The last hour
for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict
within us,- of the definite with the indefinite- of the substance with
the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the
shadow which prevails,- we struggle in vain. The clock strikes, and is
the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer-
note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies- it
disappears- we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now.
Alas, it is too late!
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss- we
grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger.
Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness
and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By
gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did
the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian
Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there
grows into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius
or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a
fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with
the fierceness of the delight of its horror.
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