them.  Such had been many of my moments.  But the only unconsciousness which had deadened my sensibilities during these two despondent years was that of sleep itself.  Though I slept fairly well most of the time, mine was seldom a dreamless sleep.  Many of my dreams were, if anything, harder to bear than my delusions of the day, for what little reason I had was absolutely suspended in sleep.  Almost every night my brain was at battledore and shuttlecock with weird thoughts.  And if not all my dreams were terrifying, this fact seemed to be only because a perverted and perverse Reason, in order that its possessor might not lose the capacity for suffering, knew how to keep Hope alive with visions which supplied the contrast necessary for keen appreciation.

No man can be born again, but I believe I came as near it as ever a man did.  To leave behind what was in reality a hell, and immediately have this good green earth revealed in more glory than most men ever see it, was one of the compensating privileges which make me feel that my suffering was worth while.

I have already described the peculiar sensation which assailed me when, in June, 1900, I lost my reason.  At that time my brain felt as though pricked by a million needles at white heat.  On this August 30th, 1902, shortly after largely regaining my reason, I had another most distinct sensation in the brain.  It started under my brow and gradually spread until the entire surface was affected.  The throes of a dying Reason had been torture.  The sensations felt as my dead Reason was reborn were delightful.  It seemed as though the refreshing breath of some kind Goddess of Wisdom were being gently blown against the surface of my brain.  It was a sensation not unlike that produced by a menthol pencil rubbed ever so gently over a fevered brow.  So delicate, so crisp and exhilarating was it that words fail me in my attempt to describe it.  Few, if any, experiences can be more delightful.  If the exaltation produced by some drugs is anything like it, I can easily understand how and why certain pernicious habits enslave those who contract them.  For me, however, this experience was liberation, not enslavement.

XIII

After two years of silence I found it no easy matter to carry on with my brother a sustained conversation.  So weak were my vocal cords from lack of use that every few minutes I must either rest or whisper.  And upon pursing my lips I found myself unable to whistle, notwithstanding the popular belief, drawn from vague memories of small-boyhood, that this art is instinctive.  Those who all their lives have talked at will cannot possibly appreciate the enjoyment I found in using my regained power of speech.  Reluctantly I returned to the ward; but not until my brother had left for home, laden with so much of my conversation that it took most of his leisure for the next two days to tell the family what I had said in two hours.