Transcribed from the 1891 Ward, Lock and Co. edition by DavidPrice,
DREAMS,
WAKING THOUGHTS,
AND
INCIDENTS;
IN A
SERIES OF LETTERS
FROM
VARIOUS PARTS OF EUROPE.
LETTER I.
June 19th, 1780.—Shall I tell you mydreams?—To give an account of my time is doing, I assureyou, but little better. Never did there exist a more idealbeing. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes, and, throughits medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both theircolours and forms are apt to delude me. This is a rareconfession, say the wise, for a traveller to make: prettyaccounts will such a one give of outlandish countries: hiscorrespondents must reap great benefit, no doubt, from suchpurblind observations. But stop, my good friends; patiencea moment!—I really have not the vanity of pretending tomake a single remark, during the whole of my journey: if —be contented with my visionary way of gazing, I am perfectlypleased; and shall write away as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B., Mr.C., and a million others whose letters are the admiration of thepolitest circles.
All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened myeyes to take in an idea or two of the green, woody countrythrough which I was passing; then closed them again; transportedmyself back to my native hills; thought I led a choir of those Iloved best through their shades; and was happy in the arms ofillusion. The sun set before I recovered my senses enoughto discover plainly the variegated slopes near Canterbury, wavingwith slender birch-trees, and gilt with a profusion ofbroom. I thought myself still in my beloved solitude, butmissed the companions of my slumbers. Where arethey?—Behind yon blue hills, perhaps, or t’other sideof that thick forest. My fancy was travelling after thesedeserters, till we reached the town; vile enough o’conscience, and fit only to be passed in one’s sleep. The moment after I got out of the carriage, brought me to thecathedral; an old haunt of mine. I had always venerated itslofty pillars, dim aisles, and mysterious arches. Lastnight they were more solemn than ever, and echoed no other soundthan my steps. I strayed about the choir and chapels, tillthey grew so dark and dismal, that I was half inclined to befrightened; looked over my shoulder; thought of spectres thathave an awkward trick of syllabling men’s names in drearyplaces; and fancied a sepulchral voice exclaiming: “Worshipmy toe at Ghent; my ribs at Florence; my skull at Bologna,Sienna, and Rome. Beware how you neglect this order; for mybones, as well as my spirit, have the miraculous property ofbeing here, there, and everywhere.” Theseinjunctions, you may suppose, were received in a becoming manner,and noted all down in my pocket-book by inspiration (for I couldnot see), and hurrying into the open air, I was whirled away inthe dark to Margate. Don’t ask what were my dreamsthither:—nothing but horrors, deep-vaulted tombs, and pale,though lovely figures, extended upon them; shrill blasts thatsung in my ears, and filled me with sadness, and the recollectionof happy hours, fleeting away, perhaps for ever! I was notsorry, when the bustle of our coming-in dispelled thesephantoms. The change, however, in point of scenery was notcalculated to dissipate my gloom; for the first object in thisworld that prese