CONCLUSION.
The author sat on his pillow, with his right hand uplifted
over his head. His wife, with dishevelled hair, and in great
astonishment, confronting him.
Wife. Give me my night-cap!
Author. Night-cap? It is not night.
Wife. Day is breaking. But why have you been huzzaing
so? And why did you snatch my cap and hurl it round
and round?
Author. Have I been huzzaing?
Wife. Certainly—and you have alarmed the house.
Author. Nonsense! But has not President Randolph
returned to the Capital?
Wife. President Randolph? There is no such President.
There never was a President of that name.
Author. No such President as Randolph? Where are
we?
Wife. We are in our own poor house in this quiet village.
Author. (Rubbing his eyes and looking round.) These
fractured chairs, and that broken glass, do seem familiar.
Wife. Then give me my night-cap, and behave yourself.
Author. (Lowering his hand and gazing at the cap.)
And this is your night-cap in my hand! Wife, I have had
a singular dream!
Wife. A dream! You have been dreaming all your life!
And all your fine fancies fade away when your eyes are
opened.
Author. But, wife, if one sleeps half his life and is happy
in his dreams, and miserable by day—what is the difference
between his enjoyment and that of the one who is happy
all day and miserable in his dreams?
Wife. That may be a very comfortable philosophy for
you—but for my part I do not dream at all. Suppose you
publish this singular dream, and let all the world and your
wife read it.
Author. I will.
THE END.
