I
This story is derived from as human a document as ever existed; and,
because of its uncommon nature, perhaps no one thing contributes so
much to its value as its authenticity. It is an autobiography, and
more: in part it is a biography; for, in telling the story of my life,
I must relate the history of another self—a self which was dominant
from my twenty-fourth to my twenty-sixth year. During that period I was
unlike what I had been, or what I have been since. The biographical
part of my autobiography might be called the history of a mental civil
war, which I fought single-handed on a battlefield that lay within the
compass of my skull. An Army of Unreason, composed of the cunning and
treacherous thoughts of an unfair foe, attacked my bewildered
consciousness with cruel persistency, and would have destroyed me, had
not a triumphant Reason finally interposed a superior strategy that
saved me from my unnatural self.
I am not telling the story of my life just to write a book. I tell it
because it seems my plain duty to do so. A narrow escape from death and
a seemingly miraculous return to health after an apparently fatal
illness are enough to make a man ask himself: For what purpose was my
life spared? That question I have asked myself, and this book is, in
part, an answer.
I was born shortly after sunset about thirty years ago. My ancestors,
natives of England, settled in this country not long after the
Mayflower first sailed into Plymouth Harbor. And the blood of these
ancestors, by time and the happy union of a Northern man and a Southern
woman—my parents—has perforce been blended into blood truly American.
The first years of my life were, in most ways, not unlike those of
other American boys, except as a tendency to worry made them so. Though
the fact is now difficult for me to believe, I was painfully shy. When
first I put on short trousers, I felt that the eyes of the world were
on me; and to escape them I hid behind convenient pieces of furniture
while in the house and, so I am told, even sidled close to fences when
I walked along the street. With my shyness there was a degree of
self-consciousness which put me at a disadvantage in any family or
social gathering. I talked little and was ill at ease when others spoke
to me.
Like many other sensitive and somewhat introspective children, I passed
through a brief period of morbid righteousness. In a game of
"one-old-cat," the side on which I played was defeated. On a piece of
scantling which lay in the lot where the contest took place, I
scratched the score. Afterwards it occurred to me that my inscription
was perhaps misleading and would make my side appear to be the winner.
I went back and corrected the ambiguity. On finding in an old tool
chest at home a coin or medal, on which there appeared the text, "Put
away the works of darkness and put on the armour of light," my sense of
religious propriety was offended. It seemed a sacrilege to use in this
way such a high sentiment, so I destroyed the coin.
I early took upon myself, mentally at least, many of the cares and
worries of those about me. Whether in this I was different from other
youngsters who develop a ludicrous, though pathetic, sense of
responsibility for the universe, I do not know. But in my case the most
extreme instance occurred during a business depression, when the family
resources were endangered. I began to fear that my father (than whom a
more hopeful man never lived) might commit suicide.
After all, I am not sure that the other side of my nature—the natural,
healthy, boyish side—did not develop equally with these timid and
morbid tendencies, which are not so very uncommon in childhood.
Certainly the natural, boyish side was more in evidence on the surface.
I was as good a sport as any of my playfellows in such games as
appealed to me, and I went a-fishing when the chance offered. None of
my associates thought of me as being shy or morose. But this was
because I masked my troubles, though quite unconsciously, under a
camouflage of sarcasm and sallies of wit, or, at least, what seemed to
pass for wit among my immature acquaintances. With grown-ups, I was at
times inclined to be pert, my degree of impudence depending no doubt
upon how ill at ease I was and how perfectly at ease I wished to
appear. Because of the constant need for appearing happier than I
really was, I developed a knack for saying things in an amusing,
sometimes an epigrammatic, way. I recall one remark made long before I
could possibly have heard of Malthus or have understood his theory
regarding birth rate and food supply. Ours being a large family of
limited means and, among the five boys of the family, unlimited
appetites, we often used the cheaper, though equally nutritious, cuts
of meat. On one occasion when the steak was tougher than usual, I
epitomized the Malthusian theory by remarking: "I believe in fewer
children and better beefsteak!"
One more incident of my boyhood days may assist the reader to make my
acquaintance. In my early teens I was, for one year, a member of a boy
choir. Barring my voice, I was a good chorister, and, like all good
choir-boys, I was distinguished by that seraphic passiveness from which
a reaction of some kind is to be expected immediately after a service
or rehearsal. On one occasion this reaction in me manifested itself in
a fist fight with a fellow choir-boy. Though I cannot recall the time
when I have not relished verbal encounters, physical encounters had
never been to my taste, and I did not seek this fight. My assailant
really goaded me into it. If the honors were not mine, at least I must
have acquitted myself creditably, for an interested passer-by made a
remark which I have never forgotten. "That boy is all right after he
gets started," he said. About twelve years later I did get started, and
could that passer-by have seen me on any one of several occasions, he
would have had the satisfaction of knowing that his was a prophetic
eye.
At the usual age, I entered a public grammar school in New Haven,
Connecticut, where I graduated in 1891. In the fall of that year I
entered the High School of the same city. My school courses were
completed with as little trouble as scholastic distinction. I always
managed to gain promotion, however, when it was due; and, though few of
my teachers credited me with real ability, they were always able to
detect a certain latent capacity, which they evidently believed would
one day develop sufficiently to prevent me from disgracing them.
Upon entering the High School I had such ambitions as any schoolboy is
apt to have. I wished to secure an election to a given secret society;
that gained, I wished to become business manager of a monthly magazine
published by that society. In these ambitions I succeeded. For one of
my age I had more than an average love of business. Indeed, I
deliberately set about learning to play the guitar well enough to
become eligible for membership in the Banjo Club—and this for no more
aesthetic purpose than to place myself in line for the position of
manager, to which I was later elected.
In athletics there was but one game, tennis, in which I was actively
interested. Its quick give-and-take suited my temperament, and so fond
was I of it that during one summer I played not fewer than four
thousand games. As I had an aptitude for tennis and devoted more time
to it than did any of my schoolmates, it was not surprising that I
acquired skill enough to win the school championship during my senior
year. But that success was not due entirely to my superiority as a
player. It was due in part to what I considered unfair treatment; and
the fact well illustrates a certain trait of character which has often
stood me in good stead. Among the spectators at the final match of the
tournament were several girls. These schoolmates, who lived in my
neighborhood, had mistaken for snobbishness a certain boyish diffidence
for which few people gave me credit. When we passed each other, almost
daily, this group of girls and I, our mutual sign of recognition was a
look in an opposite direction. Now my opponent was well liked by these
same girls and was entitled to their support. Accordingly they
applauded his good plays, which was fair. They did not applaud my good
plays, which was also fair. But what was not fair was that they should
applaud my bad plays. Their doing so roiled my blood, and thanks to
those who would have had me lose, I won.
In June, 1894, I received a high school diploma. Shortly afterwards I
took my examinations for Yale, and the following September entered the
Sheffield Scientific School, in a non-technical course.
The last week of June, 1894, was an important one in my life. An event
then occurred which undoubtedly changed my career completely. It was
the direct cause of my mental collapse six years later, and of the
distressing and, in some instances, strange and delightful experiences
on which this book is based. The event was the illness of an older
brother, who, late in June, 1894, was stricken with what was thought to
be epilepsy. Few diseases can so disorganize a household and distress
its members. My brother had enjoyed perfect health up to the time he
was stricken; and, as there had never been a suggestion of epilepsy, or
any like disease, in either branch of the family, the affliction came
as a bolt from a clear sky. Everything possible was done to effect a
cure, but without avail. On July 4th, 1900, he died, after a six years'
illness, two years of which were spent at home, one year in a trip
around the world in a sailing vessel, and most of the remainder on a
farm near Hartford. The doctors finally decided that a tumor at the
base of the brain had caused his malady and his death.
As I was in college when my brother was first stricken, I had more time
at my disposal than the other members of the family, and for that
reason spent much of it with him. Though his attacks during the first
year occurred only at night, the fear that they might occur during the
day, in public, affected my nerves from the beginning.
Now, if a brother who had enjoyed perfect health all his life could be
stricken with epilepsy, what was to prevent my being similarly
afflicted? This was the thought that soon got possession of my mind.
The more I considered it and him, the more nervous I became; and the
more nervous, the more convinced that my own breakdown was only a
matter of time. Doomed to what I then considered a living death, I
thought of epilepsy, I dreamed epilepsy, until thousands of times
during the six years that this disquieting idea persisted, my
over-wrought imagination seemed to drag me to the very verge of an
attack. Yet at no time during my life have these early fears been
realized.
For the fourteen months succeeding the time my brother was first
stricken, I was greatly harassed with fear; but not until later did my
nerves really conquer me. I remember distinctly when the break came. It
happened in November, 1895, during a recitation in German. That hour in
the class room was one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced. It
seemed as if my nerves had snapped, like so many minute bands of rubber
stretched beyond their elastic limit. Had I had the courage to leave
the room, I should have done so; but I sat as if paralyzed until the
class was dismissed.
That term I did not again attend recitations. Continuing my studies at
home, I passed satisfactory examinations, which enabled me to resume my
place in the class room the following January. During the remainder of
my college years I seldom entered a recitation room with any other
feeling than that of dread, though the absolute assurance that I should
not be called upon to recite did somewhat relieve my anxiety in some
classes. The professors, whom I had told about my state of health and
the cause of it, invariably treated me with consideration; but, though
I believe they never doubted the genuineness of my excuse, it was easy
matter to keep them convinced for almost two-thirds of my college
course. My inability to recite was not due usually to any lack of
preparation. However well prepared I might be, the moment I was called
upon, a mingling of a thousand disconcerting sensations, and the
distinct thought that at last the dread attack was at hand, would
suddenly intervene and deprive me of all but the power to say, "Not
prepared." Weeks would pass without any other record being placed
opposite my name than a zero, or a blank indicating that I had not been
called upon at all. Occasionally, however, a professor, in justice to
himself and to the other students, would insist that I recite, and at
such times I managed to make enough of a recitation to hold my place in
the class.
When I entered Yale, I had four definite ambitions: first, to secure an
election to a coveted secret society; second, to become one of the
editors of the Yale Record, an illustrated humorous bi-weekly; third
(granting that I should succeed in this latter ambition), to convince
my associates that I should have the position of business manager—an
office which I sought, not for the honor, but because I believed it
would enable me to earn an amount of money at least equal to the cost
of tuition for my years at Yale; fourth (and this was my chief
ambition), to win my diploma within the prescribed time. These four
ambitions I fortunately achieved.
A man's college days, collectively, are usually his happiest. Most of
mine were not happy. Yet I look back upon them with great satisfaction,
for I feel that I was fortunate enough to absorb some of that
intangible, but very real, element known as the "Yale spirit." This has
helped to keep Hope alive within me during my most discouraged moments,
and has ever since made the accomplishment of my purposes seem easy and
sure.
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