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The calling of the voices in Brockden Brown’s novel of ‘Wieland’ is awful; so is the picture of the Dweller on the Threshold, in Bulwer’s ‘Zanoni;’ but,” he added, shaking his head gloomily, “there is something more horrible still than these.” “Look here, Hammond,” I rejoined, “let us drop this kind of talk, for Heaven’s sake! We shall suffer for it, depend on it.”
It thunders;—but it thunders to preserve; . . . its wholesome dread Averts the dreaded pain; its hideous groans Join Heaven’s sweet Hallelujahs in Thy praise, Great Source of good alone! How kind in all! In vengeance kind! Pain, Death, Gehenna, save” . . . i.e., save me, Dr.
‘I must not be denied!’ exclaimed he, vehemently; and seizing both my hands, he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked up in my face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. ‘You have no reason now: you are flying in the face of heaven’s decrees.
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