Some writers seem to think that their readers should understand and
receive their views, however new and strange they may be, the moment
they place them before their minds. They cannot understand how that
which is clear to them, should not be plain to everybody else. And there
are some readers who seem to think, that every thing they meet with in
the books they read, however much it may be out of the way of their
ordinary thought, or however contrary to their long-cherished belief,
should, if it be really intelligible and true, appear so to them at
first glance. How can anything seem mysterious or untrue to them, that
is not mysterious or untrue in its very nature?

It so happened, that along with the dream-story, I found the following
fragment. It is not an interpretation of the dream, but it seems as if
it might teach a useful lesson, both to writers and readers.

'Something more than light, and eyes, and surrounding objects, is
necessary to seeing. A new-born child may have light, and eyes, and
surrounding objects, and yet not see anything distinctly. And a man born
blind may have the film removed from his eyes, and be placed, at
noontide, in the midst of a world of interesting objects, and yet,
instead of seeing things, as _we_ see them, have nothing but a
confounding and distressing sensation. Seeing, as _we_ see, is the
result of habit, acquired by long-continued use. The new-born babe must
have time to exercise its eyes, and exercise its little mind as well,
before it can distinguish face from face, and form from form. The man
who has just received his sight must have time for similar exercise,
before he can enjoy the rich pleasures and advantages of sight to
perfection. Even we who have had our sight for fifty years do not see as
many things in a picture, a landscape, or a bed of flowers, when we see
them for the first time, as those who have been accustomed to inspect