The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1882-02-16
RIcHrER's DREAM.
TRANSLATED BY MRS. A. C. BLA1sDELL


TRANSLATED BY MRS. A. c. BLAIsDELL.
EDITOR CITIZEN Although Rich
ter's Dream" was long ago transla-
ted into English, and has ever since
been widely known, still, from my
own satisfaction in recently finding
it again, in the pages of Madame de
Stael, where it had long lain neg
lected upon my shelves, / judge that
may be acceptable to some of your
readers, and venture to send it, with
the brief accompanying remarks ol
the translation, to which her won
derful intellect and elevated charac-
ter, give no little interest and au
thority. How far the "Dream" may
have suffered by this two-fold trans
lation from the German and French,
in the absence of the original, can
not say; but evidently enough OF
Richter's weird power is left to pro
duce a profound impression; GER
tainly upon the young and imagina-
tive, and oHe which in these days OF
materialism can scarcely prove un
wholesome
A. G. BLAIsDELL, Martin College.
Bayle has some where said that
atheism affords no security against
the dread of eternal suffering. This
is great thought, and suggestive
of profound reflection. Jean Paul S
dream, which L am about to quote,
may be regarded as this thought, ex-
pressed in action. The vision in
question has some resemblance to
the delirium of fever, and should be
judged accordingly. From any
other standpoint than that of the
Imagination it would seem peculiar
ly open to criticism. The object
of this fiction" says Jean Paul,
will excuse its boldness. Should
my heart ever become so wretched,
so withered, as to have lost every
sentiment that affirms the existence
of a God, 1 would read these pages
over again; I should be profoundly
moved by them, and should find
again in them my salvation and my
faith.
Some men deny the existence of
God with the same Indifference
with which others admit it; and
many a one has believed twenty
years, who has found only in the
twenty-frst the solemn moment
which revealed to his delighted Wis
ion the wealth of this inheritance of
faith, the vivifying heat of this
naphtha spring.
A DREAM.
When, in childhood, we are told
that toward midnight-at the hour
when sleep comes so close upon the
soul, dreams become more ominous,
that the dead arise and in lonely
churches counterfeit the pious prac-
ticss of the living, death terrifies
us because of the dead. AS
night comes on we turn away
our eyes from the church and its
black windows; the terrors of child
hood, even more than its pleasures,
plume themselves anew to hover
round us during the faint night of
the drowsy soul. All! do not extin
guish these sparks; leave us our
dreams, even the gloomiest, They
are more agreeable than our actual
existence, notwithstanding they carry
us back to that age when the river
of life still reflected heaven. One
summer evening was lying on the
top of a hill; fell asleep and
dreamed that 1 awoke in the middle
of the night in a graveyard. The
clock was striking eleven, all the
tombs were half open, and the iron
doors of the church, shaken by an
unseen hand, were opening and shut
ting again with great noise. On the
walls | saw fleeing shadows, the re-
Elections of no earthly body. Other
livid spectres were rising through the
air, and the children only were still
lying in their cofiins. In the sky
hung what seemed a grayish, heavy,
sitting cloud, which a gigantic ap-
partition was gathering and press
ing into long folds. Above me. L
heard the distant fall of avalanches,
and under my steps the premonitory
shock of vast earthquake. The
church rocked to its foundations,
and the air was vibrant with tortur-
ing sounds, which vainly strove to
harmonic. Ever and anon a pale
lightning flash shed lurid glimmer.
felt myself driven by terror to seek
refuge in the temple; two glittering
basilisks were stationed before its
formidable doors.
1 made my way among the crowd
of unknown spectres, on whom the
stamp of long-gone ages was i'm
pressed. All these shades were
huddling round the altar, which had
been stripped bare of ornament and
drapery, the breasts, alone, heaving
and palpitating with violent agita-
ton. One dead man, only, who had
but lately been entombed within the
church, was lying on his winding
sheet. There was, as yet no pulsa
ton in his breast, and a happy
dream was reflected in a smile ugon
his face; but at the approach of a
living man he awoke, ceased to
smile, and with a painful effort
raised his benumbed eyelids; the
place of the eye was empty, and in
that of the heart was only deep
wound; he raised his hands, folded
them to pray, but his arms slowly
heightened, dropped from his body,
and the folded hands fell to the
ground.
At the end of the vaulted church
was the dial-plate of eternity. On
it was neither figure nor pointer;
but a black hand slowly went its
round, and by that the dead were
trying to tell the time.
Then, from on high, descended
upon the altar, q noble, radiant, ma
jestic form, bearing the impress OF
an imperishable grief; the dead
cried out, 'Oh, Christ! is there NO
Godr He answered: There is
none" All the spirits began to
tremble and quake, and the Christ
continued thus: Il have traversed
the worlds, 1 have risen above the
suns, and there, too, is no god;
Al.o l1,.-o-e