Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents

Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and
Incidents
by William Beckford

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Title: Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents

Author: William Beckford
Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7258] [This file was first posted
on April 2, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
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Transcribed from the 1891 Ward, Lock and Co. edition by David Price,
email [email protected]

Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents; in a Series of Letters from
Various Parts of Europe

LETTER I

June 19th, 1780.--Shall I tell you my dreams?--To give an account of
my time is doing, I assure you, but little better. Never did there exist a
more ideal being. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes, and, through
its medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both their colours and
forms are apt to delude me. This is a rare confession, say the wise, for a
traveller to make: pretty accounts will such a one give of outlandish
countries: his correspondents must reap great benefit, no doubt, from
such purblind observations. But stop, my good friends; patience a
moment!--I really have not the vanity of pretending to make a single
remark, during the whole of my journey: if--be contented with my
visionary way of gazing, I am perfectly pleased; and shall write away

as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B., Mr. C., and a million others whose letters
are the admiration of the politest circles.
All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened my eyes to
take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I was
passing; then closed them again; transported myself back to my native
hills; thought I led a choir of those I loved best through their shades;
and was happy in the arms of illusion. The sun set before I recovered
my senses enough to discover plainly the variegated slopes near
Canterbury, waving with slender birch-trees, and gilt with a profusion
of broom. I thought myself still in my beloved solitude, but missed the
companions of my slumbers. Where are they?--Behind yon blue hills,
perhaps, or t'other side of that thick forest. My fancy was travelling
after these deserters, 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 the cathedral; an old haunt of
mine. I had always venerated its lofty pillars, dim aisles, and
mysterious arches. Last night they were more solemn than ever, and
echoed no other sound than my steps. I strayed about the choir and
chapels, till they grew so dark and dismal, that I was half inclined to be
frightened; looked over my shoulder; thought of spectres that have an
awkward trick of syllabling men's names in dreary places; and fancied
a sepulchral voice exclaiming: "Worship my toe at Ghent; my ribs at
Florence; my skull at Bologna, Sienna, and Rome. Beware how you
neglect this order; for my bones, as well as my spirit, have the
miraculous property of being here, there, and everywhere." These
injunctions, you may suppose, were received in a becoming manner,
and noted all down in my pocket-book by inspiration (for I could not
see), and hurrying into the open air, I was whirled away in the dark to
Margate. Don't ask what were my dreams thither: --nothing but horrors,
deep-vaulted tombs, and pale, though lovely figures, extended upon
them; shrill blasts that sung in my ears, and filled me with sadness, and
the recollection of happy hours, fleeting away, perhaps for ever! I was
not sorry, when the bustle of our coming-in dispelled these phantoms.
The change, however, in point of scenery was not calculated to
dissipate my gloom; for the first object in this world that presented
itself, was