A DREAM OF THE DEAD.

From Blackwood’s Magazine.

I DREAMED that I found myself suddenly in a place which impressed me with an instantaneous sense of strangeness; it was like nothing I had ever seen. I then became aware that my own state of feeling was like nothing I had ever felt. It was a sensation of inexpressible physical relief; all ailment to which I had been familiarized was gone — gone all weariness, heaviness, inertness of muscle, of nerve, of spirit. Time and its effects palpably — abruptly — lifted from me as a load may be lifted from the shoulders of a tired and sinking man. I was conscious of an elasticity and lightness of frame, to which that of a vigorous schoolboy bounding into the play-ground can be but inadequately compared. My first idea was that I was made young again; my second idea, which flashed on me as conviction, made me aware that I was dead. I said to myself: “I am dead, and amongst the dead.” With that consciousness came no awe, no fear, only the sensation of unutterable strangeness, and a sentiment of intense curiosity. The place in which I stood was the far end of an immense hall or chamber — so immense that it baffles all attempt to convey a notion of the space. Its walls were proportionably lofty, it was without roof; above it a dull blue sky, without cloud, without sun, moon, or stars. Along this hall human beings, dressed as we dress in life, were hurrying in various groups or detachments. But so vast was the place, that though I was aware there were millions of such beings within the walls, they appeared like tiny rivulets running on through a mighty plain. I hastened towards one of these detachments, accosted a man, and said: “Tell me, is it true that I am dead?”

“You are dead, of course,” said the man impatiently, without stopping.

“And you, too?” I asked.

“All here are dead! We are The Dead.”

I caught the man by the arm, which I felt inquisitively. I wondered to find it so material, contrary to all my preconceived notions.

“But you are no spirit?” I said; “this arm is flesh and blood. Can you explain?”

“Nothing is ever explained here,” interrupted the man, shaking me off. He hurried on after the rest, and disappeared within what may be called a doorway; but there was no door. There were many openings as for doors in the hall — none of them had doors. This also excited my curiosity. Why no doors? I walked lightly across the floor, pleased at the briskness of my own step, and again I accosted a fellow-inmate of this strange place.

“I beg pardon,” said I courteously, “but why is this hall left unfinished; why no doors where these lofty openings are left?”

“Find out for yourself; no explanations are given here.”

“Stop one moment, I am a stranger just arrived. Many dear friends have come here before me. Tell me, I pray, how I am to find them?”

“Find them! This is Infinity. Those who move on never return to the same place; those who come after never catch up those who have gone before.”

“What! shall I never see even my own mother?”

“Never. This is Eternity; once lost, forever lost.”

“But my own mother! What has become of her? whither has she gone?”

“How do I know!”

“But I shall overtake her,” I exclaimed angrily.

“And if you do?” said the man dryly, “you would not know each other — you do not wear the same bodies as you did in life. Perhaps you and I were intimate friends once. You do not know me now, nor I you. No knowledge of each other amongst The Dead.”

The man hurried on through the opening. I was so amazed at what he said that I awoke.

“This is the most extraordinary dream,” I said to myself, when awake. “How I wish that I could continue it!” In a few minutes I was asleep again, and there I was — exactly in the same place in that hall where the man had left me, near the opening. I followed a string of passengers through that opening into a narrow corridor — the same height of wall, the same dull blue sky overhead.

“How light it is,” I said to a man in the throng, “and yet there is no sun, and no moon, and no stars. Is it always as light here, and is this day or is it night?”

“Neither day nor night. No day, no night, to the dead. Time here is dead too!”

I tried in vain to keep this man in conversation. I tried in vain to make friends with others; all answered curtly and impatiently, shaking me off and hurrying on. What now began most to perplex me, was the utter absence of all social intercourse. No one seemed to talk to another; no two persons walked arm-in-arm. I said to myself: “In any city on earth one stranger may accost another, and get some information what he is to do — where he is to find a lodging. Society seems dissolved here — every one for himself. It is well at least that I feel so strong and so young.”

I passed my hands over my limbs. Yes, I was flesh and blood. Suddenly I began to feel hungry. This amazed me. Again I accosted one of the throng. “Can it be true that one feels hunger here? do the Dead know hunger?”

“Hunger I of course; you have a body, have you not?”

“And how can one get food?”

“Find out for yourself.”

“Stop, must one pay for it?”

“Pay; of course, of course; you can not rob The Dead.” The man was gone.

I hurried on with the hurrying throng, and began to feel in my pockets. In my right trowsers-pocket I found a sovereign and twelve shillings in silver, exactly the sum that I had in ray pocket when I went to bed the night of that dream. Again I began to wonder: “How did I bring this money with me, why no more? Can I get no more money? Is this all that is to provide for me throughout eternity?” Several of the crowd now stopped before a recess in the corridor; in this recess persons were serving out coffee, which I observed those who took paid for. I longed for the coffee, but I was seized with a prudent thrift. I thought: “I must not fritter away any part of so small a sum, until I know at least how to get more.” I resisted the coffee-shops, and continued to rove on — always in a building, always in a labyrinth of halls, and chambers, and passages. I observed that none of them seemed formed for residence, none of them were furnished, except here and there was a thin comfortless bench against the tall undecorated wall. But always, always a building — always, always as within a single immeasurable house. I was seized with an intense longing to get out. “If I could but find my way into the fields,” said I to myself, “if I could but wander into the country, I have been always so fond of nature.”

Again I accosted a man. “How can I get out of this building?”

“You can’t get out of it, you are dead.”

“Yes, I know I am dead; but I still long to see Nature.”

“There is no Nature here. Nature is finite — this is infinity.”

“But is infinity circumscribed to this building? no escape from these walls? Explain.”

“Explain!” interrupted the man with great anger, as if I had uttered something wicked; “nothing is ever explained here. Wretch, leave mo.” And the man broke away.

I continued to stride on through the building, always trying to escape out of it. Miles and miles, and leagues and leagues, I went on — always between those lofty walls, under that unchangeable sky. And I could never get a peep into what lay beyond; for to those walls there were no windows.

I said to myself: “If I were alive I should have dropped with fatigue; but I feel no fatigue — not the least tired. Still, if I am to remain here, I should like to have a quiet lodging to myself. Where can I rest?”

So again I stopped a man — I say a man; for hitherto I had seen only men, no women — men much as one sees every day in Oxford street or Cheapside. I stopped a man, say I? The expression is incorrect: no man ever stopped at my bidding, but walked on while I spoke, and only walked faster when he escaped.

And never again did I come up to the same man. Well, then, I accosted a man: “What are the rules of this place? Can one have a home as on earth? can I have a lodging to myself somewhere?”

“Of course you can.”

“Where shall I go for one? how am I to contrive — ?”

“Find out for yourself; no one helps another here.”

“But stay. I have only got about me one pound twelve. Is there difference of fortune in this place? are there wealth and poverty? do some people come with more riches than others?”

“To be sure.”

“And is it as good a thing to be rich here as it is on earth?”

“Better. Poverty here is dreadful; or here none lend, and none give.”

“I left a great deal of money behind me; can’t I get at it now?”

“Certainly not; you should have brought more.”

“Alas! I did not know I was coming here. But I am quick and hard-working: I could make money easily enough in the earth I came from. Can money be made here?”

“Yes!”

“How — how?”

“Find out for yourself.”

The man escaped me.

I woke a second time, revolving all I had seen in my dream, and much struck by the prosaic and practical character of the whole. “So very odd,” I said, “that money should be of use amongst the dead. I will write down this dream to-morrow morning; and I began to impress all its details on my memory. While so employed I fell asleep again, and again found myself exactly in the same spot on which I had last stood in this singular dream. I felt my pockets — only one pound twelve still. “What a fool was I not to take advantage of my waking and bring more money with me!” I said with a sigh.

I now came into a desolate banquet-hall: in the midst was an immense table, and several thousand persons were sitting down to a feast. I observed ornaments of plate on the table, and great profusion of wine. I approached; the table was full; there was no room for me. And, indeed, though still hungry, I had no desire to join the banqueters. I felt as if I were not of them; no social sentiment bound me to them. But now, for the first time, I perceived women — women at the table. That sight gave me pleasure. I began to count them. At first I only distinguished one or two; gradually the number grew — so many that I ceased to count. “Well,” I said, “now I shall see something like gallantry and gayety and affection amongst The Dead.” I was soon undeceived; people ate and drank as on earth, but without mirth or talk — each helping himself. The men had no care for the women, the women had no care for the men. A dreary consciousness that love existed not amongst The Dead came over me, and I left the banquet-hall. I now came into another corridor, at the end of which, to my great joy, I descried what seemed a more open space. I caught a glimpse of green trees. A great throng was hurrying towards this space. I pressed forward in advance of the throng, and entered first; but I was disappointed: the space was still within the building, the walls round it; only it resembled what the French call a Place d’armes. The trees, planted in a formal row on either side, as they are in a Place d’armes, were small, stunted, and the foliage clipped. Looking more narrowly, I perceived that they were not real trees, but of some painted metal; and I thought of the words: “There is no nature here.” While I was thus gazing on the trees, the lower end of this court had become filled with the crowd; and suddenly, from an opening opposite to that by which I and the crowd had entered, I heard a regular tramp as of the quick march of soldiers, and presently a defile of armed men came into the Place — so quickly that I had only time to draw on one side to escape being trodden down. They hastened to the upper part of the Place, and formed themselves at the word of command. Then, for the first time, I felt fear; for these soldiers did not seem to me so human as all I had hitherto seen. There was something preterhuman and ghastly in their aspect and their movements. They were armed with muskets. In another moment, to my inconceivable surprise and horror, they fired upon the crowd at the far end, and then charged with the bayonet. They came so close by me, that I felt one of the soldiers graze me. But I did not recede; on the contrary, I put myself somewhat in the way of the charge. For my predominant sentiment throughout all this dream was curiosity, and I wished to know if I could be capable of bodily wound or bodily pain. But the soldiers spared me, and charged only on the crowd below. In an instant the ground was covered with victims — bruised, wounded, groaning, shrieking. This exploit performed, the soldiers departed down the passage they had entered, as rapidly as they had marched in.

It seemed to me that I felt no pity for the crowd and no resentment against the soldiers. I only felt an exceeding surprise. However, I approached the sufferers and said: “But are you sensible of wounds, being already dead?” A man, mangled and lacerated, answered impatiently: “Yes, yes — of course.”

“But still, being dead, you can not be killed, and that is some comfort.”

I got no answer to this remark. The sufferers gathered themselves up, no one helping the other; and, limping and groaning, dispersed. I then addressed a man who was one of the few who were unhurt. He was taller, of better mien, and with a less busy and anxious expression of countenance than those I had hitherto questioned. He gave me the idea of a person of rank.

“Sir,” said I, insinuating into my manner all the polite respect I could convey to it, “the appearance of soldiers here has startled me; for where there are soldiers there must be law and government. Hitherto I have seen no trace of either. Is there, then, a government to this place? Where can one see it? Where does it reside? What are the laws? How can one avoid displeasing them?”

“Find out,” answered the man, in the same form of words which had so often chilled my questions, but in a milder voice.

“At all events, then, there is a law of brute force that prevails here as on the earth,” I said in extreme wonder.

“Yes; but on earth it is understood. Here nothing is explained.”

“Can I know even why that crowd was punished; whence the soldiers came; whither they have now gone?”

“Search — this is infinity. You have leisure enough before you; you are in eternity.”

The man was gone. I passed very timorously and very wistfully along the passage from which the soldiers had emerged.

The object of my curiosity now was, to get at the seat of that Law of Force which was so contrary to all my preconceived opinions. I felt a most awful consciousness of uncertainty. One might then, like that crowd, at any time be punished; one did not know wherefore. How act so as to avoid offense? While thus musing the atmosphere seemed darker, and I found that I was in a very squalid part of the building; it resembled, indeed, the old lanes and courts of St. Giles’s, (only still within the mansion,) and infinitely more wretched.

“So then,” I said, “I do see poverty here at last,” and I felt with proud satisfaction my one pound twelve. A miserable-looking lad now was beside me. He was resting on a heap of broken rubbish. Looking at him I observed that he was deformed, but not like any deformity I had seen in the living. I can not describe how the deformity differed, except that he showed me his hands, and they were not like human hands, but were distorted into shapeless knots and lumps. And I said: “No wonder you are poor, for you can not work with those hands. Man’s physical distinction from the brutes is chiefly in the formation of his hand. Your hand is not the hand of man.”

And the lad laughed, and that was the first laugh I had heard amongst the dead.

“But are you not very unhappy?” said I in amaze.

“Unhappy! No! I am dead.”

“Did you bring your infirmities with you, or did you contract them here?”

“Here!”

I was appalled.

“How? by what misfortune or what sin?”

The lad laughed again, and jumping off his block of rubbish, sidled away, mocking at me as he went with a vulgar gesture.

“Catch me at explaining,” said he, and was lost.

Now a sort of despair, but an intellectual despair, seized me. I say intellectual, for with all my amaze and all my sense of solitude in that crowd, I never felt sad nor unhappy; on the contrary, I kept constantly saying to myself: “After all, it is a great thing to have done with life. And to feel so well and so young!” But my intellect oppressed me; it was in my way; ray curiosity was so intense, my perplexities so unsolved, even by conjecture.

I got out of the squalid part of the building; and in a small lobby I encountered a solitary being like myself. I joined him.

I said: “You and I seem both alone in this vast space. Can we not explore it in company?”

“Certainly not; ray way is not your way, nor yours mine. No two have the same paths through infinity.”

“But,” said I angrily, “I always understood on the earth, that when we left it we should come into a region of spirits. Where are the angels to guide us? I see them not. I have seen poverty and suffering, and brute force. But of blessed spirits above mankind, I have beheld none. And if this be infinity, such spirits must be here.”

“Find them out for yourself then, as I must find them out for myself. This is my way, that is yours.”

“One word more; since I can not discover those who have gone before me, whom I loved, I will wait for some one whom I have left on earth, and he will be my companion, for he will be as strange to this place as I am, and will want a friend, as I want some one. Tell me where I can watch and see the dead come here from life.”

“Yes, that I can tell you. There are plenty of places in which you will see the dead drop down — there is such a place close by. You see that passage; take it, and go straight on.”

I did as the man told me. I came to an open space always between blind walls, but the outer wall seemed far loftier, soaring up, and soaring up, till the dull blue sky that rested on it appeared immeasurably remote.

And down at my feet from this wall dropped a man. “You are one of the dead,” said I, approaching anxiously, “just left the world of the living?”

He seemed bewildered for a moment; at last he answered, rubbing his eyes, and in a kind of dreamy voice: “Yes, I am dead.”

“Let us look at each other,” said I; “perhaps we were friends in life.”

We aid look at each other without recognition. But, indeed, as I had ‘been told, not amongst the myriads I had met, had I recognized one being I had ever known on earth.

“Well,” said I, “this is the strangest place! There is no getting on in it alone; no one will put you into the way of things. Let you and I be friends now, whatever we were before. Take my arm; we can not fail to be more comfortable if we keep together.”

The man, who seemed half-asleep, took my arm, and we went on together. I was very much pleased and exceedingly proud to have found at last a companion. I told him of all I had witnessed and experienced, of all my doubts and perplexities. He listened with very little interest or attention, still I was glad that I had got him safe by the arm.

“But the first thing,” said I, “is to find a lodging to ourselves; and are you not hungry? I am. By the by, what money have you brought with you?”

Thereon my man looked at me suspiciously, and extricating himself from my arm, broke off; and though I hastened to follow him, he was lost in the infinity, and I felt that I was once more amidst infinity — dead and alone.

So I awoke, and I wrote down this dream just as it happened; and attempting no explanation, for no explanation was given to me.