Chapter IX: Part II (7)

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 personae_. 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.

[Footnote 34: The story given by Eusebius is very probably of his own manufacture. It is this. Some years ago, when all the world were mad upon lotteries, the cook of a middle-aged gentleman drew from his hands the savings of some years. Her master, curious to know the cause, learned that she had repeatedly dreamed that a certain number was a great prize, and she had bought it. He called her a fool for her pains, and never omitted an occasion to tease her upon the subject. One day, however, the master saw in the newspaper, or at his bookseller's in the country town, that _the_ number was actually the L.20,000 prize. Cook is called up, a palaver ensues--had known each other many years, loth to part, &c.--in short, he proposes and is accepted, but insists on marriage being celebrated next morning. Married they were; and, as the carriage took them from the church they enjoy the following dialogue. "Well, Molly--two happy events in one day. You have married, I trust, a good husband. You have something else--but first let me ask you where you have locked up your lottery-ticket." Molly, who thought her master was only bantering her again on the old point, cried--"Don't ye say no more about it. I thought how it would be, and that I never should hear the end on't, so I sold it to the baker of our village for a guinea profit. So you need never be angry with me again about that."]

[Footnote 35: Supposing mesmerism true in its facts, one knows not to what power to ascribe it--a good or an evil. It is difficult to imagine it possible that a good power would allow one human being such immense influence over others. All are passive in the hands of the mesmeriser. Let us take the case related by Miss Martineau. She willed, and the water drunk by the young girl _was_ wine, at another time it _was_ porter. These were the effects. Now, supposing Miss M. had willed it to be a poison, if her statement is strictly true, the girl would have been poisoned. We need no hemlock, if this be so--and the agent must be quite beyond the reach of justice. A coroner's inquest here would be of little avail.

It is said that most mischievous consequences have resulted from the doings of some practitioners--and it must be so, if the means be granted; and it is admitted not to be a very rare gift. The last mesmeric exhibition I witnessed, was at Dr Elliotson's. It appeared to be of so public a nature, that I presume there is no breach of confidence in describing what took place. There were three persons mesmerised, all from the lower rank of life. The first was put into the sleep by, I think, but two passes of the hand, (Lord Morpeth the performer.) She was in an easy-chair: all her limbs were rendered rigid--and, as I was quite close to her, I can testify that she remained above two hours in one position, without moving hand or foot, and breathing deeply, as in a profound sleep. Her eyes were closed, and she was finally wakened by Dr Elliotson waving his hand at some distance from her. As he motioned his hand, I saw her eyelids quiver, and at last she awoke, but could not move until the rigidity of her limbs was removed by having the hand slightly passed over them. She then arose, and walked away, as if unconscious of the state she had been in. The two others were as easily transferred to a mesmeric state. They conversed, answered questions, showed the usual phrenological phenomena, singing, imitating, &c.

But there was one very curious phrenological experiment which deserves particular notice. They sat close together. Dr W. E---- touched the organ of Acquisitiveness of the one, (we will call her A.) She immediately put out her hand, as if to grasp something, and at length caught hold of the finger of Dr W. E----; she took off his ring and put it in her pocket. Dr W. E---- then touched the organ of Justice of the second girl, (B,) and told her that A had stolen his ring. B, or Justice, began to lecture upon the wickedness of stealing. A denied she had done any such thing, upon which Dr W. E---- remarked, that thieving and lying always went together. Then, still keeping his hand on Acquisitiveness, he touched also that of Pride; then, as Justice continued her lecture, the thief haughtily justified the act, that she should steal if she pleased. The mesmeriser then touched also the organ of Combativeness, so that three organs were in play. Justice still continued her lecture; upon which A, the thief, told her to hold her tongue, and not lecture her, and gave her several pretty hard slaps with her hand. Dr W. E---- then removed his hands, and transferred the operation, making Justice the thief, and the thief Justice; when a similar scene took place.

Another curious experiment was, differently affecting the opposite organs--so that endearment was shown on one side, and aversion on the other, of the same person. One scene was beautiful, for the very graceful motion exhibited. One of these young women was attracted to Dr Elliotson by his beckoning her to him, while by word he told her not to come. Her movements were slow, very graceful, as if moved by irresistible power.]

[Footnote 36: You remember the melancholy music of the lines of Moschus:--

[Greek: "Ai Ai tai malachai men epan kata katon olontai
E tachlora selina, to t' euthales oulon anedon,
Ysteron hauzoonti, kai eis etos allo phyonti.
Ammes d' hoi megaloi kai karteroi he sophoi andres,
Oppote prota thanomes, anakosi en chthoni koila
Eudames eu mala makron atermona negreton hypnon."]

Accept of this attempt:--

Alas! alas! the mallows, though they wither where they lie,
And all the fresh and pleasant herbs within the garden die,
Another year they shall appear, and still fresh bloom supply.

But we, Great men, the strong, the wise, the noble, and the brave,
When once we fall into the earth, our nourriture that gave,
Long silence keep of endless sleep, within the hollow grave.]

[Footnote 37: _Vide_ an amusing little _jeu-d'esprit--A Descant upon Weather-Wisdom--both Witty and Wise._--ANON. Longmans. 1845.]

[Footnote 38: There is an exquisite little poem, taken from this passage of Plutarch, at once imaginative and true, for hidden truths are embodied in the tangible workings of the poet's imagination, by Miss Barrett.]

A MOTHER TO HER FORSAKEN CHILD.

My child--my first-born! Oh, I weep
To think of thee--thy bitter lot!
The fair fond babe that strives to creep
Unto the breast where _thou art not_,
Awakes a piercing pang within,
And calls to mind thy heavy wrong.
Alas! I weep not for my sin--
To thy dark lot these tears belong.

Thy little arms stretch forth in vain
To meet a mother's fond embrace;
Alas! in weariness or pain,
Thou gazest on a hireling's face.
I left thee in thy rosy sleep--
I dared not then kneel down to bless;
Now--now, albeit thou may'st weep,
Thou canst not to my bosom press.

My child! though beauty tint thy cheek,
A deeper dye its bloom will claim,
When lips all pitiless shall speak
Thy mournful legacy of shame.
Perchance, when love shall gently steal
To thy young breast all pure as snow,
This cruel thought shall wreck thy weal,
_The mother's guilt doth lurk below_.

J. D.

SUMMER NOONTIDE.

Unruffled the pure ether shines,
O'er the blue flood no vapour sails,
Bloom-laden are the clinging vines,
All odour-fraught the vales.

There's not a ripple on the main,
There's not a breath to stir the leaves,
The sunlight falls upon the plain
Beside the silent sheaves.

The drowsy herd forget to crop,
The bee is cradled in the balm:
If but one little leaf should drop,
'Twould break the sacred calm.

From the wide sea leaps up no voice,
Mute is the forest, mute the rill;
Whilst the glad earth sang forth _Rejoice_,
God's whisper said--_Be still_.

Her pulses in a lull of rest,
In hush submissive Nature lies,
With folded palms upon her breast,
Dreaming of yon fair skies.

J. D.

TO CLARA.

I would not we should meet again--
We twain who loved so fond,
Although through years and years afar,
I wish'd for nought beyond.

Yet do I love thee none the less;
And aye to me it seems,
There's not on earth so fair a thing
As thou art in my dreams.

All, all hath darkly changed beside,
Grown old, or stern, or chill--
All, save one hoarded spring-tide gleam,
_Thy smile that haunts me still_!

My brow is but the register
Of youth's and joy's decline;
I would not trace such record too
Deep graven upon thine.

I would not _see_ how rudely Time
Hath dealt with all thy store
Of bloom and promise--'tis enough
To know the harvest's o'er.

I would not that one glance to-day,
One glance through clouds and tears,
Should mar the image in my soul
That love hath shrined for years.

J. D.

SECLUSION.

The heart in sacred peace may dwell,
Apart from convent gloom--
To matins and to vespers rise,
'Mid nature's song and bloom:

Or in the busy haunts of life,
In gay or restless scene,
In sanctuary calm abide,
As vestal saint serene.

It is the pure and holy thought,
The spotless veil within,
That screens pollution from the breast,
And hides a world of sin.

J. D.

THE LAST HOURS OF A REIGN.

A TALE IN TWO PARTS.--PART I.