persons that are concerned shall be printed, because it will not at all be injurious to them, or because I have their leave, and they are still living to testify what I shall relate.
In the mean time, as the greatest part of his nonage was spent in predicting almost innumerable things, which are all, however, reducible to the general heads above mentioned, I will not tire the reader with any particulars; but instead of doing that, before I come to show his power of divination, in the more active parts of his life, and when after removing from Edinburgh to London, he at last made it his public profession; I shall account how such divinations may be made, and divert the reader with many rare examples, taken from several faithful and undoubted historians, of persons who have done the like before him, some in one way, and some in another; though in this he seems to be peculiar, and to be, if I may be allowed the expression, a species by himself, alone in the talent of prediction; that he has collected within his own individual capacity all the methods which others severally used, and with which they were differently and singly gifted in their several ways of foreseeing and foretelling.
This art of prediction is not attainable any otherwise, than by these three ways; first, it is done by the company of familiar spirits and genii, which are of two sorts; some good and some bad; who tell the gifted person the things of which he informs other people. Secondly, it is performed by the second-sight, which is very various, and differs in most of the possessors, it being but a very little in some, very extensive and constant in others; beginning with some in their infancy, and leaving them before they come to years; happening to others in a middle age, to others again in an old age, that never had it before, and lasting only for a term of years, and now and then for a very short period of time; and in some, intermitting, like fits as it were, of vision, that leave them for a time, and then return to be as strong in them as ever, and it being in a manner hereditary to some families, whose children have it from their infancy, without intermission, to a great old age, and even to the time of their death, which they often foretell before it comes to pass, to a day, nay, even to an hour. Thirdly, it is attained by the diligent study of the lawful part of the art of magic.
Before I give the reader an account, as I shall do in three distinct discourses, first, concerning the intercourse which familiar spirits, viz., the good and bad genii, have had and continue to have to a great degree with some select parts of mankind; secondly, concerning the wonderful and almost miraculous power of a second-sight, with which many, beyond all controversy, have been extraordinarily but visibly gifted; and, thirdly, concerning the pitch of perfection to which the magic science has been carried and promoted by some adepts in that mysterious art; I will premise a few particulars about the genii which attended our little Duncan Campbell, and about the second-sight which he had when yet a child, and when we may much more easily believe that the wonders he performed and wrote of, must have been rather brought about by the intervention of such genii and the mediation of such a sight, than that he could have invented such fables concerning them, and compassed such predictions as seem to want their assistance, by the mere dint of a child's capacity.
One day, I remember, when he was about nine years of age, going early to the house where he and his mother lived, and it being before his mother was stirring, I went into little Duncan Campbell's room to divert myself with him, I found him sitting up in his bed with his eyes broad open, but as motionless as if he had been asleep, or even, if it had not been for a lively beautiful colour which the little pretty fair silver-haired boy always had in his cheeks, as if he had been quite dead; he did not seem so much as to breathe; the eyelids of him were so fixed and immoveable, that the eyelashes did not so much as once shake, which the least motion imaginable must agitate; not to say that he was like a person in an ecstacy, he was at least in what we commonly call a brown study, to the highest degree, and for the largest space of time I ever knew. I, who had been frequently informed by people who have been present at the operations of second-sighted persons, that at the sight of a vision the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue staring till the object vanishes; I, I say, sat myself softly down on his bed-side, and with a quiet amazement observed him, avoiding diligently any motion that might give him the least disturbance, or cause in him any avocation or distraction of mind from the business he was so intent upon. I remarked that he held his head sideways, with his mouth wide open, and in a listening posture, and that after so lively a manner, as, at first general thought, made me forget his deafness, and plainly imagine he heard something, till the second thought of reflection brought into my mind the misfortune that shut up all passage for any sound through his ears. After a steadfast gaze, which lasted about seven minutes, he smiled, and stretched his arms as one recovering from a fit of indolence, and rubbed his eyes; then turning towards me, he made the sign of a salute, and hinted to me, upon his fingers, his desire for pen, ink, and paper, which I reached him from a little desk that stood at his bed's feet.
Placing the paper upon his knees, he wrote me the following lines, which together with my answers I preserve by me, for their rarity, to this very day, and which I have transcribed word for word, as they form a little series of dialogue.
Duncan Campbell. I am sorry I cannot stay with you; but I shall see my pretty youth and my lamb by and by, in the fields, near a little coppice or grove, where I go often to play with them, and I would not lose their company for the whole world; for they and I are mighty familiar together, and the boy tells me everything that gets me my reputation among the ladies and nobility, and you must keep it secret.
My question. I will be sure to keep it secret; but how do you know you are to meet them there to-day? Did the little boy appoint you?
Duncan Campbell. Yes, he did, and signified that he had several things to predict to me concerning people, that he foreknew would come to me the week following to ask me questions.
My question. But what was you staring at when I came in?
Duncan Campbell. Why, at that little boy that goes along with the lamb I speak of, and it was then he made me the appointment.
My question. How does he do it? Does he write?
Duncan Campbell. No, he writes sometimes, but oftener he speaks with his fingers, and mighty swift; no man can do it so quick, or write half so soon; he has a little bell in his hand, like that which my mother makes me a sign to shake when she wants the servants: with that he tickles my brain strangely, and gives me an incredible delight of feeling in the inside of my head; he usually wakes me with it in the morning when he comes to make me an appointment. I fancy it is what you call hearing, which makes me mighty desirous I could hear in your way; it is sweeter to the feeling, methinks, than anything is to the taste; it is just as if my head was tickled to death, as my nurse used to tickle my sides; but it is a different feeling, for it makes things like little strings tremble in my temples and behind my ears. Now I remember, I will tell you what it is like, that makes me believe it is like your hearing, and that strange thing which you that can speak, call sound or noise: because, when I was at church with my mother, who told me the bells could be heard ringing a mile off, as I was kneeling on the bench, and leaning over the top of the pew and gnawing the board, every time the man pulled the rope, I thought all my head beat as if it would come to pieces, but yet it pleased me methought, rather than pained me, and I would be always gnawing the board when the man pulled the rope, and I told my mother the reason: the feeling of that was something like the little bell, but only that made my head throb, as if it would break, and this tickles me, and makes, as it were, little strings on the back of my ears dance and tremble like anything; is not that like your way of hearing? If it be, it is a sweet thing to hear; it is more pleasant than to see the finest colours in the world; it is something like being tickled in the nose with a feather till one sneezes, or like the feeling after one strikes the leg when it has been numb, or asleep, only with this difference, that those two ways give a pain, and the other a pleasure. I remember, too, when I had a great cold, for about two months, I had a feeling something like it, but that was blunt, dull, confused, and troublesome. Is not this like what you call hearing?
My question.– It is the finest kind of hearing, my dear: it is what we call music. But what
