office, there sits the man, and the dialogue that ensues is precisely
that of the dream! I have heard of numerous instances of this kind of
dream, where no previous expectation nor excitement of mind could be
found to account for them, and where the fulfilment was too exact and
literal, in all particulars, to admit of their being explained away by
the ready resource of “an extraordinary coincidence.” There are also on
record, in both this country and others, many perfectly
well-authenticated cases of people obtaining prizes in the lottery,
through having dreamed of the fortunate numbers. As many numbers,
however, may have been dreamed of that were not drawn prizes, we can
derive no conclusion from this circumstance.
A very remarkable instance of this kind of dreaming occurred a few years
since to Mr. A—— F——, an eminent Scotch advocate, while staying in
the neighborhood of Loch Fyne, who dreamed one night that he saw a
number of people in the street following a man to the scaffold. He
discovered the features of the criminal in the cart distinctly; and, for
some reason or other, which he could not account for, felt an
extraordinary interest in his fate—insomuch that he joined the throng,
and accompanied him to the place that was to terminate his earthly
career. This interest was the more unaccountable, that the man had an
exceedingly unprepossessing countenance, but it was nevertheless so
vivid as to induce the dreamer to ascend the scaffold, and address him,
with a view to enable him to escape the impending catastrophe. Suddenly,
however, while he was talking to him, the whole scene dissolved away,
and the sleeper awoke. Being a good deal struck with the lifelike
reality of the vision, and the impression made on his mind by the
features of this man, he related the circumstance to his friends at
breakfast, adding that he should know him anywhere, if he saw him. A few
jests being made on the subject, the thing was forgotten.
On the afternoon of the same day, the advocate was informed that two men
wanted to speak to him, and, on going into the hall, he was struck with
amazement at perceiving that one of them was the hero of his dream!
“We are accused of a murder,” said they, “and we wish to consult you.
Three of us went out, last night, in a boat; an accident has happened;
our comrade is drowned, and they want to make us accountable for him.”
The advocate then put some interrogations to them, and the result
produced in his mind by their answers was a conviction of their guilt.
Probably the recollection of his dream rendered the effects of this
conviction more palpable; for one addressing the other, said in Gaelic,
“We have come to the wrong man; he is against us.”
“There is a higher power than I against you,” returned the gentleman;
“and the only advice I can give you is, if you are guilty, fly
immediately.” Upon this, they went away; and the next thing he heard
was, that they were taken into custody on suspicion of the murder.
The account of the affair was, that, as they said, the three had gone
out together on the preceding evening, and that in the morning the body
of one of them had been found on the shore, with a cut across his
forehead. The father and friend of the victim had waited on the banks of
the lake till the boat came in, and then demanded their companion; of
whom, however, they professed themselves unable to give any account.
Upon this, the old man led them to his cottage for the purpose of
showing them the body of his son. One entered, and, at the sight of it,
burst into a passion of tears; the other refused to do so, saying his
business called him immediately home, and went sulkily away. This last
was the man seen in the dream.
After a fortnight’s incarceration, the former of these was liberated;
and he then declared to the advocate his intention of bringing an action
of damages for false imprisonment. He was advised not to do it. “Leave
well alone,” said the lawyer; “and if you’ll take my advice, make off
while you can.” The man, however, refused to fly: he declared that he
really did not know what had occasioned the death of his comrade. The
latter had been at one end of the boat, and he at the other; when he
looked round, he was gone; but whether he had fallen overboard, and cut
his head as he fell, or whether he had been struck and pushed into the
water, he did not know. The advocate became finally satisfied of this
man’s innocence; but the authorities, thinking it absurd to try one and
not the other, again laid hands on him: and it fell to Mr. A—— F——
to be the defender of both. The difficulty was, not to separate their
cases in his pleading; for, however morally convinced of the different
ground on which they stood, his duty, professionally, was to obtain the
acquittal of both, in which he finally succeeded, as regarded the charge
of murder. They were, therefore, sentenced to two years’ imprisonment;
and, so far as the dream is concerned, here ends the story. There
remains, however, a curious sequel to it.
A few years afterward, the same gentleman being in a boat on Loch Fyne,
in company with Sir T—— D—— L——, happened to be mentioning these
curious circumstances, when one of the boatmen said that he “knew well
about those two men; and that a very strange thing had occurred in
regard to one of them.” This one, on inquiry, proved to be the subject
of the dream; and the strange thing was this: On being liberated, he had
quitted that part of the country, and in process of time had gone to
Greenock, and thence embarked in a vessel for Cork. But the vessel
seemed fated never to reach its destination; one misfortune happened
after another, till at length the sailors said: “This won’t do; there
must be a murderer on board with us!” As is usual, when such a
persuasion exists, they drew lots three times, and each time it fell on
that man! He was consequently put on shore, and the vessel went on its
way without him. What had become of him afterward was not known.
A friend of mine, being in London, dreamed that she saw her little boy
playing on the terrace of her house in Northumberland; that he fell and
hurt his arm, and she saw him lying apparently dead. The dream recurred
two or three times on the same night, and she awoke her husband, saying
she “feared something must have happened to Henry.” In due course of
post, a letter arrived from the governess, saying that she was sorry to
have to communicate that, while playing on the terrace that morning,
Master Henry had fallen over a heap of stones, and broken his arm;
adding that he had fainted after the accident, and had lain for some
time insensible. The lady to whom this dream occurred is not aware
having ever manifested this faculty before or since.
Mrs. W—— dreamed that she saw people ascending by a ladder to the
chamber of her step-son John; wakes, and says she is afraid he is dead,
and that there was something odd in her dream about a watch and a
candle. In the morning a messenger is sent to inquire for the gentleman,
and they find people ascending to his chamber-window by a ladder, the
door of the room being locked. They discover him dead on the floor, with
his watch in his hand, and the candle between his feet. The same lady
dreamed that she saw a friend in great agony, and that she heard him say
they were tearing his flesh from his bones. He was some time afterward
seized with inflammation, lay as she had seen him, and made use of those
exact words.
A friend of mine dreamed lately that somebody said her nephew must not
be bled, as it would be dangerous. The young man was quite well, and
there had been no design of bleeding him; but on the following morning
he had a tooth drawn, and an effusion of blood ensued, which lasted some
days, and caused a good deal of uneasiness.
A farmer, in Worcestershire, dreamed that his little boy, of twelve
years old, had fallen from the wagon and was killed. The dream recurred
three times in one night; but, unwilling to yield to superstitious
fears, he allowed the child to accompany the wagoner to Kidderminster
fair. The driver was very fond of the boy, and he felt assured would
take care of him; but, having occasion to go a little out of the road to
leave a parcel, the man bade the child walk on with the wagon, and he
would meet him at a certain spot. On arriving there, the horses were
coming quietly forward, but the boy was not with them; and on retracing
the road, he was found dead, having apparently fallen from the shafts,
and been crushed by the wheels.
A gentleman, who resided near one of the Scottish lakes, dreamed that he
saw a number of persons surrounding a body, which had just been drawn
out of the water. On approaching the spot, he perceives that it is
himself, and the assistants are his own friends and retainers. Alarmed
at the lifelike reality of the vision, he resolved to elude the
threatened destiny by never venturing on the lake again. On one
occasion, however, it became quite indispensable that he should do so;
and, as the day was quite calm, he yielded to the necessity, on
condition that he should be put ashore at once on the opposite side,
while the rest of the party proceeded to their destinations, where he
would meet them. This was accordingly done: the boat skimmed gayly over
the smooth waters, and arrived safely at the rendezvous, the gentlemen
laughing at the superstition of their companion, while he stood smiling
on the bank to receive them. But, alas! the fates were inexorable: the
little promontory that supported him had been undermined by the water;
it gave way beneath his feet, and life was extinct before he could be
rescued. This circumstance was related to me by a friend of the family.
Mr. S—— was the son of an Irish bishop, who set somewhat more value on
the things of this world than became his function. He had always told
his son that there was but one thing he could not forgive, and that was,
a bad marriage—meaning, by a bad marriage, a poor one. As cautions of
this sort do not, by any means, prevent young people falling in love,
Mr. S—— fixed his affections on Lady O——, a fair young widow,
without any fortune; and, aware that it would be useless to apply for
his father’s consent, he married her without asking it. They were
consequently exceedingly poor; and, indeed, nearly all they had to live
on was a small sinecure of forty pounds per annum, which Dean Swift
procured for him. While in this situation, Mr. S—— dreamed one night
that he was in the cathedral in which he had formerly been accustomed to
attend service; that he saw a stranger, habited as a bishop, occupying
his father’s throne; and that, on applying to the verger for an
explanation, the man said that the bishop was dead, and that he had
expired just as he was adding a codicil to his will in his son’s favor.
The impression made by the dream was so strong, that Mr. S—— felt that
he should have no repose till he had obtained news from home; and as the
most speedy way of doing so was to go there himself, he started on
horseback, much against the advice of his wife, who attached no
importance whatever to the circumstance. He had scarcely accomplished
half his journey, when he met a courier, bearing the intelligence of his
father’s death; and when he reached home, he found that there was a
codicil attached to the will, of the greatest importance to his own
future prospects; but the old gentleman had expired, with the pen in his
hand, just as he was about to sign it!
In this unhappy position, reduced to hopeless indigence, the friends of
the young man proposed that he should present himself at the vice-regal
palace, on the next levee day, in hopes that some interest might be
excited in his favor; to which, with reluctance, he consented. As he was
ascending the stairs, he was met by a gentleman whose dress indicated
that he belonged to the church.
“Good Heavens!” said he, to the friend who accompanied him, “who is
that?”
“That is Mr. ——, of so and so.”
“Then he will be bishop of L——!” returned Mr. S——; “for that is the
man I saw occupying my father’s throne.”
“Impossible!” replied the other; “he has no interest whatever, and has
no more chance of being a bishop than I have.”
“You will see,” replied Mr. S——; “I am certain he will.”
They had made their obeisance above, and were returning, when there was
a great cry without, and everybody rushed to the doors and windows to
inquire what had happened. The horses attached to the carriage of a
young nobleman had become restiff, and were endangering the life of
their master, when Mr. —— rushed forward, and, at the peril of his
own, seized their heads, and afforded Lord C—— time to descend, before
they broke through all restraint, and dashed away. Through the interest
of this nobleman and his friends, to whom Mr. —— had been previously
quite unknown, he obtained the see of L——. These circumstances were
related to me by a member of the family.
It would be tedious to relate all the instances of this sort of dreaming
which have come to my knowledge, but were they even much more rare than
they are, and were there none of a graver and more mysterious kind, it
might certainly occasion some surprise that they should have excited so
little attention. When stories of this sort are narrated, they are
listened to with wonder for the moment, and then forgotten, and few
people reflect on the deep significance of the facts, or the important
consequences to us involved in the question, of how, with our limited
faculties, which can not foretell the events of the next moment, we
should suddenly become prophets and seers.
The following dream, as it regards the fate of a very interesting
person, and is, I believe, very little known, I will relate, though the
story is of somewhat an old date:—Major André, the circumstances of
whose lamented death are too well known to make it necessary for me to
detail them here, was a friend of Miss Seward’s, and, previously to his
embarkation for America, he made a journey into Derbyshire, to pay her a
visit, and it was arranged that they should ride over to see the wonders
of the Peak, and introduce André to Newton, her minstrel, as she called
him, and to Mr. Cunningham, the curate, who was also a poet.
While these two gentlemen were awaiting the arrival of their guests, of
whose intentions they had been apprised, Mr. Cunningham mentioned to
Newton, that on the preceding night, he had had a very extraordinary
dream, which he could not get out of his head. He had fancied himself in
a forest; the place was strange to him; and, while looking about, he
perceived a horseman approaching at great speed, who had scarcely
reached the spot where the dreamer stood, when three men rushed out of
the thicket, and, seizing his bridle, hurried him away, after closely
searching his person. The countenance of the stranger being very
interesting, the sympathy felt by the sleeper for his apparent
misfortune awoke him; but he presently fell asleep again, and dreamed
that he was standing near a great city, among thousands of people, and
that he saw the same person he had seen seized in the wood brought out
and suspended to a gallows. When André and Miss Seward arrived, he was
horror-struck to perceive that his new acquaintance was the antitype of
the man in the dream.
Mr. C——, a friend of mine, told me the other day, that he had dreamed
he had gone to see a lady of his acquaintance, and that she had
presented him with a purse. In the morning he mentioned the circumstance
to his wife, adding that he wondered what should have made him dream of
a person he had not been in any way led to think of; and, above all,
that she should give him a purse. On that same day, a letter arrived
from that lady to Mrs. C——, containing a purse, of which she begged
her acceptance. Here was the imperfect foreshadowing of the fact,
probably from unsound sleep.
Another friend lately dreamed, one Thursday night, that he saw an
acquaintance of his thrown from his horse; and that he was lying on the
ground with the blood streaming from his face, which was much cut. He
mentioned his dream in the morning, and being an entire disbeliever in
such phenomena, he could not account for the impression made on his
mind. This was so strong, that on Saturday, he could not forbear calling
at his friend’s house; who, he was told, was in bed, having been thrown
from his horse on the previous day, and much injured about the face.
Relations of this description having been more or less familiar to the
world in all times and places, and the recurrence of the phenomena too
frequent to admit of their reality being disputed, various theories were
promulgated to account for them; and indeed, there scarcely seems to be
a philosopher or historian among the Greeks and Romans who does not make
some allusion to this ill-understood department of nature; while, among
the eastern nations, the faith in such mysterious revelations remains
even yet undiminished. Spirits, good and evil, or the divinities of the
heathen mythology, were generally called in to remove the difficulty;
though some philosophers, rejecting this supernatural interference,
sought the explanation in merely physical causes.
In the druidical rites of the northern nations, women bore a
considerable part: there were priestesses, who gave forth oracles and
prophecies, much after the manner of the Pythonesses of the Grecian
temples, and no doubt drawing their inspiration from the same sources;
namely, from the influences of magnetism, and from narcotics. When the
pure rites of Christianity seperseded the heathen forms of worship,
tradition kept alive the memory of these vaticinations, together with
some of the arcana of the druidical groves; and hence, in the middle
ages, arose the race of so-called witches and sorcerers, who were partly
impostors, and partly self-deluded. Nobody thought of seeking the
explanation of the facts they witnessed in natural causes; what had
formerly been attributed to the influence of the gods, was now
attributed to the influence of the devil; and a league with Satan was
the universal solvent of all difficulties.
Persecution followed, of course; and men, women, and children, were
offered up to the demon of superstition, till the candid and rational
part of mankind, taking fright at the holocaust, began to put in their
protest, and lead out a reaction, which, like all reactions, ran right
into the opposite extreme. From believing everything, they ceased to
believe anything; and, after swallowing unhesitatingly the most
monstrous absurdities, they relieved themselves of the whole difficulty,
by denying the plainest facts; while what it was found impossible to
deny, was referred to _imagination_—that most abused word, which
explained nothing, but left the matter as obscure as it was before.
Man’s spiritual nature was forgotten; and what the senses could not
apprehend, nor the understanding account for, was pronounced to be
impossible. Thank God! we have lived through that age, and in spite of
the struggles of the materialistic school, we are fast advancing to a
better. The traditions of the saints who suffered the most appalling
tortures, and slept or smiled the while, can scarcely be rejected now,
when we are daily hearing of people undergoing frightful operations,
either in a state of insensibility, or while they believe themselves
revelling in delight; nor can the psychological intimations which these
facts offer, be much longer overlooked. One revelation must lead to
another; and the wise men of the world will, ere long, be obliged to
give in their adherence to Shakspere’s much quoted axiom, and confess
that “there _are_ more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in
their philosophy.”