A FEW PASSAGES CONCERNING OMENS, DREAMS, APPEARANCES, and c. In a Letter to Eusebius. No. II.

It is somewhat late, my dear, Eusebius, to refer me to my letter of August 1840, and to enquire, in your bantering way, if I have shaken hands with a ghost recently, or dreamed a dream worth telling. You have evidently been thinking upon this subject ever since I wrote to you; and I suspect you are more of a convert than you will admit. You only wish to provoke me to further evidence; but I see—through the flimsy veil of your seeming denials, and through your put-on audacity—the nervous workings of your countenance, when your imagination is kindled by the mysterious subject. Your wit and your banter are but the whistle of the clown in the dark, to keep down his rising fears. However good your story[34] may be, there have been dreams even of the numbers of lottery-tickets that have been verified. We call things coincidences and chances, because we have no name to give them, whereas they are phenomena that want a better settlement. You speak, too, of the "doctrine of chances." If chance have a doctrine, it is subject to a rule, is under calculation, arithmetic, and loses all trace at once of our idea of absolute chance. If there be chance, there is also a power over chance. The very hairs of our head, which seem to be but a chance-confusion, are yet, we are assured, all numbered—and is it less credible that their every movement is noted also? One age is the type of another; and every age, from the beginning of the world, hath had its own symbols; and not poetically only, but literally true is it, that "coming events cast their shadows before." If the "vox populi" be the "vox Dei," it has pronounced continually, in a space of above five thousand years, that there is communication between the material and immaterial worlds. So rare are the exceptions, that, speaking of mankind, we may assert that there is a universal belief amongst them of that connexion by signs, omens, dreams, visions, or ghostly presences. Many professed sceptics, who have been sceptics only in the pride of understanding, have in secret bowed down to one form or other of the superstition. Take not the word in a bad sense. It is at least the germ, the natural germ, of religion in the human mind. It is the consciousness of a superiority not his own, of some power so immeasurably above man, that his mind cannot take it in, but accepts, as inconsiderable glimpses of it, the phenomena of nature, and the fears and misgivings of his own mind, spreading out from himself into the infinite and invisible. I am not certain, Eusebius, if it be not the spiritual part of conscience, and is to it what life is to organized matter—the mystery which gives it all its motion and beauty.

It is not my intention to repeat the substance of my former letter—I therefore pass on. You ask me if the mesmeric phenomena—which you ridicule, yet of which I believe you covet a closer investigation—are not part and parcel of the same incomprehensible farrago? I cannot answer you. It would be easy to do so were I a disciple. If the mesmerists can establish clairvoyance, it will certainly be upon a par with the ancient oracles. But what the philosopher La Place says, in his Essay on Probabilities, may be worth your consideration—that "any case, however apparently incredible, if it is a recurrent case, is as much entitled to a fair valuation under the laws of induction, as if it had been more probable beforehand." If the mesmerized can project, and that apparently without effort, their minds into the minds of others—read their thoughts; if they can see and tell what is going on hundreds of miles off, on the sea and on distant lands alike; if they can at remote distances influence others with a sense of their presence—they possess a power so very similar to that ascribed, in some extraordinary cases, to persons who, in a dying state, have declared that they have been absent and conversed with individuals dear to them in distant countries, and whose presence has been recognised at those very times by the persons so said to be visited, that I do not see how they can be referable to different original phenomena. Yet with this fact before them, supposing the facts of mesmerism, of the mind's separation from, and independence of its organic frame, is it not extraordinary that so many of this new school are, or profess themselves by their writings, materialists? I would, however, use the argument of mesmerism thus:—Mesmerism, if true, confirms the ghost and vision power, though I cannot admit that dreams, ghosts, and visions are any confirmation of mesmerism; for if mesmerism be a delusion and cheat, it may have arisen from speculating upon the other known power—as true miracles have been known to give rise to false. In cases of mesmerism, however, this shock is felt—the facts, as facts in the ordinary sense, are incredible; but then I see persons who have examined the matter very nicely, whom I have known, some intimately, for many years, of whose good sense, judgement, and veracity I will not allow myself to doubt—indeed to doubt whose veracity would be more incredible to me than the mesmeric facts themselves. Here is a conflict—a shock. Two contradictory impossibilities come together. I do not weigh in the scale at all the discovery of some cheats and pretenders; this was from the first to have been expected. In truth, the discoveries of trick and collusion are, after all, few. Not only has mesmerism been examined into by persons I respect, but practised likewise; and by one, a physician, whom I have known intimately many years, who, to his own detriment, has pursued it, and whom I have ever considered one of the most truthful persons living, and incapable of collusion, or knowingly in any way deceiving. Now, Eusebius, we cannot go into society, and pronounce persons whom we have ever respected all at once to be cheats and liars. Yet there may be some among them who will tell you that they themselves were entirely sceptical until they tried mesmerism, and found they had the power in themselves. We must then, in fairness, either acknowledge mesmerism as a power, or believe that these persons whom we respect and esteem are practised upon and deluded by others. And such would, I confess, be the solution of the difficulty, were it not that there are cases where this is next to an impossibility.

But I do not mean now, Eusebius, to discuss mesmerism, [35] further than as it does seem "a part and parcel" of that mysterious power which has been manifested in omens, dreams, and appearances. I say seem—for if it be proved altogether false, the other mystery stands untouched by the failure—for in fact it was, thousands of years before either the discovery or practice—at least as far as we know; for some will not quite admit this, but, in their mesmeric dreaming, attribute to it the ancient oracles, and other wonders. And there are who somewhat inconsistently do this, having ridiculed and contemned as utterly false those phenomena, until they have found them hitch on to, and give a credit to, their new Mesmeric science.

But to return to the immediate subject. It has been objected against dreams, omens, and visions, that they often occur without an object; that there is either no consequence, or a very trifling one; the knot is not "dignus vindice." Now, I am not at all staggered by this; on the contrary, it rather tends to show that there is some natural link by which the material and immaterial within and without ourselves may be connected; and very probably many more intimations of that connexion are given than noted. Those of thought, mental suggestions, may most commonly escape us. It is thus what we would not do of ourselves we may do in spite of ourselves. Nor do we always observe closely objects and ends. We might, were we to scrutinize, often find the completion of a dream or omen which we had considered a failure, because we looked too immediately for its fulfilment. But even where there is evidently no purpose attained, there is the less reason to suspect fabrication, which would surely commence with an object. Some very curious cases are well attested, where the persons under the impression act upon the impulse blindly, not knowing why; and suddenly, in conclusion, the whole purpose bursts upon their understandings. But I think the objection as to purpose is answered by one undoubted fact, the dream of Pilate's wife—"Have thou nothing to do with that just man; for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him." There is here no apparent purpose—the warning was unheeded. Yet the dream, recorded as it is and where it is, was unquestionably a dream upon the event to happen; and is not to be considered as a mere coincidence, which would have been unworthy the sacred historian, who wrote the account of it under inspiration. And this is a strong—the strongest confirmation of the inspiration of dreams, or rather, perhaps, of their significance, natural or otherwise, and with or without a purpose. So the dream of CÆsar's wife did not save CÆsar's life. And what are we to think of the whole narrative, beginning with the warning of the Ides of March? Now, Joseph's dream and Pharaoh's dream were dreams of purpose; they were prophetic, and disclosed to the understanding of Joseph. So that, with this authority of Scripture, I do not see how dreams can be set aside as of no significance. And we have the like authority for omens, and symbols, and visions—so that we must conclude the things themselves to be possible; and this many do, yet say that, with other miracles, they have long ceased to be.

Then, again, in things that by their agreement, falling in with other facts and events, move our wonder, we escape from the difficulty, as we imagine, by calling them coincidences; as if we knew what coincidences are. I do not believe they are without a purpose, any more than that seeming fatality by which little circumstances produce great events, and in ordinary life occur frequently to an apparent detriment, yet turn out to be the very hinge upon which the fortune and happiness of life depend and are established. I remember a remarkable instance of this—though it may not strictly belong to omens or coincidences; but it shows the purpose of an accident. Many years ago, a lady sent her servant—a young man about twenty years of age, and a native of that part of the country where his mistress resided—to the neighbouring town with a ring which required some alteration, to be delivered into the hands of a jeweller. The young man went the shortest way, across the fields; and coming to a little wooden bridge that crossed a small stream, he leaned against the rail, and took the ring out of its case to look at it. While doing so, it slipped out of his hand, and fell into the water. In vain he searched for it, even till it grew dark. He thought it fell into the hollow of a stump of a tree under water; but he could not find it. The time taken in the search was so long, that he feared to return and tell his story—thinking it incredible, and that he should even be suspected of having gone into evil company, and gamed it away or sold it. In this fear, he determined never to return—left wages and clothes, and fairly ran away. This seemingly great misfortune was the making of him. His intermediate history I know not; but this—that after many years' absence, either in the East or West Indies, he returned with a very considerable fortune. He now wished to clear himself with his old mistress; ascertained that she was living, purchased a diamond ring of considerable value, which he determined to present in person, and clear his character, by telling his tale, which the credit of his present condition might testify. He took the coach to the town of ——, and from thence set out to walk the distance of a few miles. He found, I should tell you, on alighting, a gentleman who resided in the neighbourhood, who was bound for the adjacent village. They walked together; and, in conversation, this former servant, now a gentleman, with graceful manners and agreeable address, communicated the circumstance that made him leave the country abruptly, many years before. As he was telling this, they came to the very wooden bridge. "There," said he—"it was just here that I dropped the ring; and there is the very bit of old tree, into a hole of which it fell—just there." At the same time, he put down the point of his umbrella into the hole of a knot in the tree—and, drawing it up, to the astonishment of both, found the very ring on the ferrule of the umbrella. I need not tell the rest. But make this reflection—why was it that he did not as easily find it immediately after it had fallen in? It was an incident like one of those in Parnell's "Hermit," which, though a seeming chance, was of purpose, and most important.

Now, here is an extraordinary coincidence between a fact and a dream, or a vision, whatever it may be, which yet was of no result—I know it to be true. And you know, Eusebius, my excellent, truth-telling, worthy Mrs H——, who formerly kept a large school at ——. One morning early, the whole house was awakened by the screams of one of the pupils. She was in hysterics; and, from time to time, fainting away in an agony of distress. She said she had seen her grandfather—that he was dead, and they would bury him alive. In due time, the post brought a letter—the grandfather was dead. Letters were written to the friends to announce the dream or vision, and the burial was delayed in consequence. Nothing could be more natural than the fear of burying him alive in the mind of the young girl, unacquainted with death, and averse to persuade herself that the person she had seen could be really dead. Now, my dear Eusebius, you know Mrs H——, and cannot doubt the fact.

Cases of this kind are so many, and well authenticated, that one knows not where to choose.

I think you knew the worthy and amiable Mr ——, who had the charge of the valuable museum at ——. I well remember hearing this narrated of him, long before his death. He stated, that one day opening a case, he heard a voice issue from it, which said—"In three days you shall die." He became ill, and sent for Dr P——, the very celebrated physician. It was in vain to reason with him. The third day arrived. The kind physician sat with him till the hour was past. He did not then die! Did he, however, mistake or miscalculate the meaning of the voice? He died that very day three years!! Nothing can be more authentic than this.

When I was in town in the summer, Eusebius, I spent an agreeable day with my friends, the C——s. Now, I do not know a human being more incapable of letting an idea, a falsehood of imagination, run away with his sober judgment. He has a habit, I should say, more than most men, of tying himself down to matters of fact. I copy for you an extract from a diary; it was taken down that night. "Mr C—— has just told me the following very curious circumstance:—Some years ago, Mrs C—— being not in good health, they determined to spend some weeks in the country. His father was then in his house. They separated—the father, to his own home in the neighbourhood of London, and Mr and Mrs C—— to visit the brother of Mrs C——, a clergyman, and resident upon his living, in Suffolk. Soon after their arrival, there was a large assembly of friends, in consequence of some church business. There was church service—in the midst of which Mr C—— suddenly felt an irresistible desire to return to his house in town. He knew not why. It was in vain he reasoned with himself—go he must, forced by an impulse for which he could in no way account. It would distress his friends—particularly on such an occasion. He could not help it. He communicated his intention to Mrs C——; begged her to tell no one, lest he should give trouble by having the carriage;—his resolution was instantly taken, to quit the church at once, to walk about six miles to meet the coach if possible; if not, determining to walk all night, a distance of thirty-two miles. He did quit the church, walked the six miles, was in time to take the coach, reached London, and his own home. The intelligence he found there was, that his father was dangerously ill. He went to him—found him dying—and learned that he had told those about him that he knew he should see his son. That wish was gratified, which could not have been but for this sudden impulse and resolution. His father expired in his arms."

It is curious that his father had told him a dream which he had had some years before—that he was in the midst of some convulsion of nature, where death was inevitable, and that then the only one of his children who came to him was my friend Mr C——, which was thus in manner accomplished on the day of his death.

I know not if some persons are naturally more under these and suchlike mysterious influences. There was another occurrence which much affected Mr C——. He went into Gloucestershire to visit a brother. I do not think the brother was ill. All the way that he went in the coach, he had, to use his own words, a death-smell which very much annoyed him. Leaving the coach, he walked towards his brother's house greatly depressed; so much so, that, for a considerable time, he sat on a stone by the way, deeply agitated, and could not account for the feeling. He arrived in time only to see his brother expire. I do not know, Eusebius, how you can wish for better evidence of facts so extraordinary. Mr C——'s character is sufficient voucher.

Here is another of these extraordinary coincidences which I have been told by my friend Mrs S——, niece to the Rev. W. Carr, whom she has very frequently heard narrate the following:—A farmer's wife at Bolton Abbey, came to him, the Rev. W. Carr, in great agitation, and told him she had passed a dreadful night, having dreamed that she saw Mr Richard, (brother to Rev. W. Carr;) that she saw him in great distress, struggling in the water, with his portmanteau on his shoulders, escaping from a burning ship; and she begged the family to write to know if Mr Richard was safe. It was exactly according to the dream; he had, at the very time, so escaped from the burning of (I believe) the Boyne. How like is this to some of the mesmeric visions! I am assured of the truth of the following, by one who knew the circumstance. One morning, as Mrs F—— was sitting in her room, a person came in and told her he had had a very singular dream; that he had been sitting with her sister, Mrs B——k, when some one came into the room with distressing intelligence about her husband. Though it could not have been there known at the time, Mr B——k had been thrown from his horse and killed.

A party of gentlemen had met at Newcastle; the nature of the meeting is stated to have been of a profane character. One of them suddenly started, and cried, "What's that?"—and saw a coffin. The others saw it; and one said—"It is mine: I see myself in it!" In twenty-four hours he was a corpse.

I think I mentioned to you, Eusebius, that when I dined with Miss A——, in town, she told me a curious story about a black boy. I have been since favoured with the particulars, and copy part of the letter; weigh it well, and tell me what you think of such coincidences—if you are satisfied that there is nothing but chance in the matter.

"Now for the little black boy. In the year 1813, I was at the house of Sir J. W. S——th of D—— House, near Bl——d, who then resided in Portman Square, and a Mr L——r of Norfolk, a great friend of Sir John's, was of the party. On coming into the room, he said—'I have just been calling on our old Cambridge friend, H——n, who returned the other day from India; and he has been telling me a very curious thing which happened in his family. He had to go up the country to a very remote part, on some law business, and he left Mrs H——n at home, under the protection of her sister and that lady's husband. The night after Mr H——n went away, the brother-in-law was awakened by the screams of his own wife in her sleep; she had dreamed that a little black boy, Mr H——n's servant, who had attended him, was murdering him. He woke her, and while he was endeavouring to quiet her, and convince her that her fears were the effects of a bad dream, produced probably by indigestion, he was roused by the alarming shrieks of Mrs H——n, who slept in an adjoining room. On going to her, he found her, too, just awakening after a horrid dream—the little Indian boy was murdering her husband. He used the same arguments with her that he had already found answer in quieting his own wife; but, in his own mind, he felt very anxious for tidings from Mr H——n. To their great surprise, that gentleman made his appearance the next evening, though he had expected to be absent above a week. He looked ill and dejected. They anxiously asked him what was the matter. Nothing, but that he was angry with himself for acting in a weak, foolish manner. He had dreamed that his attendant, the little black boy, intended to murder him; and the dream made such an impression on his nerves that he could not bear the sight of the boy, but dismissed him at once without any explanation. Finding he could not go on without an attendant, he had returned home to procure one; but as he had no reason whatever to suspect the boy of any ill intention, he felt very angry with himself for minding a dream. Dear Mrs H——n was much struck with this story; but she used to say—unless it were proved that the boy really had the intention of murdering his master, the dreams were for nothing.'"

In this instance a murder may have been prevented by these dreams; for if merely coincidences, and without an object, the wonder of coincidences is great indeed; for it is not one dream, but three, and of three persons.

Things apparently of little consequence are yet curious for observation. Our friend K——n, and two or three other friends, some months ago went on an excursion together. Their first point was Bath, where they meant to remain some time. K——n dreamed on Friday they were to start on Saturday; that there was a great confusion at the railway station; and that there would be no reaching Bath for them. They went, however, on Saturday morning, and he told his dream when in the carriage. One of the party immediately repeated the old saying—

There was no accident to the train; but, instead of finding themselves at Bath, they found themselves at Bristol—having, in their conversation, neglected to notice that they had passed Bath. They were put to great inconvenience, and confusion, and difficulty in getting their luggage. I know you too well, Eusebius, not to hear, by anticipation, your laughter at this trifling affair, and the wit with which for a few moments you will throw off your ridicule. You may ask, if the shooting of your corns are not as sure and as serious prognostications? Be it so; and why not, Eusebius? You can tell by them what weather to expect; and, after all, you know little more of the material world, less of the immaterial, and nothing of their mystical union. Nothing now, past, present, and future, may be but terms for we know not what, and cannot comprehend how they can be lost in an eternity. There they become submerged. So take the thing represented, not the paltry, perhaps ridiculous, one through which it is represented. It is the picture, the attitude, the position, the undignified familiarity of yourself with the defects of your own person, that make the ridiculous; but there is grave philosophy, nevertheless, to be drawn from every atom of your own person, if you view it aright. I have heard you eloquent against the "hypocrite Cicero," as you called him, for his saying, that one Augur meeting another could scarcely help laughing. If mankind chose augury as a sign, it might have been permitted them to find a sign in it. But this is plunging into deeper matter, and one which you will think a quagmire, wherein wiser thoughts may flounder and be lost. When the officers of Hannibal's army were heard to laugh by the soldiery on the morning of the battle of CannÆ, they took it as a good omen. It was generally received, and the day was fatal to the Romans. "Possunt quia posse videntur," you will say; but whence comes the "videntur?" There, Eusebius, you beg the whole question. The wonders and omens, gravely related by Livy, at least portray a general feeling—an impression before events. In the absence of a better religion, I would not have quarrelled with the superstition, and very much join you in your condemnation of the passage in Cicero.

The fatal necessity of event upon event, of omen, dream, and vision, is the great characteristic of the wondrous Greek drama. So awfully portrayed is the Œdipus—and with more grand and prophetic mystery pervading the Agamemnon. Had it not been congenial with popular belief, it could never have been so received; nor, indeed, could somewhat similar (though degraded from their high authority, as standing less alone by their amalgamation with a purer creed) characteristics in some of the plays of our own Shakspeare have touched the mind to wonderment, had there been no innate feeling to which they might, and without effort, unite. The progress, however, of the omen and vision, clearer and clearer, pointing to the very deed, and even while its enactment has commenced, and that fatality by which (prophetic, too) the plainest prophecy is unheeded, contemned, and the Prophetess herself doomed, and knowing herself doomed, may be considered as an epitome of the Grecian creeds upon the subject. It was no vulgar punning spirit that designated the very name of Helen as a cursing omen.

Helen, the destroyer—yes, that was her significant name. The present King of the French was not allowed to assume the title of Valois, which was, strictly speaking, his, and instead assumed that of Duc de Chartres, on account of an evil omen attached to the former name; and that evil omen originating in a curious fact, the seeing of a spectre by that German princess who succeeded the poisoned sister of our second Charles. But there is nothing in modern history more analogous to the fatalities of the Grecian drama than those singular passages relating to the death of Henry the Fourth of France. We have the gravest authority of the gravest historians, that prophecies, warnings, and omens so prepared Henry for his death, that he waited for it with a calm resignation, as to an irresistible fatality. "In fact," (says an eloquent writer in Maga of April 1840,) "it is to this attitude of listening expectation in the king, and breathless waiting for the blow, that Schiller alludes in that fine speech of Wallenstein to his sister, where he notices the funeral knells that sounded continually in Henry's ears; and, above all, his prophetic instinct, that caught the sound from a far distance of his murderer's motions, that could distinguish, amidst all the tumult of a mighty Capital, those stealthy steps."

And does it seem so strange to you, Eusebius, if the ear and the eye, those outposts, as it were, of the ever watchful, spiritual, and intellectual sentinels within man, convey the secret intelligences that most concern him? What is there, Eusebius, so marvellous to your conception, if there be sympathy more than electric between those two worlds, outer Nature and Man himself? If earth, that with him and for him partook of one curse, with all its accompanying chain and interchange of elements, be still one with him, in utterance and signification, whether of his weal or woe. The sunshine and the gloom enter into him, and are his; they reflect his feelings, or rather they are his feelings, almost become his flesh—they are his bodily sensations. The winds and the waters, in their gentler breathings and their sullen roar, are but the music of his mind, echo his joys, his passions, or funereally rehearse the dirge of his fate.

Reject not, my Eusebius, any fact, because it seems little and trifling; a mite is a wonder in creation, from which deep, hidden truths present themselves. It was a heathen thought, an imperfect conception of the wide sympathy of all nature, and of that meaning which every particle of it can convey, and more significantly as we calculate our knowledge;—it was a heathen thought, that the poet should lament the unlikeliness of the flowers of the field to man in their fall and reappearance. It was not the blessing given to his times to see the perfectness of the truth—the "non omnis moriar" indicated even in his own lament.[36]

I had written thus far, when our friend H—- l—- r looked in upon me, and enquired what I was about; I told him I was writing to you, and the subject of my letter. He is this moment gone, and has left with me these two incidents. They came within his own experience. He remembers, that when he was a boy, he was in a room with several of his brothers, some of whom were unwell, yet not seriously ill. On a sudden, there was a great noise, so great, that it could be compared to nothing but the firing of a pistol—a pane in the window was broken; not, he said, to pieces, but literally to a powder of glass. All in the house heard it, with the exception of one of his brothers, which struck them as very strange. The servants from below, and their mother from above, rushed into the room, fearing one of them might have been shot. The mother, when she saw how it was, told H—- l—- r that his brother, who did not hear the noise, she knew it well, would die. At that same hour next day that brother did die.

The other story is more singular. His family were very intimate with another, consisting of father, mother, and an only daughter—a child. Of her the father was so fond, that he was never happy but when she was with him. It happened that he lost his health, and during his long illness, continually prayed that, when he was gone, his child too should be shortly taken from this world, and that he might be with her in a better. He died—when, a short time after his death, the child, who was in perfect health, came rushing into the presence of her mother, from a little room which looked out upon a court, but from which there was no entrance to the room—she came rushing to her mother, calling out—"Oh, papa, papa! I have seen papa in the court, and he called me to him. I must go—open the door for me—do, mamma! I must go, for he called me." Within twenty-four hours that child was dead. Now, said H—l—r, I knew this to be a fact, as well as I ever knew any act, for our families were like one family. Sweet image of infant and of parental love!—let us excuse the prayer, by that of the ancient mother, who, when her sons dragged her chariot to the temple, prayed that they might receive from the gods what was best for them—and they were found dead in the temple. How beautiful is the smile of the sleeping infant! "Holds it not converse with angels?" the thought is natural—ministering spirits may be unseen around us, and in all space, and love the whispering speech in the ear of sleeping innocence; there is visible joy in the face, yet how little can it know of pleasurable sensations, communicable through this world's objects? How know we but the sense must be deteriorated, to make it serviceable for the lower purposes for which in part the child is born?—as the air we breathe must have something of poison, or it would be too pure for mortal beings. Look down some lengthening valley from a height, Eusebius, at the hour of twilight, when all lands, their marks and boundaries, grow dim, and only here and there the scant light indicates lowly dwellings, shelters of humanity in earth's sombre bosom, and mark the vast space of vapour that fills all between, and touches all, broods over all—can you think this little world of life that you know by having walked its path, and now see so indistinguishable, to be the all of existence before you? Lone indeed would be the world were there nothing better than ourselves in it. No beings to watch for us, to warn us, to defend us from "the Power of the Air:" ministering spirits—and why not of the departed?—may be there. If there be those that in darkness persuade to evil—and in winter nights, the winds that shake the casement seem to denote to the guilty conscience the presence of avenging fiends—take we not peace and wholesome suggestion from milder influences of air and sunshine? Brighter may be, perhaps, the child's vision than ours; as it grows for the toil and work for which it is destined, there comes another picture of a stern and new reality, and that which brought the smile of joy upon the face, is but as a dissolving view; and then he becomes fully fitted for humanity, of which he was before but the embryo. And even in his progress, if he keep charge of his mind, in purity and in love, seem there not ministering spirits, that spread before him, in the mirage of the mind, scenes that look like a new creation? and pedants, in their kind, call this the poet's fancy, his imagination.

Lately I have spent a month by the sea: the silent rocks seemed significant in their overhanging look, and silence, as listening to the incessant sea. It would be painful to think every thing insensible about us, but ourselves. I wonder not that the rocks, the woods, and wilds, were peopled by ancient Mythologists; and with beings, too, with whom humanity could sympathize. I would not think that the greater part of the earth's islands and continents were given up to hearts insensate; that there were nothing better than wildernesses of chattering apes—no sounds more rational than

I would rather think that there are myriads of beings of higher nature than ourselves, whose passage is ?st? ???a, and whose home is ubiquity; and such as these may have their missions to us, and may sometimes take the dying breath of father or of brother in far-off seas, and instinct with, and maintaining in themselves, made visible, that poor remnant of life, stand at a moment at the bedside of beloved relatives, even in most distant lands, and give to each a blessed interchange and intelligence. In every sense, indeed, we "see but in part." In the dulness of the day, we see not a tenth part of the living things that people the ground; a gleam of sunshine instantly discovers to us in leaf and flower a little world; and could we but remove this outward fog, this impure atmosphere of our mortal senses, that which may be occasionally granted at dying hour, we might behold all space peopled with the glory of created beings. There is a beautiful truth of best feeling hidden in the superstition, that at one particular moment on Christmas Eve, all the beasts of the field go down on their knees amidst the darkness, seen alone by their Creator's eye, and by that angelic host that sing again the first divine hymn of Palestine.

I do not wonder that sailors are, what we choose to call, more superstitious than landsmen; with but a plank between them and death—unfathomable seas around them, whose depths are continual wonder, from whose unseen treasure-house, the

Seas and skies with the great attribute of life, motion—their very ship a personification, as it were a living creature—cut off, separated as they are for the most part, from cities, and the mind-lowering ways of cities, which they see recede from them and melt into utter insignificance, leaving for companionship but the winds and the waters. Can it be a matter of wonder, if, with warm wishes and affections in their breasts, their imaginations shape the clouds and mists into being, messengers between them and the world they have all but lost? The stars, those "watches of the night," to them are not the same, changing yet ever significant. Even the waters about them, which by day are apparently without a living thing beyond the life of their own motion, in the darkness glittering with animated fire; can we wonder, then, if their thoughts rise from these myriad, invisible, lucent worms of the sea, to a faith in the more magnificent beings who "clothe themselves with light;" and if they believe that such are present, unseen, commissioned to guard and guide them in ways perilous and obscure? Seamen, accustomed to observe signs in their great solitude, unattracted by the innumerable sights and businesses of other life, are ever open and ready to receive signs and significations even of omen and vision; whereas he that is engaged in crowded street and market, heeds no sign, though it were offered, but that which his little and engrossing interests make for him; he, indeed, may receive "angels' visits unaware." Omens, dreams, and visions are to seamen more real, more frequent, as more congenial with their wants; and some extraordinary cases have even been registered in ships' logs, not resting on the credibility of one but of a crew, and such logs, if I mistake not, have been admitted evidence in courts of judicature. Am I led away by the subject, Eusebius? You will say I am; yet I could go on—the wonder increases—the common earth is not their sure grave—

But I must not pursue this, lest, in your wit, you find reason to compare me to that great philosopher, who gravely asserted that he had discovered how to make a mermaid, but abstained from using the receipt; and I am quite sure you are not likely to resemble the learned Dr Farmer, who folded down the page for future experiment.[37]

It is not very long ago that I was discussing subjects of this kind with our acute friend S—— V——. I send you a letter received from him, written, I presume, more for you than myself; for I told him I was on the point of answering yours, which he read. His attempt to account for any of his stories by common coincidences, is rather indicative of his naturally inquisitive mind than of his real belief; and I suspect he has been led into that train of argument by his hostility to mesmerism, which he pronounces to be a cheat from beginning to end; and he cannot but see that, granting mesmerism, the step in belief beyond is easy. He would, therefore, have no such stepping stone; and lest confidence in dreams, omens, &c., should make mesmerism more credible, he has been a little disposed to trim his own opinions on the subject. You will judge for yourself—here is his letter:—