by John A. Heraud.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.1 #10 (06 Mar 1847).
"'Books—dreams, are each a world.'—So says Wordsworth: and they are so, my dear Horatio!" said I, repeating the words of the bard of Rydal Mount, with peculiar emphasis.
"I am not quite sure," said Horatio, "that I understand the proposition; there is some mysticism, I apprehend, in asserting that either is 'a world:' but, however this may be, books and dreams are, I confess, sometimes alike. Some books are filled with dreams;—a few, of the better sort, contain facts."
"Facts!" ejaculated I, involuntarily; "facts! How frequently have I dreamed over such volumes. Not a fact but suggests a principle—and that once suggested, what a family of facts rush to its banner, and claim it as their common standard! My mind always gets in this manner so crowded, that I can never turn over a page of your book of facts. A single statement sets me dreaming for an hour."
"Your day dreams," said Horatio, "may perhaps serve to explain your night dreams. The chain of your reverie, however long, is composed of links supplied by memory. Experience is the basis of dreaming, as well as we as of philosophy."
"Yet," said I, smiling, "there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy."
"My philosophy!" exclaimed Horatio; "why that undue emphasis? Is there a philosophy of which experience is not the basis?"
"0, yes," I rejoined; "read Madame de Stael's book on Germany, or any other popular manual of German systems, and you will find that there yet now exist, as of old, both a Platonic and Aristotelian side to philosophy. But you, I remember, study science, and, therefore, your views are necessarily one-sided.—Nay, don't speak; for I have a story to tell you—a fact, far stranger than fiction, yet true, 1 can assure you. It goes to show that dreaming is, sometimes, at least, independent of previous knowledge.
"The wonderful event of which I am about to speak happened in the East Indies, and was the subject of a judicial inquiry. I have the account in the handwriting of a gentleman officially engaged in it. I have no doubt that he would readily consent to my giving publicity to it; though I know not where now to find him—nor, indeed, whether he be living.
"The Hindus, I must tell you, have a custom of placing such of their children as they design for religious duties under the tuition of a Gùrù, whose ascetic habits generally beget in the popular mind a reputation for sanctity. To such a professor of piety, named Gwindah, inhabiting a certain cell, near the great temple of Mahades, a coppersmith, who resided in a small village in the Deccan, brought his only child—a boy, of twelve years of age. The recluse, without reluctance, undertook to instruct the youth in the mysteries of the Hindu religion. Thenceforth, accordingly, it was the daily custom of Buckshoo—such was the name of the lad—to visit the Gùrù's cell. Mid-day and evening he returned home for his meals and rest. Great was the joy of his parents, but greatest was that of his mother.
" But the joy of the mother, alas! was not unmingled with pride and vanity. These she ostentatiously displayed, not only in the cleanliness with which she sent the lad Buckshoo to his daily task, but in the ornaments With which she decorated his person. The boy repaid her affectionate anxiety by his assiduous attention to the teaching of the ascetic. To reward him again in return, she besought his father for a pair of golden bangles (solid rings for the wrists), and to her request, in a fatal moment, the opulent coppersmith consented. Earlier to his preceptor's cell than wont the youth went, rejoicing in his new acquisitions. He never returned.
"What had become of the much cherished—much adorned—and now much lamented boy? The Gùrù declared that, at the usual hour, his pupil had quitted his cell—and the Patail, (chief officer of the village,) having reported the affair to the Collector, in consequence of which full inquiry was made, received for answer, that no traces of his fate after many weeks had been discovered."
"O, I see it all," said Horatio; "it is a case similar to Corder and Maria Martin. The mother's thoughts were haunted night and day with the thought of her lost boy, and consequently she dreamed of him, and in her dream some mental suggestion, due to the association of ideas, led to the discovery of his murder."
"Ah!" I replied, "your interruption, Horatio, is amusing—but does not exactly anticipate the ultimate issues of this extraordinary occurrence.
"The village had almost forgotten the cireumstance—the parents had consoled themselves as well as they might, and sought a remedy for their loss and sorrow in pious resignation. In the course of time two strangers came to, and sojourned for a while in, the village—a man and his wife. Neither of the parties seemed very amiable—the former proved himself a brute, for on one occasion of a dispute between them, he beat his wife unmercifully. Alarmed for her life, and escaping from his severe chastisement, she threw herself upon her bed, and soon, it appears, found refuge from her grief and pain in sleep. O blessed Sleep! what a friend art thou to the distressed;—only Death, whom thou picturest so well, a better!—But to proceed.
"The dastardly husband had fled, and the indignant neighbours were assembled around the couch of the wronged, the oppressed,—the sleeping. Anon, they were both terrified and astonished, for the poor sleeping woman sat upright in her bed, and raved;—and, still more marvellous, her ravings concerned Buckshoo, the lost son of the coppersmith.
"Instantly they sent for the Patail of the village. He soon came; and to his questions it was found that the woman, though still in deep sleep, readily answered, 'Buckshoo, the coppersmith's son,' said she 'was murdered by the Gùrù, Gwindah. For the bangles of gold he had cut off the boy's arms at the wrists. The bangles he had sold for seventy rupees, and taken the money to an oilman's wife, who had hidden it under a mat in an inner room.' Having said this, to the still greater surprise and consternation of the witnesses, the sleeping woman undertook to show them the way to the oilman's house, and point out the spot where the money was concealed. All present consented. She then arose, and walked, with her finger pointed in the direction in which she was to go, followed by more than twenty persons, through the village.
" At length she entered the house of an oilman, and pointed to the door of the inner chamber, which, by order of the Patail, was opened. There, under the mat, were hidden the seventy rupees, which, as the oilman's wife confessed, were brought by Gwindah Gùrù, and there by him deposited.
"It was now that the Patail perceived that the sleeping woman was in a sort of trance, from which he began to fear that she might soon awaken. Anxious to ascertain what had become of the poor boy, he lost no time in inquiring of the somnambule, what the Gùrù had done with the body of the youth? 'He threw it,' she replied, 'into the large well on the road side, three miles distant.' Having said this, she again led the way, on her return home; when arrived there, she went again to bed, and slept till morning."
Again, Horatio interrupts the narrative. "On her awaking next day, of course, a full explanation ensued. She knew all the parties and the circumstances, and had babbled in her sleep what in her waking state she was well acquainted with, but, for obvious motives, was instructed to be silent upon."
"No, my dear Horatio!" was my rejoinder. "The informant on whose testimony I rely was engaged on the trial that consequently took place. It seems that when repeatedly questioned on the morrow, the poor woman only replied, 'Mullah Taowk n'hue'—(I have no knowledge.) She was informed that she had pointed out the oilman's house—the place of concealment—the mat—the money. To all this, however, she responded, 'Did I?'—with a look of ignorant wonder. The well, of course, was searched. The body of the poor lad, Buckshoo, was found—mutilated in the manner described—the hands cut off, and the golden ornaments removed. The Gùrù pleaded not guilty, but refused all further explanation.
"The Patail had omitted to inquire of the poor woman during her trance, to whom the Gùrù had sold the bangles. He now endeavoured to supply this material omission in the evidence by putting questions to her on the subject in her waking state. In vain. The oracle was dumb. The illumination by which she had been informed had now 'faded into the light of common day.' Other evidence was sought, but all endeavours were fruitless. There was little moral doubt of the Gùrù's guilt; but full legal proof was wanting. The Gùrù was tried; but acquitted. The chief commissioner of the Deccan, to whom the case was ultimately referred, decided that the life of a Gùrù was 'not to be taken on the unsupported testimony of a Dream.'"
"Tn my opinion," said Horatio, "a very just decision. For my part I do not believe in such stories."
"The proof of this one is contained in the official documents in the hands of the chief commissioner. The examination of the witnesses on the trial was taken in the Maharatta language, and translated for his use."