The Ancient Clairvoyant
Thou, while listening with thy inward ear,
The ocean of eternity didst hear,
Along its coming waves; and thou didst see
Its spiritual waters, as they rolled through thee;
Nor toiled, in hard abstractions of the brain,
Some guess of immortality to gain;
For far-sought truths within thy soul did rise,
Informing visions to thine inward eyes.
R. H. Dana.
Many centuries ago, a child named Hermotimus was born in the genial climate of Ionia. From infancy, his hold on material life seemed exceedingly slight. He was a delicate, frail blossom;
“By living rays refined,
A trembler of the wind;
A spiritual flower
Sentient of breeze and shower.”
But the slender thread that bound him to this mortal existence did not break. The babe crawled from his cradle and toddled into the fields, where he would sit motionless for hours, by the side of some flower he loved. A grave smile would illumine his countenance if a butterfly rested on it, or a passing bird brushed it with her wing. He always expected to see the flower fly, too; and therefore he watched it so patiently, as it swayed under their light pressure. In very early childhood, he was remarkable for the keenness of his senses and the vividness of his dreams. He heard distant sounds, inaudible even to the quick ear of his playmate the hound; and the perfume of a rose made him faint, before he was old enough to explain why he turned so pale. At vintage time, when processions in honor of Bacchus passed through the village, his mother dared not take him to the show, where all other children were dancing and capering; for once, when she carried him with her to the rustic festival, he fell into violent fits at the sound of the shrill pipes and the clashing cymbals. His dreams furnished a theme for all the gossips of the neighborhood; for the scenes he witnessed in sleep impressed themselves on his mind with such singular distinctness, that nothing could persuade the child he had not actually seen them. Sometimes, when they gave him his little bowl of goat’s milk for supper, he would cry for the lamb with beautiful rose-coloured wool, that had eaten a portion of his milk the night before; and it was quite useless to try to persuade him that there was no such creature as a rose-coloured lamb. To all their assertions, he would answer, with lively pertinacity, “I did see him! I did see him; and he did drink from my bowl.” As he grew older, he sometimes hummed snatches of tunes, which he said were sung to him by maidens in white robes, with garlands about their heads; and the melodies were unlike any known in the neighbourhood. Several times, as he walked along the road, he started suddenly at the approach of a stranger, and ran away shuddering. When his companions asked why he did so, he would answer, “Ah, that was a very bad man. He made me feel all over cold.”
It was no wonder that the simple villagers became superstitious concerning such a singular child. Some remembered that, before he was born, his mother had carried offerings into a consecrated grotto, where stood a statue of Apollo; and that, being overcome by the warmth of the day, she had fallen asleep there. This gave rise to the story that in her dreams she had heard the god playing upon his golden lyre; that the divine sounds had pervaded her whole being, and endowed her child with Apollo’s gift of prophecy. Others declared that the altar in the sacred grotto had for several years been loaded with her devout offerings, and that she had been heard to say the statue sometimes smiled upon her. Such tokens of approbation from celestial beings were by no means deemed incredible; but they implied that the worshipper was a favourite with the deity she served. From this belief it was easy to infer that the extraordinary child, who saw and heard things invisible and inaudible to other mortals, might be a veritable son of Apollo. Some old crones shook their heads mournfully, and said children who received peculiar endowments from the gods generally died young.
But the little Hermotimus wandered about with his father’s shepherds, and was gradually invigorated by air and exercise. He no longer fainted at perfumes, or shared his supper with rose-coloured lambs. His mother still noticed a peculiar dreaminess in the expression of his eyes, and when he was alone, she sometimes heard him singing melodies, which came to him from some mysterious source. She kept her thoughts in the privacy of her own heart, but she retained her belief that his remarkable boyhood was the forerunner of something extraordinary in manhood. With his improving health, the gossip of the neighbourhood gradually subsided, and was only occasionally revived by some eccentricities in his manners. The change pleased his father well; for he wanted a son to aid him in the acquisition of wealth, and had no desire to see him become either poet or prophet. He charged his wife never to talk to him about his childish dreams, and he was annoyed by any allusions to her sleep in Apollo’s grotto. Of course, the lad was aware that things had been said of him, which his mother believed, and his father disliked to have mentioned. This mystery made him think more about himself, than he would otherwise have done, and increased his tendency to lonely wanderings and profound reveries. His father did his utmost to allure him to convivial meetings with young people; saying to himself that a sharp shot from Cupid’s bow was the best thing to wake him up thoroughly. But the timid youth scarcely ventured to raise his eyes in the presence of maidens, and appeared to take even less notice of their charms, than he did of flowers and birds, and other beautiful things. His father thought that a mate as unlike himself as possible would be most likely to counteract his peculiar tendencies. He therefore selected Praxinoë, a buxom merry-hearted lass, who was so healthy, she never had but one dream she remembered in the whole course of her life; and that was of being at a vintage festival, where she pelted the young men with clusters of grapes, till the wine ran down their chins and made her wake with laughing. Certainly, she would have chosen quite another sort of mate, than Hermotimus with his soft voice and dreamy eyes. But it was the belief in those days, and it has kept its ground pretty well ever since, that women have no right to an opinion of their own. So the parents arranged the affair between them, and the passive young couple were married.
Praxinoë was energetic and ambitious. She prided herself on the excellent cheeses she made, and the quantity of grapes she dried for the market. She was always talking of these, and Hermotimus tried to listen patiently, though she unconsciously tormented him to a greater degree than ever his thrifty father had done. Sometimes he even praised her industry, and smiled, in his absent sort of way; for he had a kind of pleasure in the company of his pretty young bride, as he had in the presence of a lively twittering bird. Had a modern caricaturist made a picture of their wedded life, he would have painted it as the marriage of a solemn young owl with a chattering wren. Hermotimus was often bewildered by her volubility, and her incessant activity sometimes made him feel weary, as if he had himself been hard at work. He loved to sit for hours in silent thought, meditating on the nature of the soul; revolving in his mind whether the gods ever did unite themselves with mortals; and whether those philosophers had spoken truly, who had affirmed that there was something divine within the body, which would lay aside its temporary garment of flesh, resume its native wings, and return to a celestial home, to dwell among immortals. While his thoughts were plunged in such profound meditations, it not unfrequently happened that Praxinoë came to inquire whether he remembered how many cheeses she had sent to market, or how many bushels of grapes were in readiness; and if he forgot the number she had told him, as he generally did, her cheerful temper became over-clouded with consciousness that the energy and industry, on which she prided herself, were altogether unappreciated. It was a hard disappointment for her to bear; for she loved luxury, and was born to sun herself in the pleasures of this world. Hermotimus would have pitied her if he could; but he never was in that region where she lived, and he did not know what people enjoyed or suffered there. Praxinoë had as little idea of the worlds through which he wandered; and the glimpses she obtained from his occasional remarks were by no means attractive to her. She had much less desire for celestial wings, than she had for fine woolens and glossy silks; and the shadow-land of disembodied souls presented to her mind no pleasant pictures of comfortable housekeeping. Her favourite topics of conversation were embroidered mantles, and robes of Tyrian dye; and if her husband sought to check her, by remarking that such expensive articles could never be obtained by them, she answered impatiently, “Why not? People can have what they will. The Greeks got into Troy, didn’t they?” Sometimes she would add, in an undertone of vexation, “But they were not such Greeks as thou art.”
Undoubtedly, he was a vexation to an earth-born woman—that mild, dreamy, saintly man! The distance between them inevitably grew wider and wider; and the process was hastened by changes in the condition of Hermotimus. Though he had become more healthy in youth, than he was in infancy, there had never been a complete union between his soul and body. The inner and outer circles of his being, instead of clasping into each other, touched only at one point, and so remained nearly strangers. At the time of his marriage, he was believed to have outgrown the feebleness of his childhood, and to have lost the power of prophecy. But two years afterward, he fell asleep one day in the same grotto of Apollo to which his mother had been accustomed to carry offerings. He came out pale and chill, and was that night seized with a singular kind of fits, which continued to attack him more and more frequently. The old gossip was renewed. The neighbours said his father, the divine Apollo, had kissed him in his sleep, and he would never be like other men. Praxinoë nursed him carefully, for she had a kindly heart. But when the fits were on him, he inspired a degree of awe amounting almost to terror; for his looks and words impressed her with a strong conviction that he was some sort of a Spirit, and not a mortal man. At times, he told her the most secret thoughts of her heart, and repeated word for word what had been said to her, when he was out of hearing. He frequently described magnificent cities, gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, she had never seen or heard of. But what made her shudder more than all else, was the familiar intercourse he described with relatives and friends long since dead. If she were alone with him, during these strange visitations, he never answered when she spoke, or gave any indication that he was aware of her presence. But there was one person, to whose questions he always replied. In the neighbouring city of Clazomenæ lived a Pythagorean philosopher, named Prytanes. He heard rumours of the singular childhood of Hermotimus, and of the extraordinary fits that had come upon him in manhood; and he was desirous to ascertain how far these accounts had been exaggerated. When he made his first visit to him who was called The Sleeping Prophet, he found him lying upon a couch motionless and senseless. He took hold of his hand, and found it cold and rigid; but a change went over the countenance, like the light which drives shadows across the fields; and Hermotimus said, “I am glad you have come again; for, above all things, I have enjoyed our pleasant walks together in the groves, talking of the wings of the soul.” This seemed marvellous to Prytanes; for never, to his knowledge, had he spoken with Hermotimus. But when he asked questions concerning their conversations, the sleeper revealed to him many thoughts, which he remembered to have passed through his own mind, at various times, and which had seemed to him, at the moment, as if they did not originate in himself, but had come to him from some unknown source; thoughts which he in fact believed to have been imparted by supernal beings. When Prytanes returned to Clazomenæ, he gave an account of this wonderful experience, in public discourses to his disciples; and the fame of Hermotimus spread more and more widely. Priests and philosophers came to listen to his conversations with Prytanes; and while some went away incredulous, others were deeply impressed with awe. From far and near, people brought the diseased to him, begging him to prescribe a cure; and the rumour went round that sometimes, when he merely passed his hands over them, their pains departed. In these days, he would have been called a clairvoyant; but what we style animal-magnetism had then never been mentioned; though its phenomena were occasionally manifested, as they always have been, wherever the spiritual and physical circle of man’s compound existence is partially disjoined. Scientific causes were then little investigated. Health, beauty, eloquence, poetry, and all other things, were supposed to be direct and special gifts from some god. No wonder then that many believed Hermotimus to be really the son of Apollo, receiving the gift of healing and of prophecy from immediate and continual intercourse with his divine father.
If the wise and thoughtful were puzzled, it may well be supposed that the busy little Praxinoë often felt as if she were walking among shadows in a fog. Her ambition was in some degree gratified by her husband’s fame, and by the distinguished persons who came to visit him. But, in confidential conversation with her gossips, she complained that these numerous visitors interrupted her avocations, beside bringing a great deal of dust into the house, and asking for a draught of her fresh wine rather oftener than was convenient. “I admire hospitality,” she would say; “and I wish I were rich enough to feast all Ionia, every week, and send each guest away with a golden bracelet. But the fact is, these dreams of Hermotimus, though they are full of palaces and fountains, do not help in the least to build such things; and he brings home no wine from the beautiful vineyards he describes. Then I can’t help thinking, sometimes, that it would be pleasant to know for a certainty whether one’s husband were really dead, or alive.”
One thing became daily more obvious to her and to all who saw him. The continual questions he was called upon to answer, and the distant places of the earth he was required to visit, exhausted the little bodily strength he possessed. The priests at the neighbouring temple of Æsculapius said he needed more quiet, and ought to drink a strong decoction of vervain, gathered when the moonlight rested on it. He himself, when questioned, during his miraculous slumbers, declared that the air of the valleys was not good for him. Therefore his friends removed him to a residence among the hills. Praxinoë made no objection; for though her spiritualized mate failed to call forth all the warmth of her loving nature, she had a friendly feeling for him, and would gladly have done any thing for the recovery of his health. But the change was by no means agreeable to her lively disposition. She liked to live where she could see festive processions passing with garlands, and gaily dressed youths and maidens dancing to the sound of cymbals and flutes.
News from the city became more rare; for Hermotimus recovered his health, and with it lost what was called his gift of prophecy; consequently, visitors came less and less frequently. Urged by Praxinoë, the diseased one sometimes tried to render himself practically useful. But his heart was in such occupations even less than it had formerly been. Companionship with philosophers had excited his intellect, and induced the habit of watching his own soul with intense interest. He was absorbed in reverie most of the time, and Prytane, who came occasionally to see him, was the only person with whom he conversed freely. Their conversation was more wearisome to Praxinoë than his dreamy silence. She said they might be as wise as owls, for all she knew to the contrary, but that she could see no more sense in their talk, than she did in the hooting of those solemn birds of darkness. In another respect, Hermotimus seemed to her like an owl. His eyes became so nervously sensitive to light, that he winked continually in the sunshine, and was prone to seek the shelter of grottoes and shady groves. His childish habit of vivid dreams returned; and the explanation of these dreams occupied his thoughts continually. One morning, he told Praxinoë he had dreamed that she held in her hand a crystal globe, that reflected all things in the universe; that she threw it into the flames, where it cracked asunder, and there rose from it a radiant Spirit, with large white wings. She laughed, and said if she had such a globe, she would not break it till she had taken a peep at Corinth, to see the embroidered silks and golden girdles that the women wore there. He was thinking of the winged Spirit, and her remark passed through his ears without reaching his mind. Had he listened to the observation, it would have seemed to him very much like looking through the universe to watch a butterfly. Nothing was interesting to him but the process of attaining wings to his soul. He thought of this, till the body seemed an encumbrance, and its necessities a sin. He ate sparingly at all times, and fasted often. When he spoke at all, his talk was ever of mortifying the senses, that the soul might be enabled to rise to the ethereal spheres from which it had fallen into this world. Praxinoë was impatient with such discourse. “To think of his talking of mortifying the senses!” exclaimed she; “when he never had any senses to mortify. Why, never since I knew him has he eaten enough to keep a nightingale alive. For my part, I think it is a blessing to have plenty of good food, and an excellent appetite for it.”
In her present situation, she was not sustained through her trials, as she had been near Clazomenæ, by the reverence which her husband inspired. Their dwelling was isolated, and in the nearest village were many scoffers and skeptics. She had formed an intimacy with a wealthy dame, named Eucoline; and from her she learned that people said Hermotimus neglected to provide for his family, because he was too indolent to work; that he injured his health by frequent fasts, and made himself crazy with thinking, merely for the sake of being stared at by the common people; and as for his pretended visions and prophecies, they were undoubtedly impositions. Praxinoë, who habitually looked outward for her standard of thought and action, was much influenced by these remarks. She had sometimes wept in secret over her cheerless destiny; but discontent had been restrained by a reverent sense of being connected with some solemn mystery, which others respected. Now, she began to doubt whether the eccentricities she daily witnessed might not be assumed, from the motives imputed by their neighbours. This tendency was increased by the influence of Eratus, the gay, luxurious husband of Eucoline. He professed to be a disciple of Epicurus, but he was one of those who had perverted the original doctrines of that teacher; for while he thought happiness was the only good, he believed there was no enjoyment higher than that of the senses. To his volatile mind all things in life afforded subjects for jest and laughter. If he met Praxinoë, on her way to his wife’s apartments, he would say, “How is the good Hermotimus, to-day? Has he gone to talk with the gods, and thrown his body on the couch till he returns?” These sneers were not pleasant; and the habit of comparing her situation with that of Eucoline increased her discontent. The handsome and healthy Eratus was growing richer every day by his own energy and enterprise. “Such robes as he buys for his wife!” said she to herself, “I can make better wine than she can; I can weave handsomer cloth; and I think the gods have endowed me with more beauty; but I can never hope to wear such robes. Ah, if my good Hermotimus were only more alive!”
This involuntary comparison did no great harm, until her friend Eucoline chanced to die suddenly. Then the idea came into her head, “If I could marry Eratus, what a noble span we should make! We might ride in our own chariot, inlaid with ivory and gold. Perhaps it may happen some day, Who knows? Didn’t the Greeks get into Troy?” She tried to drive away the pleasing vision, but it would intrude itself; and worse still, the handsome Eratus often came in person to bring choice grapes and figs, in the prettiest of all imaginable vases and baskets. He was always friendly with Hermotimus; and if his body had wandered away, carried by the soul, which was so generally absent from this material world, the Epicurean would inquire, in this jocular way, “Where is the good Hermotimus, pretty one? Has he gone off to converse with the gods? If Venus had given me such a beautiful companion at home, all Olympus wouldn’t tempt me away from her.” The gay, graceful, flattering man! He was a dangerous contrast to her pale silent husband, hiding himself in groves and grottoes, thinking only of obtaining wings for his soul. Eratus was conscious of his power, and betrayed it by expressive glances from his large dark eyes. Sparks fell from them into the heart of the neglected wife, and kindled a fire there which glowed through her cheeks. Her eyelids drooped under his ardent gaze, and she avoided looking at him when he spoke; but she could not shut out the melting tenderness of his tones. It was a hard trial to poor Praxinoë. Her nature had such tropical exuberance! She was born with such love of splendour, such capacity for joy! and the cruel Fates had cast her destiny in such cold and shady places! Her pride had sometimes been an evil companion, but it now proved a friend in need. If she could not be the wife of Eratus, she resolved not to give Cupid any more opportunities to shoot arrows from his eyes, or play amorous tunes with his musical voice. When she saw the flatterer approaching, she retreated hastily and left an old servant to receive him, and thank him for the grapes he had brought for Hermotimus. Eratus smiled at the veil she thus endeavoured to throw over his attentions; and to deprive her of the subterfuge, he sent her a golden bracelet and ear-rings, for which she could not thank him in the name of her husband. She returned the costly gift, though affection, vanity, and love of elegance strongly tempted her to retain it. She was a brave woman. The prudes in the neighbourhood, who were accustomed to shake their heads and say she laughed and talked more than was consistent with decorum, never knew half how brave she was.
This prudent reserve of course rendered her more interesting to the enamored widower. The more he thought of her, the more he was vexed that such a vivacious creature, with mantling complexion, laughing eyes, and springing step, should be appropriated by a pale devotee, who took no notice of her charms, and who in fact despised even the most beautiful body, regarding it merely as a prison for the soul. At last, he plainly expressed a wish to marry her; and he proposed to ask Hermotimus to divorce her for that purpose, which the laws of the country enabled him to do. Praxinoë, with bashful frankness, confessed her willingness, and said she did not think Hermotimus would observe whether she were present or absent. “If he understands my proposition,” replied Eratus, laughing, “he will give me a grave lecture, and tell me how the wings of his soul are growing, by with drawing from all the pleasures of this world. Let them grow!”
The sudden and alarming illness of Hermotimus arrested the progress of affairs; for the kindness of Praxinoë overcame all other feelings, and she said she would not leave him to the care of hirelings. He recovered slowly, and again wandered forth into the groves, with feeble steps. Eratus watched him impatiently; and when at last he seemed sufficiently recovered to enter into conversation, he sought an interview. He found him lying on the ground, in one of his favourite groves, cold and rigid as a corpse. He called servants to convey him to the house. Praxinoë manifested no surprise. She said she had not seen him in such a state for two years, but that in former times he would often lie senseless for a long time, and then wake up to tell of wonderful countries he had visited. Day passed after day, and he did not wake. The disciples of skeptical philosophers came and looked at him, and went away laughing with each other about the stories they had heard of his former visions, prophecies, and miraculous cures. They concluded their remarks by saying, “It can do no harm to burn his body, whether he is dead or not. The soul he had so much faith in was always longing to get out of prison. It would be conferring a favour upon him to give him a chance to try his wings.”
The parents of Hermotimus were dead. Eratus summoned priests of Æsculapius, who decidedly pronounced his slumber the sleep of death; and the relatives of Praxinoë sympathized with his impatience for the funeral. But she continued to doubt, and insisted upon first sending for the Pythagorean philosopher, whom Hermotimus had always answered, when he was in those strange trances. The messenger returned with tidings that he had gone to Athens. The funeral-pile was erected, and the good-hearted widow wept to find that the certainty of his death was such a relief to her mind. This consciousness was the more unpleasant to her, because she said to herself, “If he is in one of those trances, he knows all I am thinking.” When they lifted him from the couch where he had lain so still, she shuddered violently, and exclaimed, “Surely he is not quite so pale as he was!” But they reasoned with her, and said, “He looks just as he has for the last three days.” She saw his body placed on the funeral-pile, and when the flames began to curl round it, she listened to hear if there were any audible signs of life. But all was still, save the crackling of the wood; and in a short time, a heap of ashes was all that remained.
That night, she dreamed that she held a crystal globe in her hands, and threw it from her into the flames. The globe cracked, and a radiant Spirit, with white wings, rose from it and soared high into the air. He smiled as he passed her, and said, “I foretold this.” The countenance looked as that of Hermotimus had sometimes looked in his trances, when he told his friend Prytanes that he was listening to white-robed maidens, who played on golden harps; but though similar in expression, it was far more glorious. Did memory cause that dream? Or was it imparted from some other source, beyond herself? She woke trembling and afraid, and with a strong impression that she had seen Hermotimus. This belief excited uneasy thoughts, which she dared not mention, for fear of slanderous tongues. But she secretly confessed to Eratus that she feared her husband was not dead when they burned his body. He replied, “It is foolish to trouble yourself about a dream, my lovely one. It is enough that all who saw him thought he was dead. You know it often puzzled wiser folks than you or I to tell whether he was alive or not. Whatever phantom it was that sailed through the ivory gate of dreams, he smiled and seemed happy. Then why be disturbed about it? Life was given for enjoyment, dearest.” He laughed and began to sing, “I’ll crown my love with myrtle;” and his looks and tones drove all phantoms from her thoughts.
She soon became his wife, and her ambitious hopes were more than realized. Eratus placed a high value on worldly possessions, and knew very well how to obtain them. She never had occasion to remind him that the Greeks entered Troy.
But where there is sunshine, there is always shadow. Her prosperity excited envy; which some manifested by saying, “If every body could burn a poor husband for the sake of marrying a rich one, other folks could wear silk mantles, too.” Remarks of that kind reached the ears of many who were firm believers in the inspiration of The Sleeping Prophet. They made anxious inquiries concerning the manner of his death; to which certain envious women answered: “Praxinoë was always a very good neighbour. We have nothing to say against her; though some people thought she was rather free, and not a little vain. The old nurse says Eratus was always sending her presents, long before her husband died; and some people do think it was very obliging in poor Hermotimus to die, just when he was so much wanted out of the way.” These whisperings soon grew into a report that the rich Epicurean had bribed the priests of Æsculapius to pronounce the slumberer a dead man. Of course, some persons were good-natured enough to repeat these rumours to the parties implicated. Finding their solemn assertions of innocence received with significant silence, or annoying innuendoes, they resolved to remove from the neighbourhood. Praxinoë had always greatly desired to see Corinth; and to please her, Eratus chose it for their future residence. In that gay luxurious city, her love of splendour was abundantly gratified with pompous processions and showy equipage. Her beauty attracted attention whenever she was seen in public, and her husband took pride in adorning her with rich embroidery and costly jewels. In such an atmosphere, the wings of her soul had small chance to grow; but that subject never occupied her thoughts.
It was generally believed in Clazomenæ and its vicinity that Hermotimus was not dead when his emaciated body was consumed on the funeral-pile. This idea occasioned a good deal of excitement among those who had been cured of diseases by his directions, or startled to hear their inmost thoughts revealed. His frequent conversations with spirits of the departed had strongly impressed them with the belief that some god spoke through him, while his senses were wrapped in profound slumber; and no skeptical witticisms or arguments could diminish their faith in the prophet. They erected a temple to his memory, where they placed his ashes in a golden urn; and because his wife had consented that his body should be burned, while his soul was absent on one of its customary visits to the gods, they never allowed any woman to enter within the consecrated precincts.