and the shore, on which I proceeded to pace.  I was attracted by something sticking out of the bank, and on going up to it, I saw that it was the base of a curious metal cup.  I pulled it out and saw that I had found a great golden chalice, much dimmed with age and weather.  Then I saw that farther in the bank there were a number of cups, patens, candlesticks, flagons, of great antiquity and beauty.  I then recollected that I had heard as a child (this was wholly imaginary, of course) that there had once been a great robbery of cathedral plate at Lincoln, and that one of the bishops had been vaguely suspected of being concerned in it; and I saw at once that I had stumbled on the hoard, stowed there no doubt by guilty episcopal hands—­I even recollected the name of the bishop concerned.

Now as a matter of fact one part of my mind must have been ahead inventing this story, while the other part of the mind was apprehending it with astonishment and excitement.  Yet the observant part of the mind was utterly unaware of the fact that I was myself originating it all.  And the only natural inference would seem to be that there is a real duality of mind at work.

For when one is composing a story, in ordinary waking moments, one has the sense that one is inventing and controlling the incidents.  In dreams this sense of proprietorship is utterly lost; one seems to have no power over the inventive part of the mind; one can only helplessly follow its lead, and be amazed at its creations.  And yet, sometimes, in a dream of tragic intensity, as one begins to awake, a third person seems to intervene, and says reassuringly that it is only a dream.  This intervention seems to disconcert the inventor, who then promptly retires, while it brings sudden relief to the timid and frightened observer.  It would seem then that the rational self reasserts itself, and that the two personalities, one of which has been creating and the other observing, come in like dogs to heel.

Another very curious part of dreams is that they concern themselves so very little with the current thoughts of life.  My dreams are mostly composed, as I have said, of landscapes, ceremonies, conversations, sensational adventures, muddling engagements.  When I was a schoolmaster, I seldom dreamed of school; now that I am no longer a schoolmaster, I do sometimes dream of school, of trying to keep order in immense classrooms, or hurrying about in search of my form.  When I had my long and dreary illness, lasting for two years, I invariably had happy dreams.  Now that I am well again, I often have dreams of causeless and poignant melancholy.  It is the rarest thing in the world for me to be able to connect my dreams with anything which has recently happened; I cannot say that marvellous landscapes, ceremonies, conversations with exalted personages, sensational incidents, play any considerable part in my life; and yet these are the constituent elements in my dreams.  The scientific