our nursery. I pointed out the house where sugar-candy had formerly been sold, and went to the very spot in the churchyard where I had been led, when a child, to call out my name and hear the echo from the tower. I then went by a pathway, through some fields, which led to a neighbouring town. In these fields I recognised a remarkable stone stile, and a bank on which I had gathered daisies; then, extending my route, that I might return to the village by a different course, suddenly the prototype of my often dreamed dream stood before me. The day was bright. There was the blue sky—the green hill—the geese in the surrounding water. 'In every form of the thing my dream made true and good.' The distance of this spot from the house of my birth was rather a long walk for a child so young; and, therefore, I suppose I might only once or twice have seen it, and then only in the summer, or in bright weather. I have said that that dream, whenever it recurred, always impressed me with an indefinite sense of pleasure; was not this feeling an echo, a redolence, of the happy, lively sensations with which, as a child, I had first witnessed the scene? It is singular that, remembering so many objects much less likely to have fixed themselves on the memory, I should have so utterly forgotten, in my waking hours, the real existence of that of which my dream had so faithfully Daguerreotyped; and it is not less remarkable that I have never had the dream since I recognised its original. I think I can account for this, but will not now attempt it, as the length of my epistle may probably have put you in a fair way of having dreams of your own.—Ever faithfully yours.
"C. S."
This last dream of our friend exhibits one of the phenomena of memory, which may not be unconnected with another, curious, and I suppose common. Did you never feel a sense of a reduplication of any passing occurrence, act, or scene—something which you were saying or doing, or in which you were actor or spectator? Did you never, while the occurrence was taking place, suddenly feel a consciousness of its pre-existence and pre-acting; that the whole had passed before, just as it was then passing, even to the details of place, persons, words, and circumstances, and this not in events of importance, but mostly in those of no importance whatever; as if life and all its phenomena were a duplicate in itself, and that that which is acting here, were at the same time acting also elsewhere, and the fact were suddenly revealed to you? I call this one of the phenomena of memory, because it may possibly be accounted for by the repercussion of a nerve, an organ, which, like the string of an instrument unequally struck, will double the sound. Vibrations of memory—vibrations of imagination are curious things upon which to speculate; but not now, Eusebius—you must work this out yourself.
What a curious story is that of Pan.[38] "Pan is dead,"—great Pan is dead—as told by Plutarch. Was not one commissioned by dream or vision to go to a particular place to proclaim it there; and is it not added that the cry "great Pan is dead," was re-echoed from shore to shore, and that this happened at the time of the ceasing of oracles?
It little matters whether you look to public events or private histories—you will see signs and omens, and wondrous visitations, prefiguring and accomplishing their purposes; and if occasionally, when too they are indisputable, they seem to accomplish no end, it may be only a seeming non-accomplishment—but suppose it real, it would then the more follow, that they arise necessarily from the nature of things, though a nature with which we are not acquainted. There is an unaccountable sympathy and
connexion between all animated nature—perhaps the invisible, as well as the visible. Did you never remark, that in a crowded room, if you fix your eyes upon any one person, he will be sure soon to look at you? Whence is this more than electric power! Wonderful is that of yawning, that it is communicable;—it is so common, that the why escapes our observation. This attractive power, the fascination of the eye, is still more wonderful. Hence, perhaps, the superstition of the "Evil Eye," and the vulgarly believed mischief of "being overlooked."
Of private histories—I should like to see the result of a commission to collect and enquire into the authenticity of anecdotes bearing upon this subject. I will tell you one, which is traditionary in our family—of whom one was of the dramatis personæ. You know the old popular ballad of "Margaret's Ghost"—
"In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet."
You do not know, perhaps that it is founded on truth. William was Lord S——, who had jilted Margaret; she died; and after death appeared to him—and, it is said, gave him the choice of two things—to die within a week, or to vow constancy, never to marry. He gave the solemn promise to the ghost. We must transfer the scene to the living world of pleasure. Lord S—— is at Bath. He is in the rooms; suddenly he starts—is so overcome as to attract general attention—his eyes are riveted upon one person, the beautiful Mary T——, whose father resided in great style and fashion at Bathford. It was her resemblance to Margaret, her astonishing resemblance, that overcame him. He thought the ghost had again appeared. He was introduced—and, our family tradition says, was for a length of time a daily visitor at Bathford, where his habit was, to say little, but to sit opposite to, and fix his eyes upon the lovely face of Mary T——. The family not liking this, for there was no declaration on his part, removed Mary T—— to the house of some relative in London. There Lord S—— followed her, and pursued his daily habit of profound admiration. At length the lady spoke, and asked him his intentions with regard to her guest. Lord S—— was in the greatest agitation, rose, burst into tears, and left the house. Time passed; and here nothing more is said of Mary T——; Lord S—— saw her no more. But of him, it is added, that, being persuaded by his family and friends, he consented to marry—that the bride and her relatives were at the appointed hour at the church—that no bridegroom was there—that messengers sent to enquire for him brought back the frightful intelligence, that he was no more. He had suddenly expired.
My dear Eusebius, with this story I terminate my long letter. Ruminate upon the contents. Revolved in your mind, they will yield a rich harvest of thought. I hope to be at the reaping. Ever yours, &c.