Dreams!What age,or what country of the world,has not and acknowledged the mystery of their origin and end?I have thought not a little upon the subject,seeing it is one which has been often forced upon my attention,and sometimes strangely enough;and yet I have never arrived at anything which at all appeared a satisfactory conclusion.It does appear that a mental phenomenon so extraordinary cannot be wholly without its use.We know,indeed,that in the olden times it has been made the organ of communication between the Deity and His creatures;and when,as I have seen,a dream produces upon a mind,to all appearance hopelessly reprobate and depraved,an effect so powerful and so lasting as to break down the inveterate habits,and to reform the life of an abandoned sinner,we see in the result,in the reformation of morals which appeared incorrigible,in the reclamation of a human soul which seemed to be irre-trievably lost,something more than could be produced by a mere chimera of the slumbering fancy,something more than could arise from the capricious images of a terrified imagination;but once presented,we behold in all these things,and in their tremendous and mysterious results,the operation of the hand of God.And while Reason rejects as absurd the superstition which will read a prophecy in every dream,she may,without violence to herself,recognise,even in the wildest and most incongruous of the wanderings of a slumbering intellect,the evidences and the fragments of a language which may be spoken,which HAS been spoken,to terrify,to warn,and to command.We have reason to believe too,by the promptness of action which in the age of the prophets followed all intimations of this kind,and by the strength of conviction and strange permanence of the effects resulting from certain dreams in latter times,which effects we ourselves may have witnessed,that when this medium of communication has been employed by the Deity,the evidences of His presence have been unequivocal.
My thoughts were directed to this subject,in a manner to leave a lasting impression upon my mind,by the events which Ishall now relate,the statement of which,however extraordinary,is nevertheless ACCURATELY CORRECT.
About the year 17--,having been appointed to the living of C---h,Irented a small house in the town,which bears the same name:one morning in the month of November,I was awakened before my usual time by my servant,who bustled into my bedroom for the purpose of announcing a sick call.As the Catholic Church holds her last rites to be totally indispensable to the safety of the departing sinner,no conscientious clergyman can afford a moment's unnecessary delay,and in little more than five minutes I stood ready cloaked and booted for the road,in the small front parlour,in which the messenger,who was to act as my guide,awaited my coming.I found a poor little girl crying piteously near the door,and after some slight difficulty I ascertained that her father was either dead or just dying.
'And what may be your father's name,my poor child?'said I.She held down her head,as if ashamed.I repeated the question,and the wretched little creature burst into floods of tears still more bitter than she had shed before.At length,almost provoked by conduct which appeared to me so unreasonable,I began to lose patience,spite of the pity which Icould not help feeling towards her,and I said rather harshly:
'If you will not tell me the name of the person to whom you would lead me,your silence can arise from no good motive,and I might be justified in refusing to go with you at all.'
'Oh,don't say that--don't say that!'
cried she.'Oh,sir,it was that I was afeard of when I would not tell you--Iwas afeard,when you heard his name,you would not come with me;but it is no use hidin'it now--it's Pat Connell,the carpenter,your honour.'
She looked in my face with the most earnest anxiety,as if her very existence depended upon what she should read there;but I relieved her at once.The name,indeed,was most unpleasantly familiar to me;but,however fruitless my visits and advice might have been at another time,the present was too fearful an occasion to suffer my doubts of their utility or my reluctance to re-attempting what appeared a hopeless task to weigh even against the lightest chance that a consciousness of his imminent danger might produce in him a more docile and tractable disposition.
Accordingly I told the child to lead the way,and followed her in silence.She hurried rapidly through the long narrow street which forms the great thoroughfare of the town.The darkness of the hour,rendered still deeper by the close approach of the old-fashioned houses,which lowered in tall obscurity on either side of the way;the damp,dreary chill which renders the advance of morning peculiarly cheerless,combined with the object of my walk,to visit the death-bed of a presumptuous sinner,to endeavour,almost against my own conviction,to infuse a hope into the heart of a dying reprobate--a drunkard but too probably perishing under the consequences of some mad fit of intoxication;all these circumstances united served to enhance the gloom and solemnity of my feelings,as I silently followed my little guide,who with quick steps traversed the uneven pavement of the main street.
After a walk of about five minutes she turned off into a narrow lane,of that obscure and comfortless class which is to be found in almost all small old-fashioned towns,chill,without ventilation,reeking with all manner of offensive effluviae,and lined by dingy,smoky,sickly and pent-up buildings,frequently not only in a wretched but in a dangerous condition.
'Your father has changed his abode since I last visited him,and,I am afraid,much for the worse,'said I.
'Indeed he has,sir;but we must not complain,'replied she.'We have to thank God that we have lodging and food,though it's poor enough,it is,your honour.'
