But have you never met with a patient who lived
two separate existences, whose spirit during sleep wandered into those
realms allotted to it; returning upon waking to the body, there to drag
out a wretched existence in the world, among the hum of men, and pass
his melancholy hours longing for the night, when his spirit would be
again set free from its prison, to wander unrestrained through those
realms of space untrodden by mortal foot?" "Never," I replied; "and if I were to meet with a man who imagined he
passed two different existences, what proof have I that his dreams are
nothing more than imagination? What proof have I that he _really does_
live two separate lives?" "Proof such as you would desire to have I admit is difficult; but let us
suppose a case. What would you say if, in the course of a life-time's
experience, you were to find some few, very rare, cases of men as I
describe, who believe, as you would say, that their spirit during sleep
leaves the body and revels in a world of its own. That you were to read
of some few other cases of the same sort that have occurred now and then
at rare intervals since the world began, and that the written
description of that abode unknown to mortal tread, were to tally in
every particular with the descriptions you yourself received from some
of your patients?" "Well," I replied, "I should say, either that my patients had been
reading these old legends until their brains were turned, or that it was
a malady, and, like all other maladies, was manifested by certain
special symptoms. Hence the similarity of the descriptions." "I knew that would be your reply," he observed. "Doctor, doctor," he
continued, shaking his head, "you have a great deal to learn." "Have you, then," I enquired, "ever met with a man of that sort?" "I know _one_. What should you say, doctor, if I myself was one of those
men?" "You! I should say that your imagination deluded you, that your present
ill state of health is sufficient to account for any freak of the brain,
however eccentric." "Deluded mortal," he muttered. "Alas! by what circuitous paths do men
persistently seek for error, when the high road of Truth lies ever
before their eyes." We discoursed upon various other topics, and I took my leave of Charles,
leaving instructions with his parents concerning the treatment of their
son, as I should not be able to call again for some days. I had to
attend a young lady in the country, the adopted daughter of a very old
friend of mine. I could not refuse to go, so I started next day by the
mail. Charles' conversation had impressed me deeply, and I meditated upon it
as I sat perched up outside the stage-coach. I was sorry to leave him,
for I had already felt quite an affection for him, independently of the
interest I took in his case. And who was this young lady that I was called upon to visit in such a
hurry? I had never seen her, but for the sake of my friend who had
benefited me in so many ways in the commencement of my career, I could
not do otherwise than leave town for a short time. I tried to picture to myself my new patient--some bread-and-butter girl
with the mumps, hysteria, whooping-cough, or chicken-pox. The picture I
mentally drew of my lady patient was not sentimental; but, the fact
was, I was irritated at being obliged to leave such an interesting case
as that in which I was engaged. During the course of my drive I entered
into conversation with the driver. I asked him if he knew Squire L----. He replied in the affirmative. "Let me see," said I, pretending not to know the squire over well, in
order to draw him out, "the squire has no family, I think?" "None of his own, sir. He has one adopted daughter, a foundling, found
somewhere near Stratford-on-Avon. The squire has adopted her ever since,
and----"

"What age is the young lady?" "Well, sir, she must now be hard upon four-and-twenty, though she did
not look it last time I saw her." "As old as that!" I exclaimed. "Then she will be getting married soon, I
suppose?" "Not she, sir." "Why not?" I asked. "Isn't she personally attractive?" "Oh, I believe you, sir," said the coachman, enthusiastically, and
turning up his eyes. "There is not a face in the whole place for miles
round that can hold a candle to her." "Indeed!" I exclaimed. "The squire is rich, too, as I hear, and I
suppose she will be his heiress. What is your reason for believing that
she will not marry?" "Why, sir, she has such ill health; she never leaves the house. Folks
say as how she will never recover." "Indeed, and how long has she been thus?" "About a year ago she was first seized; since then I have not seen her. When I last saw her wasn't she a beauty, neither!" "I suppose this illness will have pulled her down a little. By the by,
what is the nature of her complaint?" "Well, I hardly know, sir, and that's the truth, what it is that do ail
her. Some folks call it consumption, others call it something else." "Who is her medical attendant?" I asked. "Doctor W----, sir; lives down yonder." "What does he say it is?" "'Pon my word, sir, I don't think he knows more about it than other
folks. Them doctors, when they once gets into a house, there's no
getting them out again; and as for the good they do, they dose you, they
bleed you--ay, bleed you in both senses of the word! Ha! ha! You know
what I mean, sir." I was disgusted at the vulgar contempt of this man for the noble
profession of which I myself was a member, and was determined not to
laugh at his low wit. I passed over his execrable joke with gravity, so
as not to appear to see it. "If the doctor knows so little about it," I said, at length, "what do
the people say it is? What is the popular opinion of the young lady's
malady? What are the symptoms?" I saw by the coachman's countenance that he was rather surprised at the
interest I took in the health of the young lady, and I fancy he
suspected that I was a doctor. "Symptoms, sir!" he cried. "Oh, sir, very strange ones, they say." "How strange?" I asked. "Well, sir, there be a good many strange reports about the squire's
adopted daughter. I b'ain't a-goin' to give credit to everything I hear,
but folks _do_ say----" here he lowered his voice almost to a whisper
and looked mysteriously, first over one shoulder, then over the other. "Well," said I, "Folks say----"

"Yes, sir, folks _do_ say that the young lady, leastways, the squire's
adopted daughter, is--is----" (here he put his finger to his lips and
looked still more mysterious). "Well?" said I, impatiently. "That the poor young lady is under some evil spell--that she is
_bewitched_." "Dear me! you don't say so," I exclaimed, with well-feigned
astonishment. "Yes, sir," he replied; "leastways, so folks say about here." "How very dreadful! Poor young lady! Perhaps she is in love. Love is the
only witchcraft that ever came in the way of my experience," I remarked.