If dreams of present-day places have their objective counterparts, and dreams of future scenes are fulfilled, is it not feasible that dreams of the past should be equally veritable? I see no reason why it should not be so. I have often dreamed of ancient cities teeming with people clad in loose, flowing drapery and turbans, or tight hose and armour. I have rubbed shoulders with red-crossed knights, and followed in the wake of bare-headed monks and light-footed priests. I have gazed admiringly into the faces of fair ladies whose shining hair was surmounted with lofty, conical hats, and I have moved aside to make way for great dames on milk-white palfreys.
In my dreams I have lived in all ages, breathed all kinds of atmospheres, seen all kinds of events. One or two of these dreams haunt me now. I remember, for example, dreaming that I was in a very quaint old town covered with cobblestones. I had a lady with me who was very near and dear to me, and my object was to protect her from the crowds of hustling, jostling merrymakers who crowded the thoroughfares. From the style of dress I saw on all sides, and which both I and my companion wore, I knew we were in the Middle Ages. But where we were and what was going on I could not tell. After threading our way through endless narrow streets, lined with gabled wooden houses, whose upper storeys projected far over their entrances, we at length arrived at a big square in which a vast number of people were watching a show. There were three actors—a devil in a tight-fitting black costume and mask, and two imps in red, whilst the show consisted of the acrobatic performance of a number of tricks played by the imps on the devil, who apparently tried his level best to catch his tormentors, but always failed. Though my companion and I thought it extremely stupid, the crowd enjoyed it thoroughly, and I saw one or two stout red-faced women and several burly men-at-arms convulsed with laughter.
Suddenly, however, when the performance was at its height, there was an abrupt pause—two priests, with knit brows and glittering eyes, glided up to a girl, and, placing a hand on each of her arms, led her despairingly away, the crowd showing their approval of the act by shaking their fists in the poor wretch's face. Seized with a terrible fear lest my companion should likewise be taken, I hurried her away, and as we hastened along I heard the most fearful screams of agony. On and on we went, until we came to an open space in the town, void of people, and surrounded by dark, forbidding-looking houses. I halted, and was deliberating which direction to take, when my companion clutched me by the elbow. I turned round, and saw, a few yards behind us, three priests, who, fixing their eyes malevolently on us, darted forward. Catching my companion by the hand, I was preparing to drag her into one of the houses opposite, when my foot slipped, and the next moment I saw her struggling in the hands of her relentless captors. There was a long, despairing cry—and I awoke. I have had this same dream, detail by detail, five times, and I know the faces of all the principals in it now as well as I know my own.
Curiously enough, I have dreamed of the same place, but at a different period. I have found myself walking along the quaint streets with a girl, whom I instinctively knew was my wife, past crowds of laughing, frolicing people dressed in the costume of the French Revolutionary period. We have come to the open space with the dark, forbidding houses, when I have slipped just as two savage-looking men in red caps have dashed out on us. My companion has attempted to escape; they have pursued her, and with the wails of her death-agony in my ears I have awakened. Can it be that these dreams are reminiscences of a former existence, of scenes with which I was once familiar? Or have they been vividly portrayed to me by an Elemental? I fancy the latter to be the more likely.
Occasionally I have a peculiarly phantastic dream, in which I find myself in the depths of a dark forest, standing by a rocky pool, the sides of which are covered with all kinds of beautiful lichens. As I am gazing meditatively at the water, a slight noise from behind makes me look round, when I perceive the tall figure of a man in grey hunting costume, à la Robin Hood, with a bow in one of his hands and a quiver of arrows by his side. His face is grey, and his eyes long and dark and glittering. He points to the root of a tree, where I perceive a huge green wooden wheel, that suddenly commences to roll. In an instant the forest is alive with grey archers, who fire a volley of arrows at the wheel, and endeavour to stop it. An arm is thrown round me, I am swung off the ground, and when I alight on the earth again it is to find myself on a flight of winding stone steps, in what I suppose is a very lofty tower. The walls on either side of me are of rough-hewn stone, and on peering through a small grated window, I can see, many feet beneath me, the silvery surface of a broad river and a wide expanse of emerald grass. I ascend up, up, up, until I arrive in a large room, brilliantly illuminated with sunbeams. Hanging on a wall is a picture representing a woman gazing at a grey door, which is slowly opening. On the door something is written, which I feel is the keynote to Life and Death, and I am endeavouring to interpret it when a hand falls on my shoulder. I look round, and standing beside me is the grey huntsman. I awake with his subtle, baffling smile vividly before me. A moment more and I might have been initiated into the great mystery I have long been endeavouring to solve.
I have little faith in dreams of marriages and deaths. They so seldom portend what they were once supposed to do. In my opinion, they are the suggestions of mischievous Elementals.
In concluding this chapter, I will describe a dream I had comparatively recently. I fancied it was late at night, and that I was on the Thames Embankment. The only person in sight was a well-dressed man in a frock-coat and silk hat, who was leaning over the parapet. Feeling certain from his attitude that he was contemplating suicide, I yielded to impulse, and, walking up to him, said, "You seem to be very unhappy! Can I do anything for you?" Raising his head, he looked at me, when to my astonishment I at once recognised the grey huntsman I had seen in the dream which I have previously narrated. Complexion, hair, eyes, mouth, were the same—the expression alone differed. On this occasion he was sad. "You need not be afraid," he said. "I cannot put an end to my existence. I wish I could." "Why can't you?" I enquired with interest. And I have never forgotten the emphasis of his reply. "Because," he responded, "I am an Evil Force, a Vice Elemental."
Some months after this, when I was travelling one night from Victoria to Gipsy Hill, I had as my sole companion a well-dressed man in a soft Panama hat, who appeared to be occupied in a novel. I did not pay the slightest attention to him till the train stopped at Wandsworth Common, when he proceeded to get out. As he glided by me on his way to the door, he stooped down and, smiling sardonically, passed out into the darkness of the night. It was the man of my dreams, the huntsman and the would-be suicide!