The light streams in through the chink beneath the massive door, and fades, and comes again, and fades again, and I gnaw at the oaken lids of the iron-bound chests, for the madness of hunger is climbing into my brain.
Then I awake, and find that I really am hungry, and remember that in consequence of a headache I did not eat any dinner.

So I slip on a few clothes, and go down to the kitchen on a foraging expedition.
It is said that dreams are momentary conglomerations of thought, centring round the incident that awakens us, and, as with most scientific facts, this is occasionally true.

There is one dream that, with slight variations, is continually recurring to me.

Over and over again I dream that I am suddenly called upon to act an important part in some piece at the Lyceum.

That poor Mr.Irving should invariably be the victim seems unfair, but really it is entirely his own fault.