Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the
      gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail
      may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In
      the return to life from the swoon there are two stages; first,
      that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the
      sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon
      reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the
      first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of
      the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we
      distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb? But if the
      impressions of what I have termed the first stage are not, at
      will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come
      unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never
      swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar
      faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in
      mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who
      ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose
      brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence
      which has never before arrested his attention. Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest
      struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming
      nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been
      moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief,
      very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the
      lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have had reference
      only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows
      of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and
      bore me in silence down—down—still down—till a hideous dizziness
      oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the
      descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account
      of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden
      motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a
      ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the
      limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After
      this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is
      madness—the madness of a memory which busies itself among
      forbidden things. Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the
      tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its
      beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound,
      and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought—a
      condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and
      shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true
      state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a
      rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now
      a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable
      draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then
      entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later
      day and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to
      recall. So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back,
      unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon
      something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many
      minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I
      longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first
      glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look
      upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
      nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I
      quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were
      confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me. I
      struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to
      oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I
      still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I
      brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from
      that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed;
      and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since
      elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is
      altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in
      what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished
      usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been held on the
      very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my
      dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place
      for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had
      been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all
      the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was
      not altogether excluded. A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my
      heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into
      insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,
      trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly
      above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet
      dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of
      a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big
      beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length
      intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms
      extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope
      of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces;
      but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous
      of fates. And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there
      came thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of
      the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange
      things narrated—fables I had always deemed them—but yet strange,
      and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to
      perish of starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or
      what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result
      would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I
      knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and
      the hour were all that occupied or distracted me. My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid
      obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry—very
      smooth, slimy, and cold.