"A perpetual twilight," he wrote, "reigns here under the great exotic
trees, and the spray of the cascade keeps the carpet of rare ferns
fresh." Yes; I could picture that scene to myself very well, now that
I had about me mountains and moist glens luxuriant with ferns. . . . He
described everything fully and vividly: my brother could not know that
his letters exercised a dangerous spell over the child who, at his
departure, appeared to be so tranquil and so attached to the home
fireside.

"The only pity," he wrote at the end, "is that this delightful island
has not a door opening into the home-yard, into the beautiful arbor
overgrown with honeysuckle, for instance, that lies behind the grottoes
and the little pond."

This idea of a door in the wall at the foot of our garden, and
especially the association between the little lake constructed by
my brother and distant Oceanica, struck me as very singular, and the
following night I had this dream:

I went into the yard and found it enveloped in a sort of deadly twilight
that gave me the impression that the sun had been extinguished forever.
Every where there seemed to be an inexpressible desolation that is known
only in dreams, and which it is almost impossible to conceive of in
the waking state. When I arrived at the bottom of the garden near the
beloved little lake, I felt myself rising from the ground like a bird
about to take flight. At first I floated aimlessly as thistledown, then
I passed over the wall and took a south-west direction, the direction of
Oceanica; I had no trace of wings, and I lay on my back in an agony of
dizziness and nausea as I travelled with frightful rapidity, with the
swiftness of a stone shot from a sling. The stars whirled madly