THE SKETCHER.

Saturday Advertiser, Volume III, Issue 112, 1 September 1877, Page 5

THE SKETCHER.

THE STORY OF A DREAM

By MINOLA.

I am perfectly aware that the majority of people look upon dreams as mere phantasms of the brain when in an abnormal condition, and would be inclined to smile at the idea of placing the smallest faith in what is called the truth of dreams. Indeed, with many the mention of a dream as relating to any future event is looked upon as absurd and superstituous, an dfit only for the days of astrologers • and star gazers. Still,notwithstanding all that may be said to the contrary, there are many well-authenticated instances of curious circumstances connected with dreams which it would be the merest folly to class in the category of coincidences. No doubt in ordinary cases dreams may be very easily explained in various ways. For instance, in that, of a person dreaming at night of anything that has occupied the mind during the day. Of course this is simply a re-produc-tion upon the brain during sleeping hours of events which have strongly impressed us while awake. But there are circumstances in which this explanation will not suffice. When persons dream of scenes which, when awake, they never saw, and foresee with startling vividness events which before they never thought of, and which afterwards are found in reality to correspond with every detail of the dream, science and philosophy may point out many explanations, but to me it seems that when such dreams bode danger they should not be lightly passed over. I do not for a moment say that anything approaching implicit reliance should be placed upon dreams; but if comingevents-cast their shadows before, how do we know that they are not foreshadowings of danger sent to warn us of evil to come ? How often have we seen persons in perfect health so impressed by a consciousness of impending danger that they find it quite impossible to shake off the feeling; yet they will not yield to it or heed it, but go forth in the morning as usual, and before evening comes some accident, swift and fatal, severing the “ golden thread,” and friends then remember with a strange feeling of awe the presentiment so mysteriously sent and so carelessly disregarded. No doubt many people can remember within their own experience some curious circumstances connected with dreams which were quite unexplainable by an ordinary theory. I remember perfectly an instance of this sort which made a very vivid impression upon my mind. Indeed, though years have passed away since then, the awe which I experienced at the time is very little lessened when I recall the circumstances now. The events which I am about to relate occurred many years ago in a country district about thirty miles south of Hobart Town. This village, which was situated in a long, low valley—called the Dell —was, for beauty of scenery, perhaps unequalled among the many picturesque valleys in the island of Tasmania. Hidden away among the hills, by which it was completely surrounded, the Dell was a place in which a poet or a painter might lore to dwell. A river, overhung with bright green box and drooping shrubs, wound round the plain at the foot of the hills which overshadowed the valley. At one point great rugged moss-grown rocks rose grand and grey till the tall trees on their summits appeared like little plants. Then, as if in striking contrast to the bareness of the rocks, at another place, the hills, like great fairy mounds, were bright and green with beautiful trees and wild flowers of every hue and trailing creepers, which, with their delicate blossoms, hung from the branches of tall old trees, making beautiful bits of colour among the dark green leaves. Far away in the distancej as a background, rose the Bine Mountains, which, when outlined against ths clear evening sky and with the purple glow of night gathering upon them, appeared as smooth and straight as a line drawn by the pencil of an artist. Arid to the imagination of the youthful inhabitants of the Dell, that line Was the boundary which separated them from the world boyond. In the summer time, when every leaf and tree on the hills were green, and the plains all golden with the ripened com, the Dell was more like a beautiful tropical scene than a Tasmanian vale. The valley, which was only about four miles long, was owned by a few families who had held possession of it for years. In such a small country place, everyone was as perfectly au fait in his neighbour’s affairs as in his own, and any event of interest immediately became common property to be discussed at leisure by every one in the valley. One circumstance, however, formed endless discussion, and gave rise to various conjectures among one and all, and that was and what were the new tenants of a lonely, isolated little cottage in the bush by Re side of the road at the entrance of the

valley. This cottage, or hut, as it might more properly be called, had originally been in the possession of an old man, who lived- a lonely, hermit sort of life, and derived his subsistence from the cultivation of a small patch of ground which he had cleared. The old man J died suddenly some years before, and somehow the rumour got abroad that the place was haunted, in consequence of which, no one in the valley ever thought of utilising either house or grounds. Indeed, all took especial care to not. approach it too closely after nightfall. It therefore caused no little surprise, owing to the reputation of the place, when it became again inhabited. Concerning the new tenant, very little could b® gleaned beyond the fact that they had leased the place for a number of years, and so curiosity had to remain unsatisfied—at least, until the arrival of those who excited it. But the mode of their coming was in itself a disappointment, for n® one witnessed their arrival. They came, like a shadow, in the night, and the smoke from their chimney one morning was the first indication of their presence. However, all that could be learned concerning them was soon ascertained, and that was that the new arrivals consisted of a whitehaired, wicked-looking old man named Griggs, his wife and son. The appearance of the man was not by any means prepossessing, but the face of the woman, even at the first glance, reminded one of some cruel, treacherous animal. She was perhaps fifty years of age, but her tall, lithe figure had all the suppleness of twenty, and the whole expression of her face was concentrated in her eyes, which wore such a positively evil expression as to make me almost shrink and shudder at meeting their cold, cruel gaze. Arid yet she was not devoid in her manner of a certain peculiar grace, and when speaking to any one —which she rarely did—she could be very plausible and insinuating. But she never looked more dangerous than when she strove most to please, for then she appeared like a serpent luring a bird within its deadly folds. The son was as evil-looking as his ill-favoured parents, and spent most of his time shooting opossums and birds, in which occupation he took the most extravagant delight for the mere sake of killing, and frequently .became almost intoxicated with pleasure at beholding the dying agonies of a bird unusually prolonged. They were certainly not very desirable neighbours, and their acquaintance was not very assiduously cultivated. They were very seldom seen in the Valley, and none of the three were ever observed in any out-door occupation around their own dwelling, which, for any difference their coming made, might just as well have remained untenanted; for instead of improving in appearance, it seemed to become gradually impressed with the character of its occupants. If, as Dumas says, houses, like men, wear their characters in their faces, never did the exterior of any dwelling more plainly tell of ill-doing than that of this ominous-looking abode ; judging by its front alone, it was a place where no wayfarer would ever seek for hospitality. The grey old plastered walls from which all trace of whitewash had long disappeared, with the straggling thatch, like shaggy eyebrows, seemed to frown darkly at an intruder. The damp grass-grown garden path seemed as if years might have elapsed since footsteps had sounded upon it. The garden itself, was all wild and overgrown with weeds, among which no bright blossoms grew except some small crimsoms flowers, which, like drops of blood, gleamed strangely among the rank dark weeds. All was perfectly silent and still, even the river, which there narrowed to a stream, crept stealthily along between its banks, as if afraid to disturb the silence by even the faintest murmur or ripple. Indeed, one might suppose the place to be entirely deserted only for the thin wreaths of smoke which curled upwards from the old chimney assuming queer fantastic shapes as if in keeping with the place, and the presence of a great savage dog which appeared to keep watch and ward over that illlooking abode. But though the Griggs family never' came to be regarded in a very favourable light, by the residents in tKe valley, as time passed away and nothing could ever really be said against them, much of the dislike with which they were first viewed died gradually away. Indeed, they lived so much alone that they and their strange ways were almost entirely forgotten, until events brought tojlight one bright summer’s day, recalled the fact of their presence in a very strange and startling manner. The beauty of the scenery around the Dell attracted many visitors, from Hobart Town especially, in the long summer days, when it was so pleasant to ride back to the town in the moonlight, along the white Bandy road through the ceol shady trees.

In the dusk, at the close of a warm November day, a party of old acquaintances arrived from town t© pay a long-promised visit to some friends. They had been to the Dell before, and were perfectly well known t® every one in the valley except one lady who was introduced as Miss Edith Graham, by Lottie Thornton, a bright-faced laughing girl who had always been a favourite in the valley since she first came, a little schoolgirl, for her summer holidays. Miss Graham, she said, had enly returned to Hobart Town about a month before, after having travelled in France and England, and “ goodness knows where,” she added, graphically. “And now,” she continued, “Miss Graham is very anxious to sketch

some Tasmanian scenery to send to her friends at Home, and I know no place where she could find anything half so pretty as the scenery in the Dell, and so we persuaded her to 1 come. I am : Bure, ” she added in a whisper to Eddie Fairlie, who was generally supposed to find very great attraction in Lottie’s laughing eyes, and to look eagerly for her coming, “ You will like her, she is : so nice.” Indeed, it would have been impossible for anyone to look in the fair, noble face of Edith Graham, arid not to like her. She was not perhaps what could be called beautiful. Her|features were not chiseled or her eyebrows pencilled, , but there was a nobility of expression about her face which was far more,attractive than mere beauty of. colour or regularity of contour. She was about five and twenty, and would have looked much younger only for the settled expression of sadness which rested like a shadow upon her pale face, and the melancholy look of her large grey eyes. The pallor of her face was perhaps increased by the black robe she wore, and which was entirely without any colour to relieve its sombre hue. She wore no jewellery nor ornaments except a mourning ring on her marriage finger. Her manner was very quiet and gentle, and she seemed so thoughtful and considerate for the wishes of every one else. Before separating for the night it was arranged that the next day should be spent in picnieing on the hills, which would afford Miss. Graham a good opportunity for sketching. But when the morning came, a lively discussion took place as to what point they should start for—one advocated one place and one another. At length the difficulty was settled by Lottie Thornton, who declared that they would go to the Eagle’s Eyrie, a curious cave like a huge nest at the top of a round hill, one of the highest near the valley, and from which some beautiful views could be obtained.

“ Oh, yes,” cried Eddie Fairlie, “ that will do splendidly; and then Miss Graham can sketch the spot where the skeleton was found last summer.”

“ Yes, agreed,” said Lottie; “and then you can tell us all about the matter; it will make it more interesting for Edith. By the way, did they ever find out who it was 1” “ No,” answered Eddie Fairlie. “ Though every effort was made at the time to discover any clue to identify’it, all failed ; arid after a week or two’s excitement the interest quite died out. But I suppose you have heard all about it, Miss Graham,” he said, turning to Edith.

“ No,” she replied; “ you forget I only returned to Tasmania about a month ago. But Lottie told me something about a dead man having been found in the bush, and I supposed it was someone who had been accidentally killed. But now I should like to hear the story if I am to sketch the scene.” “ All right,” readily responded young Fairlie, “I will enlighten you; but there is really very little to tell after all, and what there is, is very unsatisfactory. One day last summer some children were playing on the hills gathering gum, when, coming upon a clump of cherry trees which formed a circle round a great old withered tree growing on the side of the hill called the Eagle’s Eyrie, they began to climb after the wild cherries. In doing so one of them slipped and fell upon a heap of dried scrub at the foot of the tree. In putting out her hand to rise, it came in contact with a hard, cold substance. She turned to see what it was, and was horrified at beholding a ghastly skeloton face gleaming white among the damp, withered leaves. "With a scream she ran shrieking from the spot followed by the other children, who thought she had beeu bitten by a snake. She reached home and told her story. Her father and a number of the neighbours, accompanied by the local constable, proceeded to the place and found, as the child had stated, a mouldering skeleton covered up beneath the withered cherry boughs. There was nothing left but the bones and a few shreds of clothing, which, when removed, crumbled into dust. That the poor fellow had been murdered was plain from the great fracture across the forehead, as if he had received some terrible blow. He must have lain there for years, for the branches with which he had been covered were all withered and dead. They must have been originally chopped from the cherry trees to cover him, for in several places we saw the stumps from which they had been severed. Poor fellow!” he concluded, “ I felt awfully sad when I saw him, for somehow I could not help thinking how long and vainly perhaps someone might have waited for his return. We tried every way to discover who he was, and the police offered a reward for any clue which might clear up the mystery, but nothing ever came of it, and nameless and unknown he was buried in the little, churchyard on the hill, and was soon quite forgotten. Miss Graham,” he continued, gratified at seeing by the fixed look with which she followed every detail that his narrative had made an impression, “ I can show you now a rough sketch which I made at the time if you like.” (To be concluded in our next.) .