In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction was my brother.
Death was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I now rescued?
What minister or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who
was it whose suffocating grasp I was to feel should I dare to enter
it? What monstrous conception is this? My brother?
No; protection, and not injury, is his province. Strange and
terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It was
surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. He to
whom all parts of time are equally present, whom no contingency
approaches, was the author of that spell which now seized upon me.
Life was dear to me. No consideration was present that enjoined me
to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined with every spontaneous
sentiment to endear to me my being. Should I not shudder when my
being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me when the
arm lifted against me was Wieland's?
Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no
established laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why
but because an omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated?
Yet what salutary end did it serve? Did it arm me with caution to
elude or fortitude to bear the evils to which I was reserved? My
present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue to the
similitude existing between these incidents and those of my dream.
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