SUICIDE A CRIME AGAINST GOD AND MAN.—IT IS NOT AN ACT OF COURAGE.
The sin of suicide—The notions of Paley on the
subject—Voltaire’s opinion—Is suicide self-murder?—Is it
forbidden in Scripture?—Shakspeare’s views on the subject—The
alliance between suicide and murder—Has a man a right to
sacrifice his own life?—Everything held upon trust—Suicide
a sin against ourselves and neighbour—It is not an act of
courage—Opinion of Q. Curtius on the subject—Buonaparte’s
denunciation of suicide—Dryden’s description of the suicide in
another world.
Among the black catalogue of human offences, there is not, indeed,
any that more powerfully affects the mind, that more outrages all
the feelings of the heart, than the crime of suicide. Our laws have
branded it with infamy, and the industry which is exerted by surviving
relatives to conceal its perpetration evinces that the shame which is
attached to it is of that foul and contagious character, that even the
innocent consider themselves infected by its malignity.
Much discussion has taken place as to whether self-murder is expressly
forbidden in the Old or New Testament.[16] Paley, who is a high
authority on all questions connected with moral philosophy, denies that
it is. He considers that the article in the decalogue so often brought
forward, “Thou shalt do no murder,” is inconclusive. “I acknowledge (he
observes) that there is to be found neither any express determination
of the question, nor sufficient evidence to prove that the case of
suicide was in the contemplation of the law which prohibits murder. Any
inference, therefore, which we deduce from Scripture, can be sustained
only by _construction and implication_.”
To maintain that God has not forbidden us to destroy the work of his
hands, because self-murder is not particularly specified, is to leave
us at liberty to commit many other offences which are not named among
the prohibitions, but which are included under general heads. When
God said to Noah, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood
be shed, for in the image of God made he man,” it is evident that,
whatever meaning we may attach to the last words, in whatever sense man
is said to be made in the image of God, the reason of the prohibition
holds as strong against self-murder as against any other kind of
murder. If I am commanded not to shed the blood of another man because
he is made in the _image of God_, I am not justified in shedding my own
blood, as I stand in the same relation to the Deity as my fellow-men.
But there is a particular reason why suicide is not any where expressly
forbidden by _name_; that is, that whatever sins and offences God,
as a lawgiver, prohibits, he does so with a penalty; he affixes such
a punishment to such a crime, and he who transgresses is to undergo
the determined punishment in this world or in the next. Neither God
nor the magistrate can prohibit self-murder with any penalty that can
affect the criminal himself; because of his very crime, he escapes
all temporal punishment in person—he has anticipated the operation of
the law. In fact, he has, in his own person, acted the part of the
criminal, judge, jury, and executioner; he is dead before the law
can take any cognizance of his offence. No law can be enacted to any
purpose without a penalty; where, therefore, there can be no penalty,
there can be no law. Self-murder prevents all penalty, and therefore
wants no particular prohibition; it must therefore be included under
general commands, and forbidden as a _sin_, which it is only in the
power of God to take cognizance of, in another world.
Again, doubtlessly the inspired writer considered suicide of such an
atrocious nature that the warnings of conscience were sufficient to
prevent its frequency, and because the voice of nature instinctively
cries out against it.
That the act of suicide must be most offensive in the sight of God is
evident, since it is that which most directly violates those laws by
which his providence has formed, and still directs, the universe. If
any one principle in man is instinctive and implanted in him by the
hand of nature, it is that of self preservation. Different religions
and different codes have marked out particular duties, and proscribed
particular crimes; in this, every religion unites, every society
concurs, and every individual acknowledges within his own bosom the
sacred command. If, therefore, to disobey the ordinances of God must be
sinful in his sight, if ever the ordinances of men are to be respected,
what must be the guilt of that person who violates the first law of
nature, who disregards the principle that holds human society together,
that fits us for every duty, and prompts us in the performance of them!
But it is not merely against the ordinance of his Creator that the
self-murderer offends,[17] he is guilty of a breach of duty to his
neighbour. He plants a dagger not merely in his own breast, but in that
of his dearest, his tenderest connexions. He wantonly sports with the
pangs of sensibility, and covers with the blush of shame the cheek of
innocence. With a degree of ingratitude which excites our abhorrence,
he clouds with sorrow the future existence of those by whom he was most
tenderly beloved, and affixes a mark of ignominy on his unfortunate
descendants. He disobeys the first of social laws, that order by which
God appropriated his labours to the welfare of society, and, because he
fancies he can no longer exist with comfort to himself, disregards all
the duties which he owes to others.
The alliance between suicide and the murder of others is a closer one
than is generally supposed. How many instances are recorded in which
suicide and homicide have been conjoined! He who will not scruple to
take away his own life, will not require much reasoning to impel him
to sacrifice another’s. We refer to the cases of Mithridates, king of
Pontus, and Nicocles, as illustrative of this position. Many modern
instances are recorded of the same character.
It was maintained by Marcus Aurelius, that there was no more of evil in
parting from life than in going out of a smoky chamber; and Rousseau
asks, “Why should we be permitted to cut off a leg, if we may not
equally take away life? has not the will of God given us both?” Madame
de Staël very properly observes that the following passage in Scripture
replies to this sophism—“If thy hand offend thee, cut it off; if thine
eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee.” Temptation is
evidently referred to in the above passage, but it may consistently be
used in refutation of Rousseau’s illogical argument. Although a man may
use any means placed in his power for the removal of physical evils, he
is distinctly prohibited from destroying his existence.
The interrogatory argument, if it can be so denominated, which is so
often used in justification of suicide—“Cannot a man do what he likes
with his own?”—is based upon an absurd and gross fallacy. Man, during
his residence on this earth, is but a trustee; his wealth, his talents,
his time, and his very life, are but trust property. He can call
nothing truly his own; he is held accountable for the most apparently
trivial action he performs. Life is given to him for noble purposes;
it is an emanation from the Deity himself; and no circumstances would
justify us in asserting that our very existence is placed at our own
disposal. How truly has the noble poet observed, when alluding to the
tenure upon which we hold everything during this life—
“Can despots compass aught that hails their sway,
Or call one solid span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?”
This life is one of privation. We are born to misery; we are led to
expect disappointment at every step we take; blighted expectations,
ruined hopes, pain, mental and bodily, constitute a part and parcel of
our very existence. No man was more overwhelmed with any species of
misfortune than Job; he was emphatically styled “_the man of grief_;”
and when, prostrated to the earth by the most poignant misery, his wife
exhorted him to quit life,—to “curse God, and die,”—he replied, “What,
shall I receive good from the hand of God, and not evil?”
No suffering, however acute, could for one moment justify the
commission of self-murder. “The concluding scene in the life of Jesus
Christ,” says Madame de Staël, with a fervid eloquence which does her
immortal honour, “seems peculiarly intended to confute those who
contend for the right of destroying life to escape misfortune. The
dread of suffering seized him who had willingly devoted himself to
death for the good of mankind. He prayed a long time to his Father in
the Mount of Olives, and his countenance was shaded by the anguish
of death. ‘My Father,’ he cried, ‘if it be possible, let this cup
pass from me.’ Thrice with tears was this prayer repeated. All the
sorrows of our nature had passed through his divine mind; like us, he
feared the violence of men; like us, perhaps, regretted those whom
he cherished and loved, his mother and his disciples; like us, he
loved this earth, and the celestial pleasures resulting from active
benevolence, for which he incessantly thanked his Father. But, not able
to avert the destined chalice, he cried, ‘Oh, my Father, let thy will
be done,’ and resigned himself into the hands of his enemies. What
more can be sought for in the gospel respecting resignation to grief,
and the duty of supporting it with fortitude and patience.” Poets
and orators have entered into a chivalrous rivalry to celebrate the
character of the “bold man struggling with the storms of fate.” That
adversity refines and ennobles our nature there cannot be a doubt. The
most beautiful features of the human mind are developed in suffering;
the ordeal through which we pass, however repugnant and abhorrent it
may be to our feelings, produces a moral regeneration in the character.
We come out of the “fiery furnace,” like gold and silver, deprived of
much of our dross; and life, youthful and innocent life, again dawns
upon us and gladdens our hearts.
Suicide is an injury to our neighbour and to society. As long as life
lasts,—no matter what amount of misery a person may suffer,—he has it
in his power to contribute to the happiness of others. By mitigating
the distresses of others, his own will be subdued. Let a man writhing
under the torture of the gout be brought into contact with a person
suffering from the intense agony of tic doloureux, and he will have a
practical illustration of the fact, that there are others in the world
worse off than himself.
Suicide has been defended as an act of courage. Courage, forsooth! If
ever there is an act of cowardice, it is that exhibited by the person
who, to escape from the disappointments and vexations of the world,
wantonly puts an end to his existence. The man of courage will defy the
opinions and scorns of the world, when he knows himself to be in the
right; will be above sinking under the petty misfortunes that assail
him; will make circumstances bow to him; will court difficulties and
dangers, in order to shew that he is able to master them.
It was a noble sentiment which Q. Curtius put into the mouth of Darius,
after every ray of hope had abandoned him:—“I will wait,” cried the
king, addressing his attendants, “the issue of my fate. You wonder,
perhaps, that I do not terminate my own life; but I choose rather to
die by another’s crime than by my own.” The sentiments of Cleomenes,
king of Sparta, expressed when his fortunes appeared most desperate,
are equally noble and magnanimous. Being much urged by a friend to
dispatch himself, he replied—“By seeking this easy and ready kind of
death, you think to appear brave and courageous; but better men than
you and I have been oppressed by fortune, and borne down by multitudes.
He that sinks under toil, or yields to affliction, or is overcome by
the opinions and reproaches of men, gives way, in fact, to his own
effeminacy and cowardice. A voluntary death is never to be chosen as a
relief from action, but as exemplary in itself, it being base to live
or die only for ourselves. The death to which you now invite us is only
proposed as a release from present misery, but conveys with it no signs
of bravery or prospects of advantage.”
Euripides put the following words in the mouth of Hercules: “I have
considered, and, though oppressed with misfortunes, I have determined
thus: Let no one depart out of life through fear of what may happen to
him; for he who is not able to resist evils will fly, like a coward,
from the darts of the enemy.”
When Buonaparte was told of the prevalent opinion, that he ought not
to have survived his political downfall, he calmly replied—“No, no; I
have not enough of the Roman in me to destroy myself.” After reasoning,
with considerable ingenuity, on the subject of suicide, he concluded
by giving expression to this decided opinion:—“Suicide is a crime the
most revolting to my feelings; nor does any reason present itself to my
understanding by which it can be justified. It certainly originates in
that species of fear which we denominate cowardice, (_poltronnerie_.)
For what claim can that man have to courage who trembles at the frowns
of fortune? True heroism consists in becoming superior to the ills
of life, in whatever shape they may challenge him to the combat.” He
might have added—“Tu ne cede malis, sed contrà audentior ito.” On
another occasion, when talking on the subject of suicide, Buonaparte
observed, “If Marius had slain himself in the marshes of Minturnæ, he
never would have stood the seventh time for consul.” After having been
some time at St. Helena, he one day spoke further on the subject of
suicide. He observed:—“With respect to the English language, I have
been very diligent. I now read your newspapers with ease; and must own
that they afford me no inconsiderable amusement. They are occasionally
inconsistent, and sometimes abusive. In one paper I am called a
_Lear_; in another, a _tyrant_; in a third, a _monster_; and in one of
them—which I really did not expect—I am described as a _coward_. But it
turned out, after all, that the writer did not accuse me of avoiding
danger in the field of battle, or flying from an enemy, or fearing to
look at the menaces of fate and fortune. It did not charge me with
wanting presence of mind in the hurry of battle, and in the suspense of
conflicting armies; no such thing. I wanted courage, it seems, because
I did not coolly take a dose of poison, or throw myself into the sea,
or blow out my brains. The editor most certainly misunderstands me; I
have, at least, too much courage for that.”[18]
We think it has decidedly been established in the preceding
observations that suicide is a crime clearly prohibited in the Bible;
that it is, in every sense of the term, self-murder; and that our duty
to our Creator, to ourselves, and to society, loudly calls upon us to
denounce it, and hold it up to the scorn and reprobation of mankind.
How terrifically has Dryden, in his Fables, portrayed the condition of
the unfortunate suicide in another world:—
“The slayer of himself, too, saw I there:
The gore, congealed, was clotted in his hair.
With eyes half closed, and mouth wide ope, he lay,
And grim as when he breathed his sullen soul away.”