a nightmare on the dreadful city which I had left, on its tumults and noise, the wild racket of the streets, the wounded wretches who sought refuge in the corners, the strife and misery that were abroad, and, climax of all, the horrible entertainment which had been going on in the square, the unhappy being strapped upon the table.  How, I said to myself, could such things be?  Was it a dream?  Was it a nightmare?  Was it something presented to me in a vision,—­a strong delusion to make me think that the old fables which had been told concerning the end of mortal life were true?  When I looked back it appeared like an allegory, so that I might have seen it in a dream; and still more like an allegory were the gold mines in the valley, and the myriads who labored there.  Was it all true, or only a reflection from the old life mingling with the strange novelties which would most likely elude understanding on the entrance into this new?  I sat within the shelter of the gateway on my awakening, and thought over all this.  My heart was calm,—­almost, in the revulsion from the terrors I had been through, happy.  I persuaded myself that I was but now beginning; that there had been no reality in these latter experiences, only a curious succession of nightmares, such as might so well be supposed to follow a wonderful transformation like that which must take place between our mortal life and—­the world to come.  The world to come!  I paused and thought of it all, until the heart began to beat loud in my breast.  What was this where I lay?  Another world,—­a world which was not happiness, not bliss?  Oh, no; perhaps there was no world of bliss save in dreams.  This, on the other hand, I said to myself, was not misery; for was not I seated here, with a certain tremulousness about me, it was true, after all the experiences which, supposing them even to have been but dreams, I had come through,—­a tremulousness very comprehensible, and not at all without hope?

I will not say that I believed even what I tried to think.  Something in me lay like a dark shadow in the midst of all my theories; but yet I succeeded to a great degree in convincing myself that the hope in me was real, and that I was but now beginning—­beginning with at least a possibility that all might be well.  In this half conviction, and after all the troubles that were over (even though they might only have been imaginary troubles), I felt a certain sweetness in resting there within the gateway, with my back against it.  I was unwilling to get up again, and bring myself in contact with reality.  I felt that there was pleasure in being left alone.  Carriages rolled past me occasionally, and now and then some people on foot; but they did not kick me out of the way or interfere with my repose.