thought that coming events cast their shadows before, that something, at
least, of the future was sometimes revealed through dreams. "Nature,"
he would say, "is the workshop of the Almighty, and we form but links in
the chain of intellectual and material life."(6) Byron's Dream was one
of his favorite poems. He pondered those ancient, historical tales which
make free use of portents. There was a fascination for him in the story
of Caracalla--how his murder of Geta was foretold, how he was upbraided
by the ghosts of his father and brother. This dream-faith of his was as
real as was a similar faith held by the authors of the Old Testament.
He had his theory of the interpretation of dreams. Because they were
a universal experience--as he believed, the universal mode of
communication between the unseen and the seen--his beloved "plain
people," the "children of Nature," the most universal types of humanity,
were their best interpreters. He also believed in presentiment. As
faithfully as the simplest of the brood of the forest--those recreated
primitives who regulated their farming by the brightness or the
darkness of the moon, who planted corn or slaughtered hogs as Artemis
directed--he trusted a presentiment if once it really took possession of
him. A presentiment which had been formed before this time, we know not
when, was clothed with authority by a dream, or rather a vision, that
came to him in the days of melancholy disillusion during the last winter
at Springfield. Looking into a mirror, he saw two Lincolns,--one alive,
the other dead. It was this vision which clenched his pre-sentiment that
he was born to a great career and to a tragic end. He interpreted the
vision that his administration would be successful, but that it would
close with his death.(7)

The record of his inner life during the last winter at Springfield is
very dim. But there can be no doubt that a desolating change attacked
his spirit. As late as the day of his ultimatum he was still in