THE past is all of one texture--whether feigned or
suffered--whether acted out in three dimensions, or
only witnessed in that small theatre of the brain which
we keep brightly lighted all night long, after the jets
are down, and darkness and sleep reign undisturbed in
the remainder of the body. There is no distinction on
the face of our experiences; one is vivid indeed, and
one dull, and one pleasant, and another agonising to re-
member; but which of them is what we call true, and
which a dream, there is not one hair to prove. The
past stands on a precarious footing; another straw split
in the field of metaphysic, and behold us robbed of it.
There is scarce a family that can count four generations
but lays a claim to some dormant title or some castle
and estate: a claim not prosecutable in any court of
law, but flattering to the fancy and a great alleviation of
idle hours. A man's claim to his own past is yet less
valid. A paper might turn up (in proper story-book
fashion) in the secret drawer of an old ebony secretary,
and restore your family to its ancient honours, and rein-
state mine in a certain West Indian islet (not far from
St. Kitt's, as beloved tradition hummed in my young
ears) which was once ours, and is now unjustly some

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