That afternoon, conscious that some terrible calamity was impending, but not knowing what would be its nature, I performed a very curious act.  Certain early literary efforts which had failed of publication in the college paper, but which I had jealously cherished for several years, I utterly destroyed.  Then, after a hurried arrangement of my affairs, I took an early afternoon train, and was soon in New Haven.  Home life did not make me better, and, except for three or four short walks, I did not go out of the house at all until June 23d, when I went in a most unusual way.  To relatives I said little about my state of health, beyond the general statement that I had never felt worse—­a statement which, when made by a neurasthenic, means much, but proves little.  For five years I had had my ups and downs, and both my relatives and myself had begun to look upon these as things which would probably be corrected in and by time.

The day after my home-coming I made up my mind, or that part of it which was still within my control, that the time had come to quit business entirely and take a rest of months.  I even arranged with a younger brother to set out at once for some quiet place in the White Mountains, where I hoped to steady my shattered nerves.  At this time I felt as though in a tremor from head to foot, and the thought that I was about to have an epileptic attack constantly recurred.  On more than one occasion I said to friends that I would rather die than live an epileptic; yet, if I rightly remember, I never declared the actual fear that I was doomed to bear such an affliction.  Though I held the mad belief that I should suffer epilepsy, I held the sane hope, amounting to belief, that I should escape it.  This fact may account, in a measure, for my six years of endurance.

On the 18th of June I felt so much worse that I went to my bed and stayed there until the 23d.  During the night of the 18th my persistent dread became a false belief—­a delusion.  What I had long expected I now became convinced had at last occurred.  I believed myself to be a confirmed epileptic, and that conviction was stronger than any ever held by a sound intellect.  The half-resolve, made before my mind was actually impaired, namely, that I would kill myself rather than live the life I dreaded, now divided my attention with the belief that the stroke had fallen.  From that time my one thought was to hasten the end, for I felt that I should lose the chance to die should relatives find me in an attack of epilepsy.

Considering the state of my mind and my inability at that time to appreciate the enormity of such an end as I half contemplated, my suicidal purpose was not entirely selfish.  That I had never seriously contemplated suicide is proved by the fact that I had not provided myself with the means of accomplishing it, despite my habit, has long been remarked by my friends, of preparing even for unlikely contingencies.  So far as I had the control of my faculties, it must be admitted that I deliberated; but, strictly speaking, the rash act which followed cannot correctly be called an attempt at suicide—­for how can a man who is not himself kill himself?