its terrors, because, even in your sleep, you
know that it is a dream, and that you need not
trouble yourself about it, for that reason. A
great many difficulties in connexion with dreams
would disappear if this were more generally
understood—that they are simply thoughts over
which the reason has no control. When utterly
impertinent thoughts come into the mind during
our waking hours we at once get rid of them,
but when they attack us in sleep we are powerless,
and a strange kind of tyranny seems to
insist that we should weave them into the main
body of the dream with which we are engaged.

It is a question whether any transaction in
which we engage ever utterly perishes. It is a
question whether the memory of these transactions
does not return at regular intervals in the
cycles of thought. Supposing this to be so, we
will say that on a certain day you have purchased
for some particular purpose a lump of bees'-wax.
On the particular day and at the particular
moment, perhaps many months afterwards, when
in its regular course that thought comes up to
the surface, it may be that you are awake, and
if so you dismiss the bees'-wax as an impertinence
which has nothing to do with what you are
thinking about. But, if you happen at that
moment to be dreaming, this peculiar tyranny
which I have spoken of insists that you shall
weave this piece of bees'-wax in a coherent
manner into your dream, whatever it may be.
Then it is, and for this reason it is, that you
find the ice that you are consuming at an evening
party has turned into bees'-wax, or that a
similar change has taken place in the fowl on
which you have invited a chosen friend to dine.

I do not say that this is so, but it may be so.
At all events, such speculations are allowable in
the small hours, and may be comfortable; for
at such times we are ready to attach all sorts of
horrible interpretations to our dreams, just as,
then, we are singularly credulous as to
supernatural stories, and apt to repent that, in the
course of the previous day, we stated openly that
we didn't believe in ghosts.

It is two A.M. The distant church clock has
just struck. The ball at No. 5 is flourishing still,
and the music faintly reaches to where I lie.

At this solemn hour it is piteous to think of
the poor fashionable slang which is being
jabbered in that assembly. The monotonous clack
still goes on; not indeed with the fierce energy
which marked it some hours earlier, but still
with some vitality. Boasting, direct or indirect;
agonised apprehension of being left behind in
the race whose goal is Belgrave-square; human
souls convulsed with terror between the hearing
of a contemplated festival and the reception of
a card of admission to it; ghastly excuses made
by those who were not at the right place at the
right moment, the guilty wretches hiding behind
the first subterfuge that comes to mouth, as if
they had been convicted of a crime: "How late
did you stay at Lady Swallowtail's?" "Oh, I
was not there." "Thought I saw you." "No, I
was obliged er, er—the fact is, some of my
people, don't you know, are not quite au
mieux there, don't you know; my cousin Lord
Linkboy is related again to the Broadskirts, and
there's been some dispute, don't you know, and
that sort of thing, about some of the Swallowtail
property, and that sort of thing." "Going
to Mr. Drinkwater Dregg's fête on Thursday?"
"No, I always go on Thursday to five-o'clock
tea at Lady Hyson's. Pretty person—clever too,
and that sort of thing." "Are the Hysons in
society?" "Well, some. I believe Mrs. Dreggs
has sworn that they shall be invited, and that
sort of thing, don't you know, so I suppose
she'll pull them through." "Dear Lady Jane,
who are those wonderful people you have been
talking to for the last half-hour?" "Oh, poor
dear things, aren't they wonderful? The man's
clever, I believe, an artist, or author, or
something of that sort. His wife's distantly
connected with Sir Paul Churchyard's family, or
something of that sort, so dear Mary Churchyard
tries to take notice of them." "I've
been admiring you so for devoting yourself in
such an exemplary manner, you looked agacée to
death." "Oh yes, I was most dreadfully agacée,
but one must be a good Christian sometimes,
you know; they don't know a soul, and dear
Mary entreated me to help her to entertain them.
One's obliged to be civil to that sort of person,
don't you know, or else they put you into a
book, or a picture, or some dreadful thing of
that sort. Thanks, Captain Bigg—a strawberry-
water, thanks, very much." "There's Sir Thomas
Breechload just come in; first time I've seen
him since that marriage was broken off." "Do
you think it was ever really on?" "Well, really
I don't know. Dear Lady Susan spread it
abroad in all directions, and the girl herself
affichéed it everywhere." "Yes, very much
affichéed, wasn't it. However, I must say I was
staying there last autumn, and certainly Sir
Thomas was always there, and that sort of
thing, you know." "Extraordinary people here
to-night— thanks, with some Seltzer water, if you
please—thanks! Quantities of foreigners, are
there not? distinguished foreigners, I suppose I
ought to say; they seem all décorés, and that
sort of thing. I saw such quantities at the
Exhibition to-day, with such wonderful hats." "How
d'ye do, Sir Thomas; I thought you were
in the Highlands?" "No, I only went down
about a shooting I have taken of Lord
Blackcock." "Really! That's the next moor to us—
Lord Blackcock's and Captain Biggs' and my
husband's all join each other." "I'm delighted
to hear it." "What becomes of Lord Blackcock,
then?" "Oh, he's going abroad, I believe;
they're very much abroad." "Ah! in
consequence of that marriage. I suppose she's
not visited, is she?" "Well, no, I think not.
Have you ever seen her?" "Yes, once, I think,
at the opera—interesting-looking person."
"Yes—my carriage—thanks! I must go then;
Mr. Currycomb is so very particular about the
horses. A burnoose, if you please, yes— thanks,
very much. Good night."

In the Caves of Ulysses, the Mediterranean