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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