had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and
death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but
afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take
it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died,
yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had
loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished
him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled
sometimes), rather than not to have him again, and was as uneasy without
him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his
limb.

[Illustration: HE WOULD MOUNT A METTLESOME HORSE]

Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning
which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed
me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about
their pretty dead mother.

Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in
despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W----n;[342-16]
and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what
coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens.

When suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out
at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt
which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while
I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view,
receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful
features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech,
strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:

"We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The
children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing; less than
nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait
upon the tedious shores of Lethe[342-17] millions of ages before we have
existence, and a name."

And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor
armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget[342-18]
unchanged by my side,--but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

You know Lamb's pathetic history, and you can see how _Dream
Children_ came right out of his own sad heart, and how it teems
with affectionate recollection. The children, too,--do they not
seem like living beings? Can you believe that Alice and John