the Milky Way drawn near。
Overlooking all these wonders； at the foot of the cliff； beyond the borders of the lake but at a lower level； in this fantastic dream of mine stands a strange and silent house built for me by hands that I have known。 I see its central hall； where all those I loved or love in life steal in and out。 I see a certain chamber； low and large； which overlooks the dreaming landscape； and； more nearly； the walks of garden trees hung with bells of white and purple blossom； with unknown； golden fruits and creeping strands of vine。 Standing in the recessed doorway of this chamber； I see in its far corner； seated at a desk above a covered terrace； myself； younger than I am now； wearing some sort of white garments and bending over the desk at work； with papers spread before me。
At the sight a kind of terror seizes me lest this fair place should be but a scented purgatory where； in payment for my sins； I am doomed to write fiction for ever and a day！
“At what do I work？” I ask； alarmed； of the guide who； shining steadily； stands at my side and shows me all。
“You write the history of a world” （or was it “of the world”？ — I am not sure）； is the answer； and in my dream I breathe again。
For truly it would be a horrible fate to be doomed from aeon to countless aeons to the position of romance。
Of course what I have set down is but a fancy such as might e to an imaginative child。 Still； that landscape； which I know as well as； if not better than； any on the earth； has charms and glories of its own。 Therefore I have wasted half an hour of my time and some few minutes of my reader’s in attempting very briefly to describe that which in truth no words can carry。
I confess that in any other life I should prefer some chang