"I do not think I have seen or heard more than once in my sleep. Then the sunlight flashed suddenly on my eyes, and I was so dazzled I could not think or distinguish anything. When I looked up, some one spelled hastily to me, 'Why, you are looking back upon your babyhood!' As to the sound I heard, it was like the rushing of a mighty cataract, and reminded me forcibly of my visit to Niagara Falls. I remembered as if it were yesterday how I had come very close to the water and felt the great roar by placing my hand on a soft pillow. Now, however, I knew I was far away from the place whence the sound came, and the vibration fell clear, though not loud, upon my eardrums; so I concluded in my sleep that I really heard. What happened next I have entirely forgotten; but in the morning I was deeply impressed by the only instance in which I had dreamed of hearing, and I wished I could go back to Dreamland, just to hear that far-off, inspiring sound.
"Occasionally I think I am reading with my fingers, either Braille or line print, and even translating a little Latin, but always with an odd feeling that I am touching forbidden fruit. Somehow I feel that the spirits of sleep are displeased if any thoughts of literature cross my mind. Still I am free to enjoy everything else--I can wander among flowers and trees and be with my friends, especially those who live at a distance from where I happen to be. Sometimes I am with my mother, and at other times with my sister Mildred. My teacher scarcely ever appears in my dreams; but I know she would very often if a cruel fate should tear her away from me. I shall never forget the morning seven or eight years ago, when I dreamed that my dear friend, Bishop Brooks, was dying. A few hours later I found that my dream was a terrible reality. It is probable that I thought of him at the very moment when he was passing away, and I certainly wept in the same manner and in the same place while I dreamed, that I did afterwards!
"I hardly ever dream of anything that has happened the day before, although I sometimes have several different dreams on the same night; nor do I dream of the same things often. However, I dream oftenest of the unpleasant and horrible, no matter how happy and successful the day may have been. Indeed, I have found it unadvisable to read terrible stories or tragedies often, or in the evening. They impress me so painfully, and retain so firm a hold of my imagination that they sooner or later force themselves into my dreams. About two years ago I read 'Sixty Years a Queen' the story of the awful massacre at Cawnpore, which took place during the Indian Mutiny. It filled me with a horror that haunted me persistently for several days. At last I managed to banish these disagreeable feelings; but one night a frightful distortion of the selfsame story appeared before my mind. I thought I was in a small prison. At first I only noticed a skeleton hanging up on one of the walls; then I felt a strange, awful sound, like heavy iron being cast down, and the most heartrending cries ensued. I was informed that twenty men were being put to death with the utmost cruelty. I rushed madly from one room to another, and, as each ruffian came out, I locked the door behind him, in the hope that some of the victims might thereby be saved. All my efforts were futile, and I awoke with a sickening horror weighing down on my heart. I have also fancied that I saw cities on fire, and brave, innocent men dragged to a fiery martyrdom. One instant I would stand in speechless bewilderment, as the flames leaped up, dark and glaring, into a black sky. The next moment I would be in the midst of the conflagration, trying to save some of the sufferers, and seeing in dismay how they slipped away beyond my power. At such times I have thought myself the most wretched person in the world; but in the morning the bright sunshine and fresh air of our own dear, beautiful world would chase away those horrible phantoms.