Slowly- with a
tortoise gradation- approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day.
A torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No care-
no hope- no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the
ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or tingling
sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal period of
pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening feelings are
struggling into thought; then a brief re-sinking into non-entity; then
a sudden recovery. At length the slight quivering of an eyelid, and
immediately thereupon, an electric shock of a terror, deadly and
indefinite, which sends the blood in torrents from the temples to
the heart. And now the first positive effort to think. And now the
first endeavor to remember. And now a partial and evanescent
success. And now the memory has so far regained its dominion, that, in
some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not awaking
from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to
catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my
shuddering spirit is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger- by the one
spectral and ever-prevalent idea.
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