There are means by which we are able to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream.

The pit, my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice behind, were surely imaginary.

That these incidents were fashioned in my sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the same.

Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger, while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted with it.

Now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions were at war?
Had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security?
To obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used.
In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother.