IT is astonishing to think how our real wide-awake world around the shadowy unrealities of Dreamland. Despite all that we say about the inconsequence of dreams, we often reason by them. We stake our greatest hopes upon them. , we build upon them the of an ideal world. I can recall few fine, thoughtful poems, few noble works of art or any system of philosophy in which there is not evidence that dream-fantasies truths by .  
 
The fact that in dreams confusion , and illogical connections occur gives to the theory which Sir Arthur Mitchell and other scientific men hold, that our dream-thinking is uncontrolled and undirected by the will. The will—the and guiding power—finds rest and in sleep, while the mind, like a barque without rudder or compass, drifts aimlessly upon an uncharted sea. But enough, these fantasies and inter-twistings of thought are to be found in great imaginative poems like Spenser's "Færie Queene." Lamb was impressed by the analogy between our dream-thinking and the work of the imagination. Speaking of the episode in the cave of Mammon, Lamb wrote:
 
"It is not enough to say that the whole episode is a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep; it is—in some sort, but what a copy! Let the most romantic of us that has been entertained all night with the spectacle of some wild and magnificent vision, re-combine it in the morning and try it by his waking . That which appeared so shifting and yet so coherent, when it came under cool examination, shall appear so reasonless and so unlinked, that we are ashamed to have been so , and to have taken, though but in sleep, a monster for a god. The transitions in this episode are every as violent as in the most dream, and yet the waking judgment them."
 
Perhaps I feel more than others the analogy between the world of our waking life and the world of dreams because before I was taught, I lived in a sort of perpetual dream. The of parents and friends who watched me day after day is the only means that I have of knowing the actuality of those early, obscure years of my childhood. The physical acts of going to bed and waking in the morning alone mark the transition from reality to Dreamland. As near as I can tell, asleep or awake I only felt with my body. I can no process which I should now with the term of thought. It is true that my bodily sensations were extremely acute; but beyond a crude connection with physical wants they are not associated or directed. They had little relation to each other, to me or the experience of others. Idea—that which gives identity and continuity to experience—came into my sleeping and waking existence at the same moment with the of self-consciousness. Before that moment my mind was in a state of in which meaningless sensations rioted, and if thought existed, it was so vague and inconsequent, it cannot be made a part of . Yet before my education began, I dreamed. I know that I must have dreamed 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 bananas, and the odour in my 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 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 beauty which I have never 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, moulded crystal. As I gazed into its deeps, my soul was flooded with an 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 green of , the soft whiteness of lilies, and the and sweetness of a thousand roses. It seemed to me, the soul of beauty was dissolved in its crystal . This beauteous vision strengthens my conviction that the world which the mind builds up out of 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 and tell most eagerly the and fantastic adventures in Slumberland. I have friends, however, whose dreams are always troubled and disturbed. They wake and , 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 dream in her life. The grind and worry of the day invade the sweet of sleep and weary her with , profitless effort. I feel very sorry for this friend, and perhaps it is hardly fair to insist upon the pleasure of dreaming in the presence of one whose dream-experience is so unhappy. Still, it is true that my dreams have uses as many and sweet as those of adversity. All my for the strange, the , the ghostlike is gratified in dreams. They carry me out of the accustomed and commonplace. In a flash, in the of an eye they snatch the burden from my shoulder, the trivial task from my hand and the pain and disappointment from my heart, and I the lovely face of my dream. It dances round me with merry measure and hither and in happy abandon. Sudden, sweet fancies spring from every nook and corner, and surprises meet me at every turn. XV
A WAKING DREAM
I   HAVE sat for hours in a sort of reverie, letting my mind have its way without inhibition and direction, and idly down the incessant beat of thought upon thought, image upon image. I have observed that my thoughts make all kinds of connections, wind in and out, trace concentric circles, and break up in of fantasy, just as in dreams. One day I had a literary frolic with a certain set of thoughts which dropped in for an afternoon call. I wrote for three or four hours as they arrived, and the resulting record is much like a dream. I found that the most disconnected, dissimilar thoughts came in arm-in-arm—I dreamed a wide-awake dream. The difference is that in waking dreams I can look back upon the endless succession of thoughts, while in the dreams of sleep I can recall but few ideas and images. I catch broken threads from the and woof of a pattern I cannot see, or glowing leaves which have floated on a -wind from a tree that I cannot identify. In this reverie I held the key to the company of ideas. I give my record of them to show what analogies exist between thoughts when they are not directed and the behaviour of real dream-thinking.
I had an essay to write. I wanted my mind fresh and obedient, and all its handmaidens ready to hold up my hands in the task. I intended to discourse learnedly upon my educational experiences, and I was unusually anxious to do my best. I had a working plan in my head for the essay, which was to be grave, wise, and in ideas. Moreover, it was to have an academic flavour suggestive of sheepskin, and the reader was to be duly impressed with the dignity of cap and gown. I shut myself up in the study, resolved to beat out on the keys of my typewriter this chapter of my life-history. Alexander was no more confident of conquering Asia with the splendid army which his father Philip had disciplined than I was of finding my mental house in order and my thoughts obedient. My mind had had a long vacation, and I was now coming back to it in an hour that it looked not for me. My situation was similar to that of the master who went into a far country and expected on his home coming to find everything as he left it. But returning he found his servants giving a party. Confusion was . There was and dancing and the of many tongues, so that the voice of the master could not be heard. Though he shouted and beat upon the gate, it remained closed.
 
So it was with me. I sounded the loud and long; but the of thought would not rally to my standard. Each had his arm round the waist of a fair partner, and I know not what wild "put life and into their heels." There was nothing to do. I looked about helplessly upon my great , and realized that it is not the possession of a thing but the ability to use it which is of value. I settled back in my chair to watch the . It was rather pleasant sitting there, "idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean," watching my own thoughts at play. It was like thinking fine things to say without taking the trouble to write them. I felt like Alice in Wonderland when she ran at full speed with the red queen and never passed anything or got anywhere.
 
The merry frolic went on madly. The dancers were all manner of thoughts. There were sad thoughts and happy thoughts, thoughts suited to every clime and weather, thoughts bearing the mark of every age and nation, silly thoughts and wise thoughts, thoughts of people, of things, and of nothing, good thoughts, impish thoughts, and large, gracious thoughts. There they went swinging hand-in-hand in corkscrew fashion. An antic jester in green and gold led the dance. The guests followed no order or . No two thoughts were related ............