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THE NEW

MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE.

APRIL, 1848.

THE DREAM OF THE AFFIANCED.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Dr. Walwyn, an eminent London physician, had paid his usual round of morning visits; he had seen a number of fantastic young ladies and nervous old ones, and a corresponding proportion of hypochondriacal and fanciful gentlemen of all ages.

Dr. Walwyn's patients were mostly in the fashionable world, and they laboured under one great and overwhelming malady-they had nothing to do. He told them the cause of their complaints in almost as plain terms as Abernethy himself could have done; but all was in vain: illness created a little variety in the monotony of their existence, and procured for them the solacing pity of their friends and acquaintance; therefore they continued to be ill, and to reward the doctor for his disinterestedness in attempting to render them otherwise, by a golden shower of fees.

Wearied in mind, though not in body, with the visits of the morning, Dr. Walwyn determined to pass an hour with his favourite friend, D'Arcy; their intimacy had been only of a few months' duration, and they were both bordering on fifty-an age when it is not usual to form hasty friendships; but they were remarkably congenial in tastes and talents, and as D'Arcy, although evidently wealthy, led from choice a life of great retirement, Dr. Walwyn felt flattered as well as pleased by the eagerness with which he courted his society.

D'Arcy was from home, but was expected in half-an-hour; and Dr. Walwyn, dismissing his carriage and servants, entered the usual sittingroom of his friend, resolved to await his arrival. He looked round for a book to pass away the intervening time; a great many were arranged on the shelves around the room, but they were not new productions. We are all of us very insincere on the subject of the books we prefer; nine-tenths of us openly declare, and the rest covertly insinuate, that we are never tired of

reading standard authors, and that we detest modern trash; and yet, leave us in a room with Milton and Shakspeare, and we shall turn from them with cold indifference to absorb ourselves in any volume by a nameless writer that boasts the date of the present year, and the attraction of uncut leaves. Just so was it with Dr. Walwyn: after quietly reading the inscriptions on the back of about half a hundred decidedly clever works, he walked on a voyage of discovery to a side-table, and possessed himself of a treatise on dreams, translated from the German. Now the freshness and newness of this book must have been its only attraction in the eyes of Dr. Walwyn, for he had a great dislike to translations from the German, and a still greater dislike to the subject of dreams; in fact, the doctor, although a clever man, was singularly calm and unimaginative-the real was everything in his estimation; the ideal, nothing, or worse than nothing: for he considered it as a snare to bewilder and confound the faculties of the warm-hearted and inexperienced. Consequently, he was strenuously opposed to the introduction of all novelties in his profession, and was very fond of quoting the saying of that wicked wit who asserts that "phrenology and animal magnetism are the ricketty twin-born babes of modern enthusiasm." Dreams he held in peculiar contempt, and had also his quotations on that subject; one was from Epictetus-" Never tell thy dreams; for although thou mayest take great pleasure in narrating them, others will receive no pleasure in hearing them:" and another was from a sprightly modern writer, who declares, that "telling a dream is the most inexcusable piece of impertinence of which any man, woman, or child can possibly be guilty!"

The treatise in question was exceedingly interesting, written in excellent language, partly filled with clever arguments, and partly with deeply interesting narratives. The clock sounded

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five just as Dr. Walwyn reached the middle of the volume; he could not endure the thought of leaving it unread, and armed with a paper-knife to clear his passage as he proceeded, had reached the last leaf at the precise moment that D'Arcy arrived at home, just in time to dress for his six o'clock dinner. Dr. Walwyn had no resource but to accept his friend's invitation to dinner, and to plead guilty to the fact of having been discovered absorbed in the enjoyment of a work the subject of which had always been treated by him with disdain. Had he been silent, the cut leaves would have told tales of him; and he wisely resolved to be beforehand with them.

People are apt to be strangely ungrateful to the studies that have afforded them amusement; how often will the prosing reader, who has sat for two hours poring over a double newspaper, lay it down with the observation, that "there is not a word in it!" and how commonly will the maiden-aunt and bachelor-uncle, who sit up half the night to read the novels procured by their young relatives, censure the juniors for "wasting their time over such unmeaning nonsense!" Now Dr. Walwyn, instead of feeling properly obliged to the book that had made an hour and a half appear like ten minutes to him, was very indignant with himself for having condescended to open it at all, and therefore he employed the whole time of dinner in animadverting on German works of all kinds, and in particular on those which treated on the subject of dreams.

acter and conduct which have hitherto deceived our most searching investigation."

"I have never been fortunate enough to enjoy any of those marvellous dreams," replied Dr. Walwyn, "and imagine they are not very common in England, however they may abound in Germany."

D'Arcy answered by quoting the remarkable dream of a country gentleman relative to the assassination of Mr. Percival; and proceeded to detail several anecdotes from Abercrombie's work on the Intellectual Powers, and Dr. Milligen's Curiosities of Medical Experience.

"I allow," said Dr. Walwyn, “that these dreams might almost stagger credulity; but we do not hear of them in an immediate channel from the dreamers. I consider it probable that they have passed through the hands of many narrators, gaining a little additional colouring from each, till they have reached their present state of marvellousness."

The wine and dessert had by this time been placed upon the table, and the friends were left to the undisturbed enjoyment of their conversation.

"I am almost inclined," said D'Arcy, after a pause, "to run the risk of your ridicule by relating to you a dream, which has materially influenced the events of my life.”

"You are a much less wise man than I have always supposed you to be," said the doctor, "if you could allow the events of your life to be influenced by a dream."

"You give me little encouragement to relate it," answered his friend, "and I am afraid will place me on a level with the Sluggard' of Watts, part of whose idleness is described by his

D'Arcy did not agree with him. "I am well aware," he said, "that the generality of dreams are confused and unmeaning, and also that custom has affixed to the narration of dreams the stamp of inanity and folly; in reality, how-visitor in the wordsever, there is something in the subject intensely beautiful and sublime."

Dr. Walwyn uttered a short, dry cough, in reply; and D'Arcy continued, with enthusiasm, "Dreams appear to me as an invisible link, connecting the world below with that above. We may not attempt to pierce the veil of mysteries so wisely withheld from us; but we may, through the marvellous yet simple agency of the visions of the night, obtain information of the events to come, or enlightenment as to those of the past, which may prove to us of the most essential benefit, and which would have been unattainable through any other source."

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'He told me his dreams;'

before, however, I venture on my narrative, I must be permitted to ask you a few questions. You have doubtless heard me spoken of society?"

"Frequently," said Dr. Walwyn.

"And the reports which you have heard concerning me do not tend to my advantage?" pursued D'Arcy.

"I do not believe a word of them,” exclaimed Dr. Walwyn, eagerly.

That I may tell you how much and how little you may believe of them," said D'Arcy, it is necessary that I should ask you to repeat them."

"What a pity," said the doctor, drily, "that" lotteries are at an end: I went to sleep last night with my head so confused by the accounts that I had been poring over, that I have no doubt I could easily have extracted a lucky number from the multiplicity of figures that seemed to flit before me."

"There is something grand and beautiful," pursued D'Arcy, without seeming to notice this interruption, "in the thought that however dull and uneventful the general course of our life may be, the dreams of the night may introduce us to new scenes, re-unite us with lost friends, and even unveil to us those intricacies of char

"Pardon me," said Dr. Walwyn; "the repetition would show me to be deficient in good taste and good breeding, and would also be perfectly useless. Knowing and respecting you as I do, any slanderous attacks on your carry with them their own refutation."

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character

Thank you for your trust in me," answered D'Arcy, with feeling; "but as it is material to me to know what you have heard of me, and as I fancy I can conjecture the general bearing of it, I will, if you please, repeat it to you, instead of listening while you repeat it to me; and you

shall correct me if I am mistaken. You have heard, I imagine, that at the dying request of my father, I entered into an engagement of marriage with a beautiful and accomplished girl, the daughter of his oldest friend; that I professed the most unbounded attachment for Claudine Delamere, who on her part returned my affection; that she discovered me soon after our engagement at the feet of Anna Welford, a humble dependant upon her bounty; that I implored her forgiveness for my temporary inconstancy, and that she generously restored me to her favour."

D'Arcy paused.

"All this I have heard," said Dr. Walwyn. "You have also heard," continued D'Arcy, "that the wedding-day was at length fixed, and every preparation made; that on the eve of it I took leave of my affianced bride with professions of the warmest affection, and that early the next morning a letter was received by her father from me, in which I declared, that for reasons it was impossible to explain, I must beg to resign all thoughts of an union with his daughter. You have also heard that society marked its opinion of my conduct by treating me with decided coldness; that Miss Delamere fell into a lingering illness, from disappointment and mortification; that I went to travel abroad, and that at a small town in Italy I unexpectedly found Mr. Delamere and his daughter; that the latter, who was on her death-bed, sent to request an interview with me; that I obeyed her summons; that her death shortly ensued, and that I returned to England a dejected and heart-broken man."

the marriage, he said, had long been planned between himself and the father of Claudine, but they had deemed it a point of wisdom to keep it secret from their children till they had attained the age of maturity; fearing lest a prejudice might be excited in their minds by a premature knowledge that they were expected to 'look to like.' The time, however, had now arrived when they thought it desirable that our introduction should take place; and my father was on the point of accepting an invitation to the house of Mr. Delamere, when the illness attacked him which baffled all his hopes of seeing me happily settled before his death. I did not feel any difficulty in assuring my father of my readiness to comply with his desires. Mr. Delamere had visited us two years ago, and I had been pleased with his intelligence and delighted with his cordiality; he had shown me on that occasion a miniature of his daughter; and the raven tresses, large dark eyes, and coral lips of Claudine, so exquisitely delineated by the artist, had haunted my fancy for several subsequent days. Report also had mentioned Miss Delamere to me in high terms, as being sensible, amiable, and accomplished; and as my heart was perfectly disengaged, and in fact had never received any but very slight and transient shocks from the charms of the fair sex, I was disposed to believe that my father had chosen well and wisely for me, and that I could not do better than follow the matrimonial path traced out by his discriminating judgment. I received several kind and cordial letters from Mr. Delamere, to which I replied in suitable terms; and a few months after the death of my father, having settled my affairs with tolerable accuracy, and ascertained that I was the possessor of a very handsome income, I resolved to comply with the repeated invitations of Mr. Delamere, and to claim my long promised introduction to his daughter. The friendly deportment of Mr. Delamere soon made me feel quite at home in his house, even although appearing there in the awkward character of a wooer; and the beauty, grace, and accomplishments of Claudine far exceeded my expectations; the pencil of the artist, the rumours of society, had failed to do her justice. She was tall and majestic, and her manners, although easy and graceful, were dignified, and untinged by coquettry: wherever she appeared she was surrounded by admirers; and yet to accuse Claudine Delamere of flirtation, would have seemed as ridiculous as to have suspected her of petty larceny. Nor did I judge alone from my own observations- she was evidently sought, valued, and respected by the families who had known her from childhood, and my valet brought me continual accounts of her kindness to her domestics and generosity to her poor pensioners. After a few days, I dis"Willingly," replied D'Arcy; "but before I closed my attachment to her, and had the haprelate my dream, you must allow me to state piness of receiving from her an assurance of her some previous incidents in my life. My father, corresponding feelings; the only failing that I in his last illness, made known to me his earnest had allowed myself to perceive in her character desire that I should unite myself with the was a deficiency in softness and sensibility; but daughter of his favourite friend, Mr. Delamere; | love, which gives animation to the timid, also

"I have heard it all, D'Arcy," exclaimed Dr. Walwyn, "and I disbelieve it all. Do not degrade yourself by denying it."

"Were I to deny it," said D'Arcy, with a melancholy smile, "I should indeed degrade myself, for every word that you have heard is literally true."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Dr. Walwyn, involuntarily drawing his chair a little further from his friend; "I have always considered you as a man of honour."

"So I trust you will still do," said D'Arcy, "when you have listened to the explanation of my conduct, in which a dream will occupy a considerable part; that dream has caused all the gloom and solitude of my present life.'

"It is rather strange, then," observed Dr. Walwyn, "that you should speak so much in favour of dreams."

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I have reason to do so," said D'Arcy. "Had not that dream been sent to me in mercy, I should have been the victim of a fate too terrible to think upon."

"Pray proceed," said the doctor; "for once in my life, I candidly own that I am anxious to listen to a dream."

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