He Never Sought To Unbosom Himself To Me; There
Appeared To Be A Settled Corroding Anguish In His Bosom That Neither
Could Be Soothed "By Silence Nor By Speaking." A Devouring Melancholy
Preyed Upon His Heart, And Seemed To Be Drying Up The Very Blood In His
Veins.
It was not a soft melancholy - the disease of the affections; but
a parching, withering agony.
I could see at times that his mouth was
dry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaks
athwart them - baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart.
As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a
convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch themselves
involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. I
reasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him the
cause - he shrunk from all confiding. "Do not seek to know it," said he,
"you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek to
relieve it - on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,"
said he, pressing my hand convulsively, "that I feel has become too
dear to me to risk."
I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had a
thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction in the
youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds -
"Come, come," said I, "there is no grief so great that youth cannot
outgrow it." - "No!
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