med because I recall no break in my
tactual experiences. Things fell suddenly, heavily. I felt my clothing
afire, or I fell into a tub of cold water. Once I smelt bananas, and the
odour in my nostrils was so vivid that in the morning, before I was
dressed, I went to the sideboard to look for the bananas. There were no
bananas, and no odour of bananas anywhere! My life was in fact a dream
throughout.

The likeness between my waking state and the sleeping one is still
marked. In both states I see, but not with my eyes. I hear, but not with
my ears. I speak, and am spoken to, without the sound of a voice. I am
moved to pleasure by visions of ineffable beauty which I have never
beheld in the physical world. Once in a dream I held in my hand a pearl.
The one I saw in my dreams must, therefore, have been a creation of my
imagination. It was a smooth, exquisitely moulded crystal. As I gazed
into its shimmering deeps, my soul was flooded with an ecstasy of
tenderness, and I was filled with wonder as one who should for the
first time look into the cool, sweet heart of a rose. My pearl was dew
and fire, the velvety green of moss, the soft whiteness of lilies, and
the distilled hues and sweetness of a thousand roses. It seemed to me,
the soul of beauty was dissolved in its crystal bosom. This beauteous
vision strengthens my conviction that the world which the mind builds up
out of countless subtle experiences and suggestions is fairer than the
world of the senses. The splendour of the sunset my friends gaze at
across the purpling hills is wonderful. But the sunset of the inner
vision brings purer delight because it is the worshipful blending of all
the beauty that we have known and desired.

I believe that I am more fortunate in my dreams than most people; for
as I think back over my dreams, the pleasant ones seem to predominate,
although we naturally recall most vividly and tell most eagerly the
grotesque and fantastic adventures in Slumberland. I have friends,
however, whose dreams are always troubled and disturbed. They wake
fatigued and bruised, and they tell me that they would give a kingdom
for one dreamless night. There is one friend who declares that she has
never had a felicitous dream in her life. The grind and worry of the day
invade the sweet domain of sleep and weary her with incessant,
profitless effort. I feel very sorry for this friend, and perhaps it is
hardly fair to insist upon the pleasure of dreaming in the p