It is a vain question, that which has been often stirred among men of
our profession and metaphysicians, whether insanity--including under
that word all the modes of derangement of the mental powers--is
strictly a _disease_, the definition of which, according to the best
authorities, is "an alternation from a perfect state of bodily
health." Both parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one,
including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit a
gradation in the scale of derangement: beginning at the slightest
peculiarity; passing on to an eccentricity; from that to idiosyncrasy;
from that to a decay or an extraordinary increase of strength in a
particular faculty--say memory; from that to a decay or an increase in
the intensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion; from that to
false perception--such as monomania, progressing to derangement as to
one point or subject, often called madness, _quoad hoc_; and so on,
through many other changes, almost imperceptible in their differences,
to perfect madness--all without the slightest indication of a
pathological nature being to be discovered or detected by the finest
dissecting-knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable--for we
medical men have demonstrated the fact--that a certain _degree_ of
madness is almost always accompanied with derangement in the cerebral
organs--the most ordinary appearance being the existence of a fluid of
a certain kind in the chambers of the brain.
The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions alone; for,
so long as we remain--and that may be, as it likely will be, for
ever--ignorant of the subtle principle of organic life--the nature of
the mysterious union of mind and matter--we will never be able to tell
(notwithstanding all our mental achievements) whether madness has its
primary beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain contented
with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with that melancholy lore
which treasures up--alas! for how little good!--the dreadful symptoms
which distinguish this miserable state of proud man from all other
conditions of his earthly sorrow; exhibiting him conscious of being
still a human creature impressed with the image of God, yet incapable
of using the proudest gift of Heaven--his reason; susceptible of and
suffering the most excruciating of all pains--imaginary evils,
torments, agonies--yet placed beyond the pale of human sympathy; bent
upon--following with cunning and assiduity the cruellest modes of
self-immolation; and sometimes calmly _reasoning_ on the nature of the
mysterious power that impels to a horrible and revolting suicide.
I have been led into this train of thought by the circumstances of the
case I am now about to relate. It is one of a calm, reasoning,
determined self-destroyer, in whom, with the single exception of
wishing to die by violent and bloody means, I could discover no mental
derangement. The case occurs every day; but there are circumstances in
this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I have
witnessed, and seen described; and, as it bears the invaluable stamp
of truth, my description of it may be held to be a chapter, and a
melancholy one, in the wonderful history of human life, wherein,
perhaps, the succeeding capital division may consist of an account of
our own tragic fate, not less lamentable or less awful. Such creatures
are we lords of the creation!--so completely veiled are the destinies
of man!
It was, I think, in the month of December in the winter of 18--, that
a man in the garb of a farmer called upon me, and requested me to
visit George B----, a person, he said, of his own craft, who held a
small sheep-farm back among the hills about three miles distant. I
asked the messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me to
proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first time that I
passed that way, which might be next day, would suffice. He replied
that his friend was not in immediate danger, and did not wish me to
travel three miles for the special purpose of seeing him, but would be
contented with, and grateful for, a visit from me on any early day
that suited my convenience.
On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of the country,
and called at the house to which I had been directed. The day was
cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern north wind whistled among the
brackens of the hills. I was struck with the situation and appearance
of the house. It had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much
larger than the ordinary residences of small sheep-farmers among the
hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered, and even
dismal: no trees could be discovered in any direction; there was no
outhouses attached to the dwelling; and no neighbouring residence was
to be seen. The house stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless,
in the midst of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered
through the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I discover
any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the windows were
closed up--the under part of the house apparently being only inhabited
by the inmates, who showed no anxiety to ascertain by looking out who
it was that had accomplished the task of getting to this barren and
sequestered place.
On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young woman about eighteen
years of age. She appeared to be delicate--being thin in her person,
pale in her complexion, and of an irritable temperament, for she
started when she saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded
features not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention, by
almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if George B---- was
in the house. She answered that her father, for such he was, had just
gone to bed, having been for some time ailing. I told her that it was
upon that account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know who I
was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in; and, as I followed
the young woman through a long passage to the room occupied by her
father, she told me that her mother had died about a year before, and
that there was no other individual living in the house but her and her
remaining parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair! thought I, as I looked on
her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning through the big, open
house.
On entering the room, which was cold and poorly furnished, I observed
George B---- sitting up in his bed reading a book, which I discovered
to be a large Bible. He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face
exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy yellow; his
eyes wore the heaviness generally found in people of that temperament;
the muscles were firmly bound down by the rigid, severe, and
desponding expression of dejection, generally found associated with
these other characteristics; and throughout his face and manner there
was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which was only
very partially relaxed by his recognition of me as I entered. There
was, however, nothing of the look of a diseased man about him; for his
face was full and fleshy, his nerves firm and well strung, his eye
steady and unclouded, and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong, and
even rough and burly. His face resembled very much the _ideal_ of that
of the old Covenanters; and the large Bible he held in his hands aided
the conception, and increased the picturesque effect of the whole
aspect of the man.
He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon he had sent
for, pointed to a chair, that I might sit down, and beckoned to his
daughter Margaret, as he called her, to leave the room. The young
woman retired slowly, and I observed, as she proceeded towards the
door, she threw back two or three nervous looks, which I thought
indicated a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial
sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost the catch;
the father caught the sound, appeared angry, and requested me to rise
and shut it effectually, and, as he added, carefully. I complied, and
he seemed to listen for some time, as if to try to ascertain whether
his daughter had proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was
uncertain, and listened again, but was still unresolved; at last, he
said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he felt he could not
enter upon the subject about which he wished to consult me until he
was satisfied, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not
listening. I rose and went to the door. On opening it, I saw the young
woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated
precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut the door;
and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause of all this
mysterious secrecy and suspicion, to betray the poor girl, who had
perhaps some good legitimate object in solicitude, I said simply that
there was now nobody there. He was satisfied; and I again sat down.
I then asked him what was the particular complaint about which he
wished to consult me.
"That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied. "I hae nae
complaint aboot _my body_, which, God be thanked! is just as strong as
it used to be. But there is a change in my mind, different frae the
healthy griefs, and sorrows, and pains o' mortals. My wife, the best
o' women, died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater
number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae payin my
Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife, and mony a shepherd his
sheep, without tellin a doctor o' their loss. I laid my account wi'
sufferin grief as heavy as mortal ever suffered; and in this house, in
this bed, on these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae
struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head towards me, and
speaking low, "_it winna a' do_."
He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, as if
he had already, as it were, broached a subject that was fearful to
himself.
"What mean you?" said I.
"I mean, that _I canna live_!" he replied, energetically, seizing the
Bible with a spasmodic grasp--closing it--throwing it to the back of
the bed--then falling in an instant into a state of real dejection,
with his arms folded over his breast, and his eyes cast down.
"Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I; "but they are
the mere fancies of a sick mind--generated in sorrow, and dying with
the time-subdued cause that produces them. There is not a bereaved
husband, wife, parent, or child in the land, that does not, in the
first struggle with a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing
moments of agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not
yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must have
patience."
"There is some consolation in that," he replied. "I am glad when I
think that the thought that haunts and alarms me is no sae dangerous
as it sometimes appears to me. This book (sweet comforter!) tells me
that Tobit prayed to be dissolved, and become earth, because o' his
sorrow. It tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried, 'My soul
chooseth strangling and death rather than life.' My experience o' the
ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have some portion o' that)
informs me o' the truth o' what you have told me, that an
extraordinary burden o' grief often wrings frae the sick soul a wish
to dee and be at rest. But oh! I fear my situation is different. I hae
_mair_ than a wish to be dissolved; for sure none o' my brethren in
sorrow"--here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears rolled
down his cheek--"ever lay wi' the like o' that"--holding up a
razor--"under his sick pillow."