He was not, as they assured me, given to
dissipation. Having ascertained these particulars, I expressed a desire to see the
patient, and was shewn into the sick-room. The parents told me to
prepare for a cool reception, as their son was not over partial to
visitors, and especially doctors. They then retired, leaving me alone
with the patient, as I had previously requested them; for it has always
been my policy to work myself as much as possible into the confidence of
my patients, in order to obtain more minute particulars of their case
which otherwise they might be reserved upon. For this a _tête-à-tête_ is
absolutely necessary, as there are patients who are reserved even in
the presence of their nearest relatives and friends. The young man, as I entered, was seated in bed, propped up by cushions. He was in a thoughtful attitude, and for some moments seemed unconscious
of my presence. At length, hearing my footsteps, he started, glared
wildly at me, and turned his face to the wall. "Come," I said, soothingly, "don't be frightened; I am only the new
doctor. I have come to see if I can't make something out of your case. Come, turn round. I daresay we shall be better friends before long. What
is this?" I asked, as I laid my hand upon a volume hidden under the
clothes, and examined it. "Ah, Shakespeare!" "Don't touch it," cried the young man, starting up with sudden energy. "I never allow my Shakespeare to be polluted by strange hands." I was rather startled at this sudden burst of irritability from my new
patient, especially in the exhausted state in which I found him, and not
a little amused at the oddity of his caprice. "You are a great admirer of Shakespeare?" I observed, after a pause. He did not deign a reply, but fell back languidly on his cushions and
closed his eyes. "A great poet," I continued. "What insight into character! What
knowledge of mankind! What a versatile genius! With what truth and
exquisite feeling he portrays both the king and the peasant, the
courtier and the jester! How truly he seizes the leading characteristics
of the Jew and the Christian in his 'Merchant of Venice,' to say nothing
of his sublime imagination in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and in 'The
Tempest'; the exquisite humours, too, of his 'Merry Wives of Windsor,'
and then there is his----"

At this juncture my patient opened his eyes, and gave me a look that
seemed to say, "Have you done yet?" and, after a pause, said aloud, "I
thought you were the doctor." "Ah! truly," said I, blushing slightly; "I am afraid, I weary you. Pardon me if my enthusiasm for your great poet has carried me away from
my professional duties. But, to business. How do you feel at present?" He eyed me with a peculiar expression, and said, "Do you really want to
know?" "To be sure I do; haven't I come----"

"You have heard that I have been given over as incurable. The last
doctor was an older man than you. What do you hope to effect?" "To effect a cure; _I_ do not give you up. I do _not_ think your disease
is consumption. I hope in time to----"

"To what?" he asked, nervously. "Well, to be able to serve you." "No," he cried, "not to _serve_ me, but to _cure_ me." "In curing you, shall I not serve you?" "No. I do not want to be cured. Leave me to die, if you want to serve
me." "Oh, my dear young man," I cried, "don't talk like that. Your malady is
not of the sort that you need fear death so soon." "Fear death!" he exclaimed. "On the contrary, I seek death. I desire to
die." "What! you desire to die? A young man like you, in the pride of your
youth, with the whole world before you. What can make you so tired of
your life?" "Because my life's a burden to me." "Poor young man," I said, "can you have suffered so much! Ah," I
muttered, half to myself, "youth has its sufferings as well as age." I was young myself then, and I had suffered. I felt the deepest sympathy
for my patient. "If," I resumed, "in curing you I could make life cease to be a
burden----"

"I would not accept the offer," he replied. "What should I gain by it? The grosser material part of my nature would be rendered more gross,
more material; capable only of those delights that the grossest minds
revel in, to the utter exclusion of those sublime visions and
inspirations which visit the soul when least clogged with matter. It
would be to exchange a paradise for a pandemonium; high, exalted
thoughts and feelings for low and grovelling ones. No," he said; "he
who, like me, has tasted both lives will hardly throw away the higher
for the lower." I was puzzled by this last speech of his. Was the brain really affected? Had I to do with a case of insanity? I studied his physiognomy for some
time in silence. He would have been called decidedly handsome; and yet
that is not the word. I should rather say beautiful, but the complexion
was pallid and the face dreadfully emaciated. The forehead was ample,
but half-eclipsed by a mass of rich, chestnut hair that hung over his
head in disordered waves. The nose was Grecian; the mouth and chin
classic; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with an expression
most unusual and indescribable. If I may use the expression, he seemed to look through you and beyond
you into space. The expression was quite unlike the vacant stare of the
maniac, for the look abounded with superior intelligence, but yet it was
not that sort of intelligence which men get by mixing in the world. His
look had something _unearthly_ in it--something of another world. I
could not altogether bring myself to believe that he was mad. He would
certainly have been called so by the world at large, which calls
everything madness that does not come within its own narrow circle. His
madness was that his faculties were too acute, his nervous system too
sensitive. When he looked at me he seemed to read my inmost thoughts and
answer them all with his eyes before I had time to open my mouth to give
utterance to them. I tried to reason with him, tried to show him that very good health was
compatible with the most exalted thoughts, etc. But he always had an
answer ready, and that, too, before the words were half out of my mouth. He was a perfect study, and I took immense interest in him. He, in turn,
grew more docile and confiding, and after some five or six visits we
were the best of friends. I have said that he slept much and was given much to talking in his
sleep. It was on my third visit that I had some experience of this. We
were in the midst of an animated discussion, when he suddenly went off
into a most profound slumber; more suddenly than I had ever before known
anyone to fall asleep, and so resembling death that for some time I
thought him dead. At length his lips began to move, and for more than an
hour he kept up a conversation with someone in his dream, part of which
conversation I committed to paper. "What!" he exclaimed, "this is the spot appointed, and no one near. This
is the trysting tree, yonder the blue mountains, here the rocks.