DREAMS AND PRESENTIMENTS.
That "every man has within him his own Patmos," Victor Hugo was not far
wrong in declaring. "Revery," says the great French thinker, "fixes its
gaze upon the shadow until there issues from it light. Some power that
is very high has ordained it thus." Mr. Lincoln had his Patmos, his
"kinship with the shades;" and this is, perhaps, the strangest feature
of his character. That his intellect was mighty and of exquisite mould,
that it was of a severely logical cast, and that his reasoning powers
were employed in the main on matters eminently practical, all men know
who know anything about the real Lincoln. The father of modern
philosophy tells us that "the master of superstition is the people; and
in all superstitions wise men follow fools." Lord Bacon, however, was
not unwilling to believe that storms might be dispersed by the ringing
of bells,--a superstition that is not yet wholly dead, even in countries
most distinguished by modern enlightenment. Those whom the great
Englishman designated "masters of superstition,--fools," were the common
people whose collective wisdom Mr. Lincoln esteemed above the highest
gifts of cultured men. That the Patmos of the _plain people_, as Mr.
Lincoln called them, was his in a large measure he freely acknowledged;
and this peculiarity of his nature is shown in his strange dreams and
presentiments, which sometimes elated and sometimes disturbed him in a
very astonishing degree.
From early youth he seemed conscious of a high mission. Long before his
admission to the bar, or his entrance into politics, he believed that he
was destined to rise to a great height; that from a lofty station to
which he should be called he would be able to confer lasting benefits on
his fellow-men. He believed also that from a lofty station he should
fall. It was a vision of grandeur and of gloom which was confirmed in
his mind by the dreams of his childhood, of his youthful days, and of
his maturer years. The plain people with whom his life was spent, and
with whom he was in cordial sympathy, believed also in the marvellous as
revealed in presentiments and dreams; and so Mr. Lincoln drifted on
through years of toil and exceptional hardship, struggling with a noble
spirit for honest promotion,--meditative, aspiring, certain of his star,
but appalled at times by its malignant aspect. Many times prior to his
election to the Presidency he was both elated and alarmed by what seemed
to him a rent in the veil which hides from mortal view what the future
holds. He saw, or thought he saw, a vision of glory and of blood,
himself the central figure in a scene which his fancy transformed from
giddy enchantment to the most appalling tragedy.
On the day of his renomination at Baltimore, Mr. Lincoln was engaged at
the War Department in constant telegraphic communication with General
Grant, who was then in front of Richmond. Throughout the day he seemed
wholly unconscious that anything was going on at Baltimore in which his
interests were in any way concerned. At luncheon time he went to the
White House, swallowed a hasty lunch, and without entering his private
office hurried back to the War Office. On his arrival at the War
Department the first dispatch that was shown him announced the
nomination of Andrew Johnson for Vice-President.
"This is strange," said he, reflectively; "I thought it was usual to
nominate the candidate for President first."
His informant was astonished. "Mr. President," said he, "have you not
heard of your own renomination? It was telegraphed to you at the White
House two hours ago."
Mr. Lincoln had not seen the dispatch, had made no inquiry about it, had
not even thought about it. On reflection, he attached great importance
to this singular occurrence. It reminded him, he said, of an ominous
incident of mysterious character which occurred just after his election
in 1860. It was the double image of himself in a looking-glass, which he
saw while lying on a lounge in his own chamber at Springfield. There was
Abraham Lincoln's face reflecting the full glow of health and hopeful
life; and in the same mirror, at the same moment of time, was the face
of Abraham Lincoln showing a ghostly paleness. On trying the experiment
at other times, as confirmatory tests, the illusion reappeared, and then
vanished as before.
Mr. Lincoln more than once told me that he could not explain this
phenomenon; that he had tried to reproduce the double reflection at the
Executive Mansion, but without success; that it had worried him not a
little; and that the mystery had its meaning, which was clear enough to
him. To his mind the illusion was a sign,--the life-like image
betokening a safe passage through his first term as President; the
ghostly one, that death would overtake him before the close of the
second. Wholly unmindful of the events happening at Baltimore, which
would have engrossed the thoughts of any other statesman in his place
that day,--forgetful, in fact, of all earthly things except the
tremendous events of the war,--this circumstance, on reflection, he wove
into a volume of prophecy, a sure presage of his re-election. His mind
then instantly travelled back to the autumn of 1860; and the vanished
wraith--the ghostly face in the mirror, mocking its healthy and hopeful
fellow--told him plainly that although certain of re-election to the
exalted office he then held, he would surely hear the fatal summons from
the silent shore during his second term. With that firm conviction,
which no philosophy could shake, Mr. Lincoln moved on through a maze of
mighty events, calmly awaiting the inevitable hour of his fall by a
murderous hand.
How, it may be asked, could he make life tolerable, burdened as he was
with that portentous horror which though visionary, and of trifling
import in _our_ eyes, was by his interpretation a premonition of
impending doom? I answer in a word: His sense of duty to his country;
his belief that "the inevitable" is right; and his innate and
irrepressible humor.
But the most startling incident in the life of Mr. Lincoln was a dream
he had only a few days before his assassination. To him it was a thing
of deadly import, and certainly no vision was ever fashioned more
exactly like a dread reality. Coupled with other dreams, with the
mirror-scene and with other incidents, there was something about it so
amazingly real, so true to the actual tragedy which occurred soon after,
that more than mortal strength and wisdom would have been required to
let it pass without a shudder or a pang. After worrying over it for some
days, Mr. Lincoln seemed no longer able to keep the secret. I give it as
nearly in his own words as I can, from notes which I made immediately
after its recital. There were only two or three persons present. The
President was in a melancholy, meditative mood, and had been silent for
some time. Mrs. Lincoln, who was present, rallied him on his solemn
visage and want of spirit. This seemed to arouse him, and without
seeming to notice her sally he said, in slow and measured tones:--
"It seems strange how much there is in the Bible about dreams. There
are, I think, some sixteen chapters in the Old Testament and four or
five in the New in which dreams are mentioned; and there are many other
passages scattered throughout the book which refer to visions. If we
believe the Bible, we must accept the fact that in the old days God and
His angels came to men in their sleep and made themselves known in
dreams. Nowadays dreams are regarded as very foolish, and are seldom
told, except by old women and by young men and maidens in love."
Mrs. Lincoln here remarked: "Why, you look dreadfully solemn; do _you_
believe in dreams?"
"I can't say that I do," returned Mr. Lincoln; "but I had one the other
night which has haunted me ever since. After it occurred, the first time
I opened the Bible, strange as it may appear, it was at the
twenty-eighth chapter of Genesis, which relates the wonderful dream
Jacob had. I turned to other passages, and seemed to encounter a dream
or a vision wherever I looked. I kept on turning the leaves of the old
book, and everywhere my eye fell upon passages recording matters
strangely in keeping with my own thoughts,--supernatural visitations,
dreams, visions, etc."
He now looked so serious and disturbed that Mrs. Lincoln exclaimed: "You
frighten me! What is the matter?"
"I am afraid," said Mr. Lincoln, observing the effect his words had upon
his wife, "that I have done wrong to mention the subject at all; but
somehow the thing has got possession of me, and, like Banquo's ghost, it
will not down."
This only inflamed Mrs. Lincoln's curiosity the more, and while bravely
disclaiming any belief in dreams, she strongly urged him to tell the
dream which seemed to have such a hold upon him, being seconded in this
by another listener. Mr. Lincoln hesitated, but at length commenced very
deliberately, his brow overcast with a shade of melancholy.
"About ten days ago," said he, "I retired very late. I had been up
waiting for important dispatches from the front. I could not have been
long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to
dream. There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard
subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my
bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same
pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to
room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of
distress met me as I passed along. It was light in all the rooms; every
object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were
grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What
could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a
state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived
at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening
surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped
in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting
as guards; and there was a throng of people, some gazing mournfully
upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who
is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers. 'The
President,' was his answer; 'he was killed by an assassin!' Then came a
loud burst of grief from the crowd, which awoke me from my dream. I
slept no more that night; and although it was only a dream, I have been
strangely annoyed by it ever since."
"That is horrid!" said Mrs. Lincoln. "I wish you had not told it. I am
glad I don't believe in dreams, or I should be in terror from this time
forth."
"Well," responded Mr. Lincoln, thoughtfully, "it is only a dream, Mary.
Let us say no more about it, and try to forget it."
This dream was so horrible, so real, and so in keeping with other dreams
and threatening presentiments of his, that Mr. Lincoln was profoundly
disturbed by it. During its recital he was grave, gloomy, and at times
visibly pale, but perfectly calm. He spoke slowly, with measured accents
and deep feeling. In conversations with me he referred to it afterward,
closing one with this quotation from "Hamlet": "To sleep; perchance to
dream! ay, _there's the rub_!" with a strong accent on the last three
words.
Once the President alluded to this terrible dream with some show of
playful humor. "Hill," said he, "your apprehension of harm to me from
some hidden enemy is downright foolishness. For a long time you have
been trying to keep somebody--the Lord knows who--from killing me.
Don't you see how it will turn out? In this dream it was not me, but
some other fellow, that was killed. It seems that this ghostly assassin
tried his hand on some one else. And this reminds me of an old farmer in
Illinois whose family were made sick by eating greens. Some poisonous
herb had got into the mess, and members of the family were in danger of
dying. There was a half-witted boy in the family called Jake; and always
afterward when they had greens the old man would say, 'Now, afore we
risk these greens, _let's try 'em on Jake_. _If he stands 'em_, we're
all right.' Just so with me. As long as this imaginary assassin
continues to exercise himself on others _I_ can stand it." He then
became serious and said: "Well, let it go. I think the Lord in His own
good time and way will work this out all right. God knows what is best."
These words he spoke with a sigh, and rather in a tone of soliloquy, as
if hardly noting my presence.
Mr. Lincoln had another remarkable dream, which was repeated so
frequently during his occupancy of the White House that he came to
regard it as a welcome visitor. It was of a pleasing and promising
character, having nothing in it of the horrible. It was always an omen
of a Union victory, and came with unerring certainty just before every
military or naval engagement where our arms were crowned with success.
In this dream he saw a ship sailing away rapidly, badly damaged, and our
victorious vessels in close pursuit. He saw, also, the close of a
battle on land, the enemy routed, and our forces in possession of
vantage ground of incalculable importance. Mr. Lincoln stated it as a
fact that he had this dream just before the battles of Antietam,
Gettysburg, and other signal engagements throughout the war.
The last time Mr. Lincoln had this dream was the night before his
assassination. On the morning of that lamentable day there was a Cabinet
meeting at which General Grant was present. During an interval of
general discussion, the President asked General Grant if he had any news
from General Sherman, who was then confronting Johnston. The reply was
in the negative, but the general added that he was in hourly expectation
of a dispatch announcing Johnston's surrender. Mr. Lincoln then with
great impressiveness said: "We shall hear very soon, and the news will
be important." General Grant asked him why he thought so. "Because,"
said Mr. Lincoln, "I had a dream last night; and ever since this war
began I have had the same dream just before every event of great
national importance. It portends some important event that will happen
very soon."
After this Mr. Lincoln became unusually cheerful. In the afternoon he
ordered a carriage for a drive. Mrs. Lincoln asked him if he wished any
one to accompany them. "No, Mary," said he, "I prefer that we ride by
ourselves to-day."
Mrs. Lincoln said afterwards that she never saw him look happier than
he did during that drive. In reply to a remark of hers to that effect,
Mr. Lincoln said: "And well may I feel so, Mary; for I consider that
this day the war has come to a close. Now, we must try to be more
cheerful in the future; for between this terrible war and the loss of
our darling son we have suffered much misery. Let us both try to be
happy."
On the night of the fatal 14th of April, 1865, when the President was
assassinated, Mrs. Lincoln's first exclamation was, "His dream was
prophetic."
History will record no censure against Mr. Lincoln for believing, like
the first Napoleon, that he was a man of destiny; for such he surely
was, if the term is at all admissible in a philosophic sense. And our
estimate of his greatness must be heightened by conceding the fact that
he was a believer in certain phases of the supernatural. Assured as he
undoubtedly was by omens which to his mind were conclusive that he would
rise to greatness and power, he was as firmly convinced by the same
tokens that he would be suddenly cut off at the height of his career and
the fulness of his fame. He always believed that he would fall by the
hand of an assassin; and yet with that appalling doom clouding his
life,--a doom fixed and irreversible, as he was firmly convinced,--his
courage never for a moment forsook him, even in the most trying
emergencies. Can greatness, courage, constancy in the pursuit of exalted
aims, be tried by a severer test? He believed with Tennyson that--
"Because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence."
Concerning presentiments and dreams Mr. Lincoln had a philosophy of
his own, which, strange as it may appear, was in perfect harmony
with his character in all other respects. He was no dabbler in
divination,--astrology, horoscopy, prophecy, ghostly lore, or witcheries
of any sort. With Goethe, he held that "Nature cannot but do right
eternally." Dreams and presentiments, in his judgment, are not of
supernatural origin; that is, they proceed in natural order, their
essence being preternatural, but not _above_ Nature. The moving power of
dreams and visions of an extraordinary character he ascribed, as did the
Patriarchs of old, to the Almighty Intelligence that governs the
universe, their processes conforming strictly to natural laws. "Nature,"
said he, "is the workmanship of the Almighty; and we form but links in
the general chain of intellectual and material life."
Mr. Lincoln had this further idea. Dreams being natural occurrences, in
the strictest sense, he held that their best interpreters are _the
common people_; and this accounts in large measure for the profound
respect he always had for the collective wisdom of plain people,--"the
children of Nature," he called them,--touching matters belonging to the
domain of psychical mysteries. There was some basis of truth, he
believed, for whatever obtained general credence among these "children
of Nature;" and as he esteemed himself one of their number, having
passed the greater part of his life among them, we can easily account
for the strength of his convictions on matters about which they and he
were in cordial agreement.
The natural bent of Mr. Lincoln's mind, aided by early associations,
inclined him to read books which tended to strengthen his early
convictions on occult subjects. Byron's "Dream" was a favorite poem, and
I have often heard him repeat the following lines:--
"Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world
And a wide realm of wild reality.
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being."
He seemed strangely fascinated by the wonderful in history,--such as the
fall of Geta by the hand of Caracalla, as foretold by Severus; the
ghosts of Caracalla's father and murdered brother threatening and
upbraiding him; and kindred passages. It is useless further to pursue
this account of Mr. Lincoln's peculiar views concerning these
interesting mysteries. Enough has been said to show that the more
intense the light which is poured upon what may be regarded as Mr.
Lincoln's weakest points, the greater and grander will his character
appear.