MEMORY.

Diversity of the author’s pursuits—Superficial acquirements contrasted

with solid—Variety and change of study conducive to health—Breeding

ideas—How to avoid _ennui_—The principles of memory and fear—The

author’s theory respecting the former, and his motive for its

introduction.

My pursuits from my earliest days have been (right or wrong) all of my

own selection: some of them were rather of a whimsical character; others

merely adopted _pour passer le temps_; a few of a graver and more solid

cast. (The law was an _indispensable_ one.) On the whole, I believe I

may boast that few persons, if any, of similar standing in society

adopted a greater variety of occupations than myself.

The truth is, I never suffered my mind to _stagnate_ one moment; and

unremittingly sought to bring it so far under my own controul, as to be

enabled to turn its energies at all times, promptly and without

difficulty, from the lightest pursuits to the most serious business, and

vice versâ; and, for the time being, to occupy it exclusively on a

single subject. These are the arts of managing thought; a person who can

do such things is never _bilious_!

My _system_ (if such it may be called) led me to a dabbling in sciences,

arts, and literature—just sufficient to feed my intellect with

varieties, and keep my mind busy and afloat without being overloaded:

thus, I dipped irregularly into numerous elementary treatises, embracing

a great variety of subjects—among which, even theology, chemistry,

physic, anatomy, architecture, the trades and mechanical arts, (to say

nothing of politics) were included. In a word, I looked into every

species of publication I could lay my hands on; and I never have been

honoured by one second of _ennui_, or felt a propensity to an hour’s

_languor_ during my existence except when I was actually sick. My _mind_

is never disordered, and my brain having plenty of occupation, I never

had _time_ to go _mad_!

This fanciful—the reader may, if he pleases, say superficial and

frivolous species of learning and self-employment, would, I doubt not,

be scouted with contempt by learned LL. Ds., Bachelors of Arts, Fellows

of Colleges, Wranglers at Universities, &c. These gentlemen very

properly saturate their capacities with more _solid_ stuff, each

imbibing, even to the dregs, one or two dignified, substantial sciences,

garnished with dead languages, and served up to their pupils with a

proper seasoning of pedantry and importance. Thus they enjoy the

gratification of being wiser in _something_ than their neighbours,

without much troubling their organs of _variety_; a plan, I readily

admit, more appropriate to learning and philosophy, and perhaps more

useful to others: but at the same time, I contend that mine (and I speak

with the experience of a very long life) is conducive in a greater

degree to pleasure, to health, to happiness; and I shrewdly suspect far

more _convenient_ to the greater number of capacities.

A certain portion of external and internal variety, like change of air,

keeps the animal functions in due activity, while it renders the mind

supple and elastic, and more capable of accommodating itself with

promptitude to those difficult and trying circumstances into which the

vicissitudes of life may plunge it. I admire and respect solid learning;

but even a _superficial_ knowledge of a _variety_ of subjects tends to

excite that inexhaustible succession of thoughts which, at hand on every

emergency, gives tone and vigour both to the head and heart, (not

infrequently excluding more unwelcome visitors,) and is a decided and

triumphant enemy to hanging, drowning, shooting, cutting of throats, and

every other species of suicide except that which so frequently

originates from being _too rich_—a _misfortune_ which seldom falls to

the lot of persons who follow the _system_ I have recommended. I do

really think, that if a very rich man, who meditated suicide, would for

one moment reflect what sincere pleasure his heirs, executors,

administrators, and personal representatives (probably his wife and

children) would derive from his dangling from the ceiling, he would lock

up his rope and become vastly more hospitable.

All my life I perceived the advantage of _breeding ideas_: the brain can

never be too populous, so long as you keep its inhabitants in that

wholesome state of discipline, that _they_ are under _your_ command, not

_you_ under _theirs_; and, above all things, never suffer a mob of them

to come jostling each other in your head at the same time: keep them as

distinct as possible, or it is a hundred to one they will make a

blockhead of you at last.

From this habit it has ensued that the longest day is always too short

for me. If in tranquil mood, I find my ideas as playful as kittens; if

chagrined, consolatory fancies are never wanting. When a man can send

the five orders of architecture to build castles in the firmament, of

any shape, size or materials he may fancy, and furnish it accordingly, I

think a permanent state of melancholy quite unnecessary. Should I grow

weary of thoughts relating to the present, my memory carries me back

fifty or sixty years with equal politeness and activity; and never

ceases shifting time, place, and person, till it lights on some matter

more agreeable.

I had naturally _very_ feeble sight: at fifty years of age, to my

extreme surprise, I found it had strengthened so much as to render the

continued use of spectacles unnecessary; and now I can peruse the

smallest print without any glass, and can write a hand so minute, that I

know several elderly gentlemen of my own decimal who cannot conquer it

even with their reading-glasses. For general use I remark, that I have

found my sight more confused by poring for a given length of time over

_one_ book, than in double that time when shifting from one print to

another, and changing the place I sat in, and of course the _quality of

light and reflection_: to a neglect of such precautions I attribute many

of the weak and near visions so common with book-worms.

But another quality of inestimable value which I did and still do

possess, thank Heaven! in a degree which, at my time of life, if not

supernatural, is not very far from it—is a memory of the most

wide-ranging powers: its retrospect is astonishing to myself, and has

wonderfully increased since my necessary application to a single science

has been dispensed with. The recollection of one early incident of our

lives never fails to introduce another; and the marked occurrences of my

life from childhood to the wrong side of a grand climacteric are at this

moment fresh in my memory, in all their natural tints, as at the instant

of their occurrence.

Without awarding any extraordinary merit either to the brain, or to

those human organs generally regarded as the seat of recollection, or

rather _retention_ of ideas, I think this fact may be accounted for in a

much simpler way—more on _philosophical_ than on _organic_ principles. I

do not insist on my theory being a true one; but as it is, like

Touchstone’s forest-treasure, “my own,” I like it, and am content to

hold by it “for better, for worse.”

The two qualities of the human mind with which we are most strongly

endowed in childhood are those of fear and memory; both of which

accompany us throughout all our worldly peregrinations—with this

difference, that with age the one generally declines, while the other

increases.

The mind has a tablet whereon Memory begins to engrave occurrences even

in our earliest days, and which in old age is full of her handy-work, so

that there is no room for any more inscriptions. Hence old people

recollect occurrences long past better than those of more recent date;

and though an old person can faithfully recount the exploits of his

schoolfellows, he will scarcely recollect what he himself was doing the

day before yesterday.

It is also observable that the recollection, at an advanced period, of

the incidents of childhood, does not require that extent of memory which

at first sight may appear essential; neither is it necessary to bound at

once over the wide gulf of life between sixty years and three.

Memory results from a _connected_ sequence of thought and observation:

so that intervening occurrences draw up the recollection as it were to

preceding ones, and thus each fresh-excited act of _remembrance_ in fact

operates as a new _incident_. When a person recollects well (as one is

apt to do) a correction which he received in his childhood, or whilst a

schoolboy, he probably owes his recollection not to the whipping, but to

the _name of the book_ which he was whipped for neglecting; and whenever

the book is occasionally mentioned, the _whipping_ is recalled, revived,

and perpetuated in the memory.

I once received a correction at school, when learning prosody, for

falsely pronouncing the word _semisopitus_; and though this was between

fifty and sixty years ago, I have never since heard prosody mentioned

but I have recollected that word, and had the schoolmaster and his rod

clearly before my eyes. I even recollect _the very leaf_ of the book

whereon the word was printed. Every time I look into a book of poetry, I

must of course think of prosody, and prosody suggests _semisopitus_, and

brings before me, on the instant, the scene of my disgrace.

This one example is sufficient for my theory, and proves also the

advantage of breeding ideas, since, the more links to a chain, the

farther it reaches.

The faculty of memory varies in individuals almost as much as their

features. One man may recollect names, dates, pages, numbers, admirably,

who does not well remember incidents or anecdotes; and a linguist will

retain fifty thousand words, not one-tenth part of which a wit can bury

any depth in his recollection.

This admission may tend to excite doubts and arguments against the

general application of my theory: but I aim not at making proselytes;

indeed I have only said thus much to anticipate observations which may

naturally be made respecting the extent to which my memory has carried

the retention of bygone circumstances, and to allay the scepticism which

might perhaps otherwise follow.