GEORGE DOBSON'S EXPEDITION TO HELL.
There is no phenomenon in nature less understood, and about which
greater nonsense is written, than dreaming. It is a strange thing. For
my part, I do not understand it, nor have I any desire to do so; and I
firmly believe that no philosopher that ever wrote knows a particle
more about it than I do, however elaborate and subtle the theories he
may advance concerning it. He knows not even what sleep is, nor can he
define its nature, so as to enable any common mind to comprehend him;
and how, then, can he define that ethereal part of it, wherein the
soul holds intercourse with the external world?--how, in that state of
abstraction, some ideas force themselves upon us, in spite of all our
efforts to get rid of them; while others, which we have resolved to
bear about with us by night as well as by day, refuse us their
fellowship, even at periods when we most require their aid?
No, no; the philosopher knows nothing about either; and if he says he
does, I entreat you not to believe him. He does not know what mind is;
even his own mind, to which one would think he has the most direct
access: far less can he estimate the operations and powers of that of
any other intelligent being. He does not even know, with all his
subtlety, whether it be a power distinct from his body, or essentially
the same, and only incidentally and temporarily endowed with different
qualities. He sets himself to discover at what period of his existence
the union was established. He is baffled; for Consciousness refuses
the intelligence, declaring, that she cannot carry him far enough back
to ascertain it. He tries to discover the precise moment when it is
dissolved, but on this Consciousness is altogether silent; and all is
darkness and mystery; for the origin, the manner of continuance, and
the time and mode of breaking up of the union between soul and body,
are in reality undiscoverable by our natural faculties--are not
patent, beyond the possibility of mistake: but whosoever can read his
Bible, and solve a dream, can do either, without being subjected to
any material error.
It is on this ground that I like to contemplate, not the theory of
dreams, but the dreams themselves; because they prove to the
unlettered man, in a very forcible manner, a distinct existence of the
soul, and its lively and rapid intelligence with external nature, as
well as with a world of spirits with which it has no acquaintance,
when the body is lying dormant, and the same to the soul as if
sleeping in death.
I account nothing of any dream that relates to the actions of the day;
the person is not sound asleep who dreams about these things; there is
no division between matter and mind, but they are mingled together in
a sort of chaos--what a farmer would call compost--fermenting and
disturbing one another. I find that in all dreams of that kind, men of
every profession have dreams peculiar to their own occupations; and,
in the country, at least, their import is generally understood. Every
man's body is a barometer. A thing made up of the elements must be
affected by their various changes and convulsions; and so the body
assuredly is. When I was a shepherd, and all the comforts of my life
depended so much on good or bad weather, the first thing I did every
morning was strictly to overhaul the dreams of the night; and I found
that I could calculate better from them than from the appearance and
changes of the sky. I know a keen sportsman, who pretends that his
dreams never deceive him. If he dream of angling, or pursuing salmon
in deep waters, he is sure of rain; but if fishing on dry ground, or
in waters so low that the fish cannot get from him, it forebodes
drought; hunting or shooting hares, is snow, and moorfowl, wind, &c.
But the most extraordinary professional dream on record is, without
all doubt, that well-known one of George Dobson, coach-driver in
Edinburgh, which I shall here relate; for though it did not happen in
the shepherd's cot, it has often been recited there.
George was part proprietor and driver of a hackney-coach in Edinburgh,
when such vehicles were scarce; and one day a gentleman, whom he knew,
came to him and said:--"George, you must drive me and my son here out
to----," a certain place that he named, somewhere in the vicinity of
Edinburgh.
"Sir," said George, "I never heard tell of such a place, and I cannot
drive you to it unless you give me very particular directions."
"It is false," returned the gentleman; "there is no man in Scotland
who knows the road to that place better than you do. You have never
driven on any other road all your life; and I insist on your taking
us."
"Very well, sir," said George, "I'll drive you to hell, if you have a
mind; only you are to direct me on the road."
"Mount and drive on, then," said the other; "and no fear of the road."
George did so, and never in his life did he see his horses go at such
a noble rate; they snorted, they pranced, and they flew on; and as the
whole road appeared to lie down-hill, he deemed that he should soon
come to his journey's end. Still he drove on at the same rate, far,
far down-hill,--and so fine an open road he never travelled,--till by
degrees it grew so dark that he could not see to drive any farther. He
called to the gentleman, inquiring what he should do; who answered,
that this was the place they were bound to, so he might draw up,
dismiss them, and return. He did so, alighted from the dickie,
wondered at his foaming horses, and forthwith opened the coach-door,
held the rim of his hat with the one hand, and with the other demanded
his fare.
"You have driven us in fine style, George," said the elder gentleman,
"and deserve to be remembered; but it is needless for us to settle
just now, as you must meet us here again to-morrow precisely at twelve
o'clock."
"Very well, sir," said George; "there is likewise an old account, you
know, and some toll-money;" which indeed there was.
"It shall be all settled to-morrow, George, and moreover, I fear there
will be some toll-money to-day."
"I perceived no tolls to-day, your honour," said George.
"But I perceived one, and not very far back neither, which I suspect
you will have difficulty in repassing without a regular ticket. What a
pity I have no change on me!"
"I never saw it otherwise with your honour," said George, jocularly;
"what a pity it is you should always suffer yourself to run short of
change!"
"I will give you that which is as good, George," said the gentleman;
and he gave him a ticket written with red ink, which the honest
coachman could not read. He, however, put it into his sleeve, and
inquired of his employer where that same toll was which he had not
observed, and how it was that they did not ask toll from him as he
came through? The gentleman replied, by informing George that there
was no road out of that domain, and that whoever entered it must
either remain in it, or return by the same path; so they never asked
any toll till the person's return, when they were at times highly
capricious; but that the ticket he had given him would answer his
turn. And he then asked George if he did not perceive a gate, with a
number of men in black standing about it.
"Oho! Is yon the spot?" says George; "then, I assure your honour, yon
is no toll-gate, but a private entrance into a great man's mansion;
for do not I know two or three of the persons yonder to be gentlemen
of the law, whom I have driven often and often? and as good fellows
they are, too, as any I know--men who never let themselves run short
of change! Good day.--Twelve o'clock to-morrow?"
"Yes, twelve o'clock noon, precisely;" and with that, George's
employer vanished in the gloom, and left him to wind his way out of
that dreary labyrinth the best way he could. He found it no easy
matter, for his lamps were not lighted, and he could not see an ell
before him--he could not even perceive his horses' ears; and what was
worse, there was a rushing sound, like that of a town on fire, all
around him, that stunned his senses, so that he could not tell whether
his horses were moving or standing still. George was in the greatest
distress imaginable, and was glad when he perceived the gate before
him, with his two identical friends, men of the law, still standing.
George drove boldly up, accosted them by their names, and asked what
they were doing there; they made him no answer, but pointed to the
gate and the keeper. George was terrified to look at this latter
personage, who now came up and seized his horses by the reins,
refusing to let him pass. In order to introduce himself, in some
degree, to this austere toll-man, George asked him, in a jocular
manner, how he came to employ his two eminent friends as assistant
gate-keepers?
"Because they are among the last comers," replied the ruffian,
churlishly. "You will be an assistant here, to-morrow."
"The devil I will, sir?"
"Yes, the devil you will, sir."
"I'll be d--d if I do then--that I will."
"Yes, you'll be d--d if you do--that you will."
"Let my horses go in the meantime, then, sir, that I may proceed on my
journey."
"Nay."
"Nay?--Dare you say nay to me, sir? My name is George Dobson, of the
Pleasance, Edinburgh, coach-driver, and coach-proprietor too; and no
man shall say _nay_ to me, as long as I can pay my way. I have his
Majesty's license, and I'll go and come as I choose--and that I will.
Let go my horses there, and tell me what is your demand."
"Well, then, I'll let your horses go," said the keeper; "but I'll keep
yourself for a pledge." And with that he let go the horses, and seized
honest George by the throat, who struggled in vain to disengage
himself, and swore, and threatened, according to his own confession,
most bloodily. His horses flew off like the wind, so swift, that the
coach seemed flying in the air, and scarcely bounding on the earth
once in a quarter of a mile. George was in furious wrath, for he saw
that his grand coach and harness would all be broken to pieces, and
his gallant pair of horses maimed or destroyed; and how was his
family's bread now to be won!--He struggled, threatened, and prayed in
vain;--the intolerable toll-man was deaf to all remonstrances. He once
more appealed to his two genteel acquaintances of the law, reminding
them how he had of late driven them to Roslin on a Sunday, along with
two ladies, who, he supposed, were their sisters, from their
familiarity, when not another coachman in town would engage with them.
But the gentlemen, very ungenerously, only shook their heads, and
pointed to the gate. George's circumstances now became desperate, and
again he asked the hideous toll-man what right he had to detain him,
and what were his charges.
"What right have I to detain you, sir, say you? Who are you that make
such a demand here? Do you know where you are, sir?"
"No, faith, I do not," returned George; "I wish I did. But I _shall_
know, and make you repent your insolence too. My name, I told you, is
George Dobson, licensed coach-hirer in Pleasance, Edinburgh; and to
get full redress of you for this unlawful interruption, I only desire
to know where I am."
"Then, sir, if it can give you so much satisfaction to know where you
are," said the keeper, with a malicious grin, "you _shall_ know, and
you may take instruments by the hands of your two friends there,
instituting a legal prosecution. Your redress, you may be assured,
will be most ample, when I inform you that you are in HELL! and out at
this gate you pass no more."
This was rather a damper to George, and he began to perceive that
nothing would be gained in such a place by the strong hand, so he
addressed the inexorable toll-man, whom he now dreaded more than
ever, in the following terms: "But I must go home at all events, you
know, sir, to unyoke my two horses, and put them up, and to inform
Chirsty Halliday, my wife, of my engagement. And, bless me! I never
recollected till this moment, that I am engaged to be back here
to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and see, here is a free ticket for my
passage this way."
The keeper took the ticket with one hand, but still held George with the
other. "Oho! were you in with our honourable friend, Mr R---- of
L----y?" said he. "He has been on our books for a long while;--however,
this will do, only you must put your name to it likewise; and the
engagement is this--You, by this instrument, engage your soul, that you
will return here by to-morrow at noon."
"Catch me there, billy!" says George. "I'll engage no such thing,
depend on it;--that I will not."
"Then remain where you are," said the keeper, "for there is no other
alternative. We like best for people to come here in their own
way,--in the way of their business;" and with that he flung George
backward, heels-over-head down hill, and closed the gate.
George, finding all remonstrance vain, and being desirous once more to
see the open day, and breathe the fresh air, and likewise to see
Chirsty Halliday, his wife, and set his house and stable in some
order, came up again, and in utter desperation, signed the bond, and
was suffered to depart. He then bounded away on the track of his
horses, with more than ordinary swiftness, in hopes to overtake them;
and always now and then uttered a loud Wo! in hopes they might hear
and obey, though he could not come in sight of them. But George's
grief was but beginning; for at a well-known and dangerous spot, where
there was a tan-yard on the one hand, and a quarry on the other, he
came to his gallant steeds overturned, the coach smashed to pieces,
Dawtie with two of her legs broken, and Duncan dead. This was more
than the worthy coachman could bear, and many degrees worse than being
in hell. There, his pride and manly spirit bore him up against the
worst of treatment; but here, his heart entirely failed him, and he
laid himself down, with his face on his two hands, and wept bitterly,
bewailing, in the most deplorable terms, his two gallant horses,
Dawtie and Duncan.
While lying in this inconsolable state, some one took hold of his
shoulder, and shook it; and a well-known voice said to him, "Geordie!
what is the matter wi' ye, Geordie?" George was provoked beyond
measure at the insolence of the question, for he knew the voice to be
that of Chirsty Halliday, his wife. "I think you needna ask that,
seeing what you see," said George. "O, my poor Dawtie, where are a'
your jinkings and prancings now, your moopings and your wincings?
I'll ne'er be a proud man again--bereaved o' my bonny pair!"
"Get up, George; get up, and bestir yourself," said Chirsty Halliday,
his wife. "You are wanted directly, to bring in the Lord President to
the Parliament House. It is a great storm, and he must be there by
nine o'clock.--Get up--rouse yourself, and make ready--his servant is
waiting for you."
"Woman, you are demented!" cried George. "How can I go and bring in
the Lord President, when my coach is broken in pieces, my poor Dawtie
lying with twa of her legs broken, and Duncan dead? And, moreover, I
have a previous engagement, for I am obliged to be in hell before
twelve o'clock."
Chirsty Halliday now laughed outright, and continued long in a fit of
laughter; but George never moved his head from the pillow, but lay and
groaned,--for, in fact, he was all this while lying snug in his bed;
while the tempest without was roaring with great violence, and which
circumstance may perhaps account for the rushing and deafening sound
which astounded him so much in hell. But so deeply was he impressed
with the idea of the reality of his dream, that he would do nothing
but lie and moan, persisting and believing in the truth of all he had
seen. His wife now went and informed her neighbours of her husband's
plight, and of his singular engagement with Mr R----of L----y at
twelve o'clock. She persuaded one friend to harness the horses, and go
for the Lord President; but all the rest laughed immoderately at poor
coachy's predicament. It was, however, no laughing to him; he never
raised his head, and his wife becoming at last uneasy about the
frenzied state of his mind, made him repeat every circumstance of his
adventure to her, (for he would never believe or admit that it was a
dream,) which he did in the terms above narrated; and she perceived,
or dreaded, that he was becoming somewhat feverish. She went out, and
told Dr Wood of her husband's malady, and of his solemn engagement to
be in hell at twelve o'clock.
"He maunna keep it, dearie. He maunna keep that engagement at no
rate," said Dr Wood. "Set back the clock an hour or twa, to drive him
past the time, and I'll ca' in the course of my rounds. Are ye sure he
hasna been drinking hard?"--She assured him he had not.--"Weel, weel,
ye maun tell him that he maunna keep that engagement at no rate. Set
back the clock, and I'll come and see him. It is a frenzy that maunna
be trifled with. Ye maunna laugh at it, dearie,--maunna laugh at it.
Maybe a nervish fever, wha kens."
The Doctor and Chirsty left the house together, and as their road lay
the same way for a space, she fell a-telling him of the two young
lawyers whom George saw standing at the gate of hell, and whom the
porter had described as two of the last comers. When the Doctor heard
this, he stayed his hurried, stooping pace in one moment, turned full
round on the woman, and fixing his eyes on her, that gleamed with a
deep, unstable lustre, he said, "What's that ye were saying, dearie?
What's that ye were saying? Repeat it again to me, every word." She
did so. On which the Doctor held up his hands, as if palsied with
astonishment, and uttered some fervent ejaculations. "I'll go with you
straight," said he, "before I visit another patient. This is
wonderfu'! it is terrible! The young gentlemen are both at rest--both
lying corpses at this time! Fine young men--I attended them both--died
of the same exterminating disease--Oh, this is wonderful; this is
wonderful!"
The Doctor kept Chirsty half running all the way down the High Street
and St Mary's Wynd, at such a pace did he walk, never lifting his eyes
from the pavement, but always exclaiming now and then, "It is
wonderfu'! most wonderfu'!" At length, prompted by woman's natural
curiosity, Chirsty inquired at the Doctor if he knew any thing of
their friend Mr R---- of L----y. But he shook his head, and replied,
"Na, na, dearie,--ken naething about him. He and his son are baith in
London,--ken naething about him; but the tither is awfu'--it is
perfectly awfu'!"
When Dr Wood reached his patient, he found him very low, but only a
little feverish; so he made all haste to wash his head with vinegar
and cold water, and then he covered the crown with a treacle plaster,
and made the same application to the soles of his feet, awaiting the
issue. George revived a little, when the Doctor tried to cheer him up
by joking him about his dream; but on mention of that he groaned, and
shook his head. "So you are convinced, dearie, that it is nae dream?"
said the Doctor.
"Dear sir, how could it be a dream?" said the patient. "I was there in
person, with Mr R---- and his son; and see, here are the marks of the
porter's fingers on my throat."--Dr Wood looked, and distinctly saw
two or three red spots on one side of his throat, which confounded him
not a little.--"I assure you, sir," continued George, "it was no
dream, which I know to my sad experience. I have lost my coach and
horses,--and what more have I?--signed the bond with my own hand, and
in person entered into the most solemn and terrible engagement."
"But ye're no to keep it, I tell ye," said Dr Wood; "ye're no to keep
it at no rate. It is a sin to enter into a compact wi' the deil, but
it is a far greater ane to keep it. Sae let Mr R---- and his son bide
where they are yonder, for ye sanna stir a foot to bring them out the
day."
"Oh, oh, Doctor!" groaned the poor fellow, "this is not a thing to be
made a jest o'! I feel that it is an engagement that I cannot break.
Go I must, and that very shortly. Yes, yes, go I must, and go I will,
although I should borrow David Barclay's pair." With that he turned
his face towards the wall, groaned deeply, and fell into a lethargy,
while Dr Wood caused them to let him alone, thinking if he would sleep
out the appointed time, which was at hand, he would be safe; but all
the time he kept feeling his pulse, and by degrees showed symptoms of
uneasiness. His wife ran for a clergyman of famed abilities, to pray
and converse with her husband, in hopes by that means to bring him to
his senses; but after his arrival, George never spoke more, save
calling to his horses, as if encouraging them to run with great speed;
and thus in imagination driving at full career to keep his
appointment, he went off in a paroxysm, after a terrible struggle,
precisely within a few minutes of twelve o'clock.
A circumstance not known at the time of George's death made this
singular professional dream the more remarkable and unique in all its
parts. It was a terrible storm on the night of the dream, as has been
already mentioned, and during the time of the hurricane, a London
smack went down off Wearmouth about three in the morning. Among the
sufferers were the Hon. Mr R---- of L----y, and his son! George could
not know aught of this at break of day, for it was not known in
Scotland till the day of his interment; and as little knew he of the
deaths of the two young lawyers, who both died of the small-pox the
evening before.