THE FEVERFEW.
During my youth I suffered from a naturally delicate constitution. I was pale, feeble and sickly, but from no decided disease. A dreamy, quiet cast of temperament caused me to shrink from the rough sports of my brothers; the contact of strangers was equally disagreeable, and I seldom strayed from home. Indeed, I lived almost entirely within myself, although by no means devoid of natural affection; on the contrary, my emotions were strong, and my sympathy easily aroused.
How it happened that I acquired a love of learning I do not know, all the outward circumstances by which I was surrounded tending to foster any thing rather than intellectual habits, for our family, although each member possessed a common education, were strictly practical; but this difference in my disposition cut me off from their pursuits, and I found my chief enjoyment in the volumes of a library to which I obtained access.
Perhaps it was the sedentary life I led, the close confinement, and lack of exercise, that brought on a violent attack of sickness when I was in my nineteenth year, so that I lay for several weeks completely prostrated. During two or three days my life hung as in a balance, which a breath might have turned and launched me beyond the confines of time. However, the disease succumbed to the persevering attention of experienced nurses. I arose from my weary bed and found my physical health slowly improving, but from that period I was subject at irregular intervals to what the physician pronounced temporary delirium, which I knew he used as a milder term for insanity.
But it was not insanity. I never lost control of my mind, but I lost control of my body. It obeyed a will that was not my own. A mighty antagonistic power seemed to creep over my brain, which impelled my movements and held my struggling soul in subjection. I presented the singular phenomenon of one person governed by two separate and distinct wills, for my mind was not disordered, but only mastered by superior strength. In this strange condition I would see familiar objects magnified, exaggerated, and contorted, in an atmosphere varying with all colors, at the same time being perfectly conscious of their real appearance. I would hear sounds sweet and musical grow into wails of heart-rending despair. I could recognize my friends when they were present, but was forced to regard them with the cold eye of a stranger. I would commit acts that no human agency could have compelled me to do when my faculties were untrammelled. I never submitted without a struggle, and always felt conscious that, if I could but once resist this seemingly invincible power, if I could but once disregard its promptings, I should be free.
The attacks were never of long duration. They always left me utterly exhausted, and it would sometimes require a week to recruit my expended strength. I could afterward recall every incident with the most distinct minuteness, for they were branded in characters of fire on my memory. Vainly I asserted again and again that it was not delirium, that I was forced into subjection to some mysterious power I could not withstand; my statements made no impression upon the physician, who evidently considered mine but a common case of one suffering from attacks of temporary insanity, and, when I persisted in my statement, he forbade any further reference to the subject.
However, I could not prevent my mind from continually dwelling upon it in secret. What was this so foreign, so antagonistic to myself that mastered my will, that controlled my actions, that made me literally another being? Why did I not shake off this evil influence and be free? I felt perfectly conscious of possessing the power, but was not able to arouse it from a latent condition.
As I have said before, I was naturally of a studious disposition, and I now turned my attention to metaphysics. I read works, ancient and modern, on its different branches; I studied medical treatises on insanity, and, the more I learned, the more thoroughly convinced I became that I was not suffering from mental aberration. Constant brooding over my disease greatly wore upon my physical strength; traveling was recommended, in hopes that change of climate and scene might benefit my health. My old aversion to strangers clung to me, and, although possessed by a restlessness to which I was wholly unaccustomed, I persistently refused to leave home; no arguments could gain my consent, so that my friends were forced to give up the project in despair.