communication with the Deity. He fancied he heard a celestial voice
saying—“_My son, come and seat thyself by my side._” He opened the
window to obey the invitation, fell down, and fractured his leg. When
he was carried to his bed, he expressed the greatest astonishment on
finding that he had precipitated himself from the window.
A young lady of considerable beauty was accosted in the street by a
strange gentleman. She took no notice at first of the unwarrantable
liberty; but on finding that he persisted in following her, she
attempted, by quickening her pace, to escape. Being extremely timid,
and having naturally a very nervous temperament, she was much excited.
The person in the garb of a gentleman followed her for nearly a mile,
and when he saw that she was home, he suddenly turned down a street,
and disappeared. The young lady expressed herself extremely ill soon
after she entered the house. A physician was sent for, who declared his
astonishment at her severe illness from a cause so trifling. During
the following night she manifested indications of mental derangement,
with a disposition to commit suicide. A strait-waistcoat was procured,
and all apprehensions of her succeeding in gratifying the propensity of
self-destruction was removed. Some weeks elapsed before she recovered.
To all appearance she was perfectly well. She had no recollection of
what had transpired, and expressed herself amazed when she was told
that she had wished to kill herself. Two months after she left her bed
she was missed. Search was made in every direction, but in vain. After
the lapse of two days, she was discovered floating in a pond of water
several miles from her home. In her pocket was discovered a piece of
paper, on which were written the following lines:—“Oh, the misery and
wretchedness I have experienced for the last month no one but myself
can tell. A demon haunts me—life is insupportable. A voice tells me
that I am destined to fall by my own hands. I leave this world for
another, where I hope to enjoy more happiness. Adieu.”
We have no doubt that in this case, although the acute symptoms of
insanity had subsided, she had not recovered completely her sane
state of mind. None but those conversant with the subject of mental
derangement would believe that so trifling a circumstance as that of
being spoken to in the street would have produced so violent an attack
of maniacal delirium as was witnessed in the case of this poor girl.
M. Esquirol states that he has never seen an unequivocal instance
of any individual drawn to the commission of suicide by a kind of
irresistible impulse, independently of any secret grievance, real or
imaginary. Could the secret feelings of these suicides be accurately
ascertained, there would generally, if not always, be found some
lurking source of discontent, real or fanciful, in the breast, which
serve as motives to their suicidal propensity. Many instances are on
record, it is true, where men have put a period to their existence
without any apparent visible cause or motive; but as Rousseau has
justly observed, “_Le bonheur n’a point d’enseigne exterieur: pour en
juger, il faudrait lire dans le cœur de l’homme heureux_.”
“Individuals,” says Esquirol, “who appear outwardly the residence of
happiness, are often inwardly the focus of chagrin, and tortured with
distracting passions. That man can destroy his own life, being at the
same time happy in his mind, is a phenomenon which human reason cannot
comprehend.”
A diseased temperament, a serious lesion of one or more of the viscera,
a gradual exhaustion of the energies of the system, may so aggravate
the miseries of life as to hasten the period of voluntary death. But
how are we to account for the irresistible propensity to suicide which
sometimes exists, independent of any apparent mental or physical
ailments? A melancholic, whose case was published in Fourcroy’s Medical
Journal of 1792, once said, “I am in prosperous circumstances; I have a
wife and a child who constitute my happiness; I cannot complain of bad
health, and still I feel a horrible propensity to throw myself into the
Seine.” His declaration was too fatally verified in the event. Crichton
was once consulted upon the case of a young man, twenty-four years
of age, in full vigour and health, who was tormented by periodical
accessions of these gloomy feelings and propensities. At those times
he meditated his own destruction. But on a nearer view of the fatal
act, he shrunk back into himself, and recoiled with horror from its
execution. Without relinquishing his project, he never had the courage
to accomplish it. “It is in cases like these,” says Crichton, “that
energetic measures of coercion, and the effectual excitement of terror,
should lend their aid to the powers of medicine and regimen.”
In many cases of suicide, the act is preceded by a long train of
perverted reasoning. These individuals become taciturn, morose,
pusillanimous, and distrustful. The future presents itself to their
view under the most unfavourable aspect, and despair becomes painted
on their countenances. Their eyes become hollow; they complain of
sleeplessness, and are disturbed by frightful dreams. The bowels are
in an inactive state; the functions of the liver become to a certain
extent suspended. It is in this state that they contemplate the idea
of suicide; and the diaries which some have kept of their sensations
and thoughts disclose the various kinds of death which they have
contemplated and rejected, one after another, often for reasons the
most preposterous and ridiculous. It is singular that in these journals
they generally endeavour to hide their despondency and their mental
aberration, while their moral and intellectual weakness is sure to be
betrayed. They often accuse themselves of insanity, and bewail their
unhappy lot; others argue most ingeniously in favour of their meditated
suicide. Others again, subdued as it were by the force of the moral and
religious principles which they have imbibed, represent to themselves
that the act they contemplate is contrary to the moral end for which
man was created—fatal to the welfare and happiness of their families.
Then ensues a conflict in their breasts. If reason and religion
prevail, the project is abandoned,—sometimes abandoned altogether. If
otherwise, the suicide is committed. Falret knew the case of a woman
who exhibited a tendency to suicide, but who was delivered for a period
from the commission of the crime by the principles of religion in which
her mind had been educated. A long period elapsed before she could
reconcile herself to the act of suicide, and then she argued herself
into it by the following piece of sophistry:—“There are no general
rules without exceptions; and I am the precise exception in this
case: therefore I may commit suicide without violating my religious
principles.”
Having once conceived the idea of suicide, the mind is often rendered
so miserable in consequence of it, that the person rushes into the arms
of death in order to escape from the terrible state of anticipation.
Others meditate on the bloody deed for years. Rousseau, after drawing
a piteous portrait of his proscribed and solitary condition, and of
the state of his health, adds, “_Puisque mon corps n’est plus pour moi
qu’un embarras, un obstacle à mon repos, cherchons donc à m’en degager
le plus tôt que je pourrai_.”
_Tedium vitæ_, or _ennui_, is said to be a frequent cause of suicide.
We have heard of an Englishman who hanged himself in order to avoid the
trouble of pulling off and on his clothes. Goëthe knew a gardener, and
the overseer of some extensive pleasure-grounds, who once splenetically
exclaimed, “Shall I see these clouds for ever passing, then, from
east to west?” So singularly developed was this weariness of life,
this feeling of satiety, in one of our distinguished men, that it is
said of him that he viewed with dissatisfaction the return of spring,
and wished, by way of change, that everything would, for once, be red
instead of green.[32]
“—— Within that ample nich,
With every quaint device of splendour rich,
Yon phantom, who, from vulgar eyes withdrawn,
Appears to stretch in one eternal yawn:
Of empire here he holds the tottering helm,
Prime-minister in Spleen’s discordant realm,
The pillar of her spreading state, and more,
Her darling offspring, whom on earth she bore.
For, as on earth his wayward mother strayed,
Grandeur, with eyes of fire, her form surveyed,
And with strong passion starting from his throne,
Unloos’d the sullen queen’s reluctant zone.
From his embrace, conceived in moody joy,
Rose the round image of a bloated boy:
His nurse was, Indolence; his tutor, Pomp,
Who kept the child from every childish romp.
They rear’d their nursling to the bulk you see,
And his proud parents called their imp—_Ennui_.”
_Hayley’s Triumphs of Temper._
It is rare for an Englishman to commit suicide from ennui. The English
are different in this respect from the French people. The causes which
lead to suicide in this country, are those connected with sudden
reverse of fortune, or grievous disappointments, which are allowed to
prey upon the mind until the individual seeks relief in the arms of
death. In great commercial communities, where men may be reduced, in a
few minutes, from affluence to beggary; where the hopes and aspirations
of years are levelled in a moment to the dust, and the individual finds
himself exposed to the insulting pity of friends, and the searching
curiosity of the public, we need not feel surprise, when all these
circumstances rush upon a man’s mind in the sudden convulsion and
turbulence of its elements, that he should welcome the only escape from
the abyss into which he has been hurled.
It has been stated, by a competent authority, that the week following
the drawing of the last lottery in England, no less than fifty suicides
were committed!
_M. Gase_, in a memoir read before the _Academie Royale de Médecine_,
traces the increase of suicide in Paris to the spirit of gambling
which the Parisians so passionately indulge in. The extended system of
speculation in this country approximates in its pernicious effects on
the constitution to those which have been considered to result from
gambling. The following case, which was communicated to a popular
journal, by Dr. J. Johnson, forcibly illustrates how the constitution
may be undermined by rash, inconsiderate conduct, during the excitement
arising from temporary circumstances:—
One day, on the Stock Exchange, when the rumours of failings at home
and commotions abroad were producing such alarming vacillations in the
public funds that the whole property of a gentleman of high probity,
temperance, and respectability, was in momentary jeopardy, he found
himself in so terrible a state of nervous agitation that he was obliged
to leave the scene of confusion, and apply to wine, though quite
unaccustomed to more than a glass or two after dinner. To his utmost
surprise, the wine had no apparent effect, though he drank glass after
glass, in rapid succession, until he had finished a whole bottle.
Not the slightest inebriating influence was induced by this unusual
quantity taken before dinner. His nervous agitation was, however,
calmed, and he went back to the Exchange, and transacted business with
steadiness, composure, and equanimity. None of the ordinary effects
of wine were produced at the time, but a few days afterwards he was
seized with a severe attack of indigestion, a malady by which he had
never been previously affected. This case shews that although mental
agitation masks, or even prevents, the usual effects of wine, and
other stimulants, at the time, and thus enables, and indeed induces,
men to take more than under ordinary circumstances, yet the ulterior
effects are greatly worse on the constitution than if the stimulants
had produced the usual excitement at the moment of their reception into
the stomach. It is thus, we have no doubt, that the nervous system
of thousands in this country is ruined, and, in numerous cases, the
seeds of suicidal derangement sown, and that without the victims being
conscious of the channel through which they have been poisoned.
Defective education is a frequent cause of suicide. At the present
day, the ornamental has taken the place of the substantial; the showy
and specious, the situation of the solid and virtuous. The endowments
of the mind and cultivation of the heart are forced to yield to the
external accomplishments and graces of the body, and polished manners
are too generally preferred to sound morals. The importance of fashion
is inculcated in opposition to reason; religion is made to bow down
before the shrine of honour; and the fear of the world is taught to
supersede the fear of God. But what superstructure can be raised
on so sandy a foundation? It can support no incumbent weight; and,
in consequence, it cannot be deemed surprising that an inundation
of folly and vice, like a sweeping torrent, should bear down all
before it. The dignity of personal worth and character is a point
too little considered. Brilliant parts supersede sound judgment;
and disinterested virtue, integrity, and public spirit, are out of
character in a nation immersed in voluptuousness. Education of a
light and frivolous character leads to a vacuity of serious thoughts
and solid principles of conduct. Luxury and profligacy, in all ages,
have operated injuriously on the human mind. Cato the elder observes
that there could be no friendship in a man whose palate had quicker
sensations than his brain and heart. The man who has no internal
sources of enjoyment to fly to when others fail,—he whose happiness
consists in an indulgence in the pleasures of the senses, when these
ephemeral sources of gratification are removed, will, to avoid the
vacuum which is made in his existence, readily terminate his own life.
There cannot be a doubt but that the general diffusion of knowledge,
and the desire to place within the command of the humblest person
the advantages of education, have not a little tended to promote the
crime of suicide. It may be opposed to all our _à priori_ reasoning
to suppose that, in proportion as the intellect becomes expanded,
knowledge and civilization diffused, the desire to commit self-murder
would be engendered. It is an indisputable fact, that insanity, in
all its variations, is in a ratio to the refinement and civilization
of a country. “It is clearly proved,” says Brown, “that in Finéstre,
where the people are in a deplorable state of ignorance, and education
is entirely neglected, only twelve in a hundred of the inhabitants
being able to write or read, few suicides occur, at least only in
the proportion of one in 25,000. In Paris, that focus of all that is
brilliant and imposing in science and literature, the crime is of
common occurrence. In Coréze, where only twelve in the hundred can
read or write, one suicide in 47,000 occurs; and in the High Loire one
in 163,000. On the other hand, in Oise and Lower Seine, both places
in possession of the highest degree of general instruction, and of
the means of advancing in improvement, suicides occur in every 5000
or 9000 inhabitants. In the north of France, Catholicism has been
nearly extirpated, and there suicide and crime predominate; south
of the Loire, on the contrary, it still retains a strong hold of the
affections of the people, and there suicide, and its sinister crimes
or maladies are comparatively rare. This affords a noble proof that
the effects of Christianity, in whatever form and under whatever
circumstances, are peace and joy.”[33]
It is our firm belief that the increase of suicide in this country is
to a certain extent to be traced to the atrocious doctrines promulgated
with such zeal by the sect of modern infidels, who falsely denominate
themselves _Socialists_; a class whose opinions are subversive of all
morality and Christianity, and which sap the foundation of society
itself. It is natural to expect when such principles of infidelity are
inculcated, when men are taught to believe in the non-existence of a
God, and to consider they are not accountable agents, and are under the
operation of an organization over which they have no control, that they
should look with philosophic indifference on suicide, and consider it
as a justifiable mode of putting an end to the misery and wretchedness
engendered by their own opinions. Such doctrines must of necessity
be productive of great evil to society; and it becomes the duty of
every Christian and well-wisher to his fellow-men to hold them up to
reprobation. The opinions of Owen strike at the root of all order,
and of all virtue, social and public, and break down every barrier of
law and restraint, making the passions the only standard of right and
wrong—the animal appetites the only test of virtue and vice.
In the Bishop of Exeter’s able speech in the House of Lords, on
the subject of Socialism, he stated that cases of suicide under
circumstances of the most dreadful suffering had occurred, which had
been brought about by Mr. Owen’s pernicious doctrines. The learned
prelate related the particulars of the following case:—Mr. Parke,
a most respectable inhabitant of Wolverhampton, had an apprentice,
who had been in the habit of attending Socialists’ meetings, and
hearing their lectures. He purchased all their publications, and his
master’s shop not being of that kind to furnish them, he was obliged
to go elsewhere to obtain them. He dined and drank tea as usual with
Mr. Parke on the Sunday, and left after tea to attend St. George’s
Church. Not coming home at the usual hour, his master sat up for him
until 12 o’clock, when, as he had not returned, he concluded that his
relations had detained him. He was, however, found dead, in a sort of
lumber room, the next morning. Two bottles of poison were lying by his
side; the one which occasioned his death contained prussic acid; the
other, nux vomica: near him were lying four letters, one addressed to
his father, another to Mr. Parke, a third to the jury, and a fourth
containing his creed; in all of which he expressed his disbelief in the
Bible, considering it “the most dangerous book that ever was written,”
and if ever such a person as Jesus Christ lived, he was the weakest man
he ever heard of. In one of the letters he also stated that he had been
nurtured in superstition, (meaning, that he had been brought up as a
member of the church of England,) and that when he read Owen’s works
he “shuddered at their common sense.” He denied all belief in a future
state of retribution; and as he considered apprenticeship slavery, he
thought it more prudent to suffer pain for a moment than to endure six
years’ servitude. He earnestly entreated the jury not to bring in a
verdict of insanity.
It appears from a letter to the Bishop of Exeter, written by the
unfortunate youth’s uncle, that he had been from infancy an exceedingly
lively boy; between him and his parents the most glowing affection, as
well as the most boundless confidence, existed; but the fatal poison
of Socialism changed a confiding heart into a cold concentration of
selfishness. After the verdict of the jury, the uncle declared aloud,
before a crowded room, in a most vehement manner, that, were he in the
presence of the Queen, he would proclaim Owen as the murderer of his
nephew.
The indifference with which self-murder is looked at in Germany is
to be ascribed in a great measure to the popular productions of that
country. We are reluctant to denounce as undoubted causes of suicide
the works of men of splendid talents; but in such a case it would be
wrong, it would be criminal, to mince the matter, and plead any excuse
for so detestable a work as Werter, which has unhinged the minds of
thousands, before they were aware of its impoisoned and insidious
tendency. That it is the work of a man of genius only makes its
blackening influence the stronger; as the fascination of the style,
and the intense interest of the narrative, operate like an infernal
spell to smooth the road to self-destruction. Its leading theme is,
that human passions, and particularly love, are immediately inspired by
Heaven; and that it would be wrong—nay, that it is impossible—to resist
them; and consequently, if a lover meets with disappointment, his only
virtuous course is suicide, which is triumphantly catalogued among the
virtues, as it was by the heathen morality of the ancients.
This work, together with Foscolo’s imitation of it, the “_Ultime
Lettere di Jacopo Ortis_,” and all publications of a similar character,
ought to be repudiated by every sound thinking man. Resistance to
the dictates of passion, when it prompts to crime and suicide, is
a most deadly sin against Werterism; whilst, obeying the passions
to the letter, even if they incite to criminal love or self-murder,
gives to its disciple the stamp of one of the virtuous who have
courageously braved the laws of good order, fearlessly dared to trample
under foot all the commands of God and man, and stood forth as the
redoubted champions of human supremacy and the glorious right of
self-destruction. Such are the principles of the miscreants who wish to
prove that suicide is a virtue; and, with the sentiments found in the
pages of Werter, they rush headlong and unthinkingly into a deep and
awful futurity.
It is not generally known that Goëthe, the author of the work alluded
to, attempted suicide. He considered the death of the Emperor Otho as
worthy of imitation. In contemplating the feelings which influenced
that monarch, he says he convinced himself that if he could not proceed
as Otho had done, he was not entitled to resolve on renouncing life. He
adds, “By this conviction, I saved myself from the purpose, or indeed,
more properly speaking, from the whim, of suicide. Among a considerable
collection of arms, I possessed a costly well-ground dagger. This I
laid down nightly by my side; and, before extinguishing the light,
I tried whether I could succeed (_à la Otho_) in sending the sharp
point an inch or two deep into my heart. But as I truly never could
succeed, I at last took to laughing at myself, threw away all these
hypochondriacal crotchets, and determined to live.”
In the melancholy case of Hackman and Miss Ray, the following is the
substance of a correspondence which passed between them on the subject
of Werter. Hackman was refused the sight of this book by Miss R.,
who had a copy of the French translation, because, as she expresses
herself, she saw too great a similarity between her lover and Werter,
not only in point of situation, but in the impetuosity of their
tempers. “The book you mention,” says Miss R., “is just the only book
you should never read. On my knees, I beg you never to read it! Perhaps
you have read it; perhaps—I am distracted! Heaven only knows to whom
I may be writing this letter.” To this, Hackman, who was in Ireland,
replies: “Nonsense! to say it will make me unhappy, or that I shall
not be able to read it. Must I pistol myself because a thick-blooded
German has been fool enough to set the example, or because a German
novelist has feigned such a story.” Werter was read, and the effect was
most injurious on his mind. Whilst confined in Newgate, he wrote the
following letter:—“Among my papers you will see, my friend, some lines
I wrote on reading Goëthe’s Werter, translated from German into French,
which, whilst I was in Ireland, Miss R. refused to lend me. When I
returned to England, I made her let me read it. But I never shewed her
these lines, for fear they should make her uneasy. Unhappy Werter!
still less pretence hadst thou for suicide than I. After finally
seeing thy Charlotte married to another—marrying her thyself—hadst
thou a right over thy existence, because she was not thy wife? Yet
wast thou less barbarous than I; for thou didst not seek to die in her
presence,—but neither didst thou doubt her love. We can neither of us
hope for pardon!”
The lines were these, supposed to be found, after Werter’s death, upon
the ground by the pistol—
“If chance some kindred spirit should relate
To future times unhappy Werter’s fate;
Should in some pitying, almost pardoning age,
Consign my sorrows to some weeping page;
And should the affecting page be haply read
By some new Charlotte—mine will then be dead.
(Yes; she shall die—sole solace of my love!
And we shall meet—for so she said—above.)
O Charlotte! (Martha—by whatever name,
Thy faithful Werter hands thee down to fame,)
O be thou sure thy Werter never knows
The fatal story of my kindred woes!
O do not, fair one,—by my shocking end
I charge thee!—do not let thy feeling friend
Shed his sad sorrows o’er my tearful tale:
Example, spite of precept, may prevail.”
It may be mentioned, as a fact corroborating the opinion, that
productions of an infidel character have a tendency to originate a
disposition to suicide by weakening the moral principles; that when
the celebrated and notorious Tom Paine’s “Age of Reason” was first
published, the papers of the day recorded many cases of self-murder
committed by persons who avowed that the idea never entered their heads
until they had become familiar with the works of the above-mentioned
writer. An individual, zealous in the diffusion of Paine’s principles,
purchased several hundred copies of his work, which he most
industriously circulated, gratuitously, in quarters where he knew the
doctrines of Christianity had already obtained a footing. A copy of the
“Age of Reason,” elegantly bound, was received by a young lady who was
acting in the capacity of a governess in the family of a gentleman of
great respectability. The lady had no conception from whom the present
came, and having heard of the book, she felt a curiosity to become
acquainted with the doctrines which it inculcated. The circumstance of
her having received the book was not mentioned to any member of the
family with whom she resided; and in the evening, when she retired to
her own room, she read it with great attention. The family noticed,
in a few weeks, a perceptible alteration in the appearance of the
young lady. She became extremely thoughtful and contemplative. Her
health also appeared sensibly affected. The mother of the children
whom she was instructing took advantage of the first opportunity of
speaking to her on the subject. She expressed herself very unhappy in
her mind, but refused to disclose the cause of her mental uneasiness.
It was thought she had formed an attachment, and was suffering from
the effects of disappointed affection. She was questioned on these
points, but persisted in concealing the circumstances which had
been operating so injuriously on her mind. The mental dejection
increased, and the result was, an alarming attack of nervous fever, of
which she was cured by an able physician with much difficulty. When
convalescent, she was noticed one day busily employed in writing, and
when interrupted, shewed great anxiety to secrete the piece of paper
on which she had been transcribing her thoughts. In the course of the
evening of the same day, a deep groan was heard to issue from her
room. The servant immediately entered, when, to her great horror, she
saw the governess on the floor with a terrible gash in her throat.
Assistance was directly obtained, but, alas! not in time to save the
life of the poor unfortunate girl. On searching her desk, a sheet of
paper was discovered, on which she had disclosed her reasons for the
rash act. She said, that from the moment she read the “Age of Reason,”
her mind became unsettled. Her previous religious impressions were
undermined; in proportion as she was induced to imbibe the doctrines
of Tom Paine, so she became miserable and wretched. From one error
she fell into another, until she actually believed that death was
annihilation; and although she appeared firmly rooted in this belief,
she expressed herself horrified beyond all expression at the bare idea
of dissolution. For some time prior to her illness, she had felt an
impulse to sacrifice her life, but had not the courage to perform the
act. After her recovery, she felt the impulse renewed with increased
strength, until, with a hope of escaping from an accumulation of misery
which was weighing her to the earth, she determined to commit suicide.
She also, in the document referred to, asked her friends to forgive
her, and to take warning from her fate.
That many rush into suicide in order to escape the just and legal
punishment of their crimes cannot be a matter of doubt. Many under such
circumstances are influenced by a fear of public exposure, and prefer
death to the idea of being compelled to undergo the ordeal of a trial
in a court of justice. The following case is but the type of many that
could be related:—
A young man of family, the Hon. Mr. ——, staying at an inn in Portsmouth,
previously to sailing for India, where he was going out as an
aide-de-camp to General——, with a party of friends, also officers,
joined company at supper one evening with Mr. Bradbury, the clown of
Covent Garden Theatre, a person of very gentlemanlike exterior and
manners, and ambitious of the society of gentlemen. He was in the habit
of using a very magnificent and curious snuff-box, and on this occasion
it was much admired by the party, and handed round for inspection from
one to the other. Mr. Bradbury soon after left the inn, and retired
to his lodging, when he missed his box, and immediately returned to
inquire for it. The gentlemen with whom he had spent the evening had
all retired to bed; but he left word with the porter to mention to the
officers early the next day that he had left the box, and to request
them to restore it to him when found.
The next morning, Mr. Bradbury again hastened to the inn, anxious
to recover his property, and met on his way the Hon. Mr. ——, and
communicated his loss to him; when he was informed by that gentleman
that a similar circumstance had occurred to himself, his bed-room
having been robbed the night before of his gold watch, chain, and
seals, &c., and that he was on his way to a Jew in the town to apprize
him of the robbery, in order that if such articles should be offered
for sale, he might stop them and detain the person who presented them.
This was very extraordinary! Mr. Bradbury then met the other gentlemen
of the party, and was told by them that their rooms had also been
robbed, one of bank notes to a great amount, another of a gold watch,
&c.
The Hon. Mr. —— was violently infuriated by his loss; and as he was
bound to sail from Portsmouth when the ship was ready, he naturally
dreaded being compelled to depart without his property. He hinted,
too, that he had certain suspicions of certain people. An officer
was sent for from London. This man came down promptly, to the great
satisfaction of the Hon. Mr. ——; and after searching the house and
their trunks, Rivett (the officer) addressed the gentlemen, observing,
that there was yet a duty unperformed, and which was a painful one to
him—he must search the _persons_ of all present, and as the Hon.
Mr. ——’s trunks had been the first to be inspected, perhaps he would
allow him to examine him at once. To this he agreed; but the next moment0
he was observed to look very ill. Rivett was proceeding to search
him, as a matter of course, when he requested that everybody would
leave the room, except the officer and Mr. Bradbury, which request
was immediately complied with. He then fell upon his knees, entreated
for mercy, and placed Mr. Bradbury’s box in his hand, begging him to
forgive him and spare his life. Rivett upon this proceeded to search
him, but he resisted; the object was effected by force, and the
greater part of the property found that had been stolen in the house.
The officer, conceiving that he had not got the whole of the bank
notes, inquired of Mr. —— where the remainder was; when he pointed to
a pocket-book which was under the foot of the bed; and while Rivett
relaxed his hold of him, and was in the act of stooping to pick up
the book, Mr. —— caught up a razor and cut his throat. Rivett and Mr.
Bradbury seized an arm each, and forced the razor from him; but he
was so determined on self-destruction, that he twisted his head about
violently in different ways, in order to make the wound larger and
more fatal. To prevent him from continuing this, he was braced up with
linen round his neck so tightly that he could not move it. A surgeon
of the town, with two assistants, came, and after seeing the wound,
gave it as their opinion that it was possible for him to recover, and
by the assistance of some powerful soldiers holding him, they dressed
the wound. His clothes were then cut off, and he was carried down
stairs into another room. During this operation he coughed violently;
but whether naturally or by design, to make his wound worse, was not
ascertained. It had, however, the effect of setting his wound bleeding
again, and the dressing was obliged to be repeated.
The sequel of this distressing case was of an equally melancholy
character.
Poor Mr. Bradbury was standing close to the unfortunate young man when
he committed the sudden attempt upon his own life. The horror of the
act, and the shocking appearance of his lacerated throat, the blood
from which flowed out upon Mr. Bradbury, in short, this heart-rending
result of the previous agitation and discovery, acted upon the
sensibility of Mr. Bradbury to such an extent as to deprive him of
reason. This fact was noticeable two days after the above scene, by
his entering a church, and after the service was ended, going into the
vestry, and requesting the clergyman to pray for him, as he intended
to cut his throat! This distemper of mind was not too great at first
to admit of partial control; but it daily increased, and ultimately
caused him to be placed under restraint.[34]
A woman, about thirty-six years of age, who had been well educated,
but whose conduct had not been exempt from some irregularities, in
consequence of intemperance and manifold disappointments, became
affected with madness. She was by turns furious and melancholic, and
conceived she had murdered one of her children, for which she ought to
suffer death. She detailed the manner in which she had destroyed the
child, and the motives which actuated her, so circumstantially, and
with so much plausibility and feeling, that if it had not been known
that her child was living, the physician under whose care she was
placed might have been deceived. By her own hands she had repeatedly
endeavoured to terminate her existence, but was prevented by constant
vigilance and due restraint. Her disposition to suicide was afterwards
relinquished; but she still persisted that for the murder of the child
she ought to suffer death, and requested to be sent to Newgate, in
order to be tried, and undergo the sentence of the law; indeed, she
appeared to derive consolation from the hope of becoming a public
example, and expiating her supposed crime on the scaffold. While in
this state, and with a hope of convincing her of its safety, the child
was brought to visit her. When she beheld it, there was a temporary
burst of maternal affection; she kissed it, and for a few moments
appeared to be delighted: but a look of suspicion quickly succeeded,
and this was shortly followed by a frown of indignation, which rendered
the removal of the child a measure of wholesome necessity. Perhaps
in no instance was the buoyancy of madness more conspicuous over
reason, recollection, and feeling. She insisted they had attempted to
impose on her a strange child, which bore a faint resemblance to her
own; however, by such subterfuges she was not to be deceived; she
had strangled the child until life had totally departed, and it was
not in the order of nature that it should exist again. The effect of
this interview was an exasperation of her disorder: she became more
cunning and malignant, and her desire for an ignominious death was
augmented. To render this more certain, and accelerate her projected
happiness, she enticed into her apartment a young female patient to
whom she appeared to be attached, and having previously platted some
threads of her bed-quilt into a cord, she fixed it round the neck of
the young woman, and proceeded to strangle her. Fortunately, some
person entered the room and unloosed the cord in time to save her.
When this unhappy maniac was questioned concerning the motive which
induced her to attempt the destruction of a person for whom she had
manifested kindness, she very calmly replied, that as the murder of her
own child was disbelieved, she wished to exhibit a convincing proof
of the ferocity of her nature, that she might instantly be conveyed
to Newgate and hanged, which she desired as the greatest blessing.
With considerable satisfaction, we may add, that in a few months,
notwithstanding her derangement had been of three years’ duration, this
woman perfectly recovered, and for a considerable time performed the
duties of an important and respectable office.[35]
The great increase of the crime of suicide has been referred by many
able physicians of the present day to the political excitement to which
the minds of the people have been exposed of late years. In despotic
countries, suicide and insanity are seldom heard of: the passions
are checked by the nature of the government; the imagination is not
elevated to an unhealthy standard; every man is compelled to follow the
calling in life to which he is born, and for which he has capacity;
and on this account the evil and corrupt dispositions of the mind are,
to a certain extent, kept in abeyance. In republican governments, the
greatest latitude is allowed to the turbulent passions; all mankind
are theoretically placed on an equality; the man whose “talk is of
bullocks” considers himself as fit to carry on the complicated business
of government as he whose education, associations, and experience tend
to qualify him for the duties of a legislator.
In proportion as men are exposed to the influence of causes which
excite the passions, so will they become predisposed to mental
derangement in all its forms. The French and American revolutions
increased considerably the crime of suicide. It has been said that
during the “reign of terror” statistical evidence does not shew that
self-murder was more common than at any other period. Perhaps the
alleged unfrequency of suicide may be attributed to the circumstance
of the French people having been so busy in killing others that they
had no time to think of killing themselves. More than the average
number of suicides may not have really occurred during the crisis of
the Revolution, but it is an undisputed fact that, both before and
after that political convulsion, self-destruction prevailed to an
alarming extent. Disappointed hopes, wounded pride and vanity, blighted
ambition, loss of property, death of friends, disgust of life, all
came into active operation after the turbulence and bloodshed of the
Revolution had somewhat subsided: these passions, working upon minds
easily excited, and not under the benign influence of religion, it was
almost natural to expect that great recklessness of life should be
exhibited. Such facts demonstrate to us the folly of uselessly exciting
the passions of the people, and raising in their minds exaggerated
expectations from political changes.
The tendency of refined sensibility to become wound up in a paroxysm,
terminating in suicidal attempts, is strikingly illustrated in a case
reported by Dr. Burrows:—
“A gentleman of a family of rank, and distinguished for talent, married
early in life the object of his most ardent affections. He possessed
extreme sensibility, with a most highly cultivated and refined mind.
It may be remarked, as a constitutional peculiarity, that his natural
pulse did not exceed forty beats in a minute. When anything suddenly
occurred to agitate him, it produced an attack of fever, and his pulse
was accelerated in an astonishing degree. Though in ordinary affairs
he was a man of firm resolution and great spirit, yet when this fit
happened, he was seized with such a panic, or impulse, that he knew
not what he did, and he was unnerved for days. His lady being well
acquainted with the infirmities of his constitution, rendered him,
by her good sense and soothing, a happier man than he had previously
been. Most unfortunately, she died in the first year of her marriage.
His grief at her loss was excessive; and even when time had abated
its poignancy, he continued very miserable. His thoughts were always
reverting to the virtues of her whom he had lost, and the comparative
happiness he had enjoyed in her society. He tried everything to divert
his melancholy; but these impulses would follow reflection; and then
his ideas adverted to self-destruction. He reasoned with himself
upon the subject till, he confessed, he had become an infidel in
religion, and could no longer view the act as wicked. I had,” said
Dr. Burrows, “an opportunity of knowing the exact state of his mind
during this struggle, from perusing some notes which he had written,
describing it. He expressed himself with the utmost tenderness and
affection with respect to his departed wife, and of his intention of
soon joining her by a voluntary death; not, however, in heaven, but
in Elysium. One night, after having been occupied in reading to some
dear relations, and apparently much enjoying the subject, he retired
to his chamber. He undressed, and dismissed his valet. His gloomy
reflections recurred. One of these strange impulses came over him.
He seized a pistol, and discharged it: it failed of effect. He fired
another: he wounded himself severely, but not mortally; neither was
the effusion of blood great. He then called for assistance. Little
constitutional disturbance followed, and the wound readily healed. It
was during the time he was confined from the effects of this wound
that Dr. Burrows was consulted. He could not detect the slightest
aberration of the mind, nor was there a trait in his countenance of
a propensity to commit suicide. He freely conversed on his past and
present situation and opinions; was perfectly ready to submit to any
supervision Dr. Burrows might advise, or plan that might be suggested,
to bring him into a better and happier state of mind. By degrees, he
acquired more composure. He afterwards travelled for a year and a
half on the Continent. Upon his return, he seemed much improved in
general appearance. Nothing, however, conquered his constitutional
susceptibility.”
That the LOVE OF NOTORIETY often impels to suicide there cannot be
a doubt. The man who was killed by attaching himself to a rocket,
and he who threw himself into the crater of Mount Vesuvius, were, no
doubt, stimulated by a desire for posthumous fame. Shortly after the
suicide at the Monument, a boy made an unsuccessful endeavour to poison
himself; and on being questioned as to his motives, he said, “I wished
to be talked of, like the woman who killed herself at the Monument!”
How strange and anomalous are the motives which influence human actions!
Many are induced to think of suicide from the circumstance of their
being conscious that they labour under an hereditary disposition to
insanity. We know the case of a lady whose mind has been dwelling upon
the subject of suicide for some time, and she has told her friends
repeatedly that she feels assured she shall commit some rash act. “The
disposition to suicide and insanity is in the family, and how can I
fight against my physical organization?” Such is the mode of reasoning
she adopts whenever urgently persuaded to banish from her mind the
horrid sensations which are embittering her life.
A gentleman, in full possession of his reasoning faculties, and a
man of considerable powers of intellect, said to us one day, in a
conversation we had with him on the subject of suicide, “You may
probably smile when I tell you that, happy and contented as I appear
to be in my mind at this moment, I feel assured I shall fall by my
own hands.” Upon our asking him why he thought so, he replied, that a
relation of his had killed himself some years previously, and that he
laboured under an hereditary predisposition which nothing would subdue.
A woman, thirty-five years of age, placed herself, in 1821, under the
care of M. Falret, for symptoms of phthisis. When nineteen years old,
the death of an uncle, by his own hands, made a deep impression on her
mind. She heard that insanity was hereditary, and the idea pursued
her that she should one day fall into this melancholy condition. She
confessed her apprehensions only to the priests, who endeavoured to
dissipate the mournful impression. In this state she continued for two
years, when the death of her reputed father, also by suicide, riveted
the conviction on her mind that her own doom was sealed. She was
convinced that _her blood was corrupted_; and this idea appeared to be
confirmed by other circumstances. Tortured by this notion, she resolved
to drown herself. After leaving a letter in her chamber, apprising her
friends of the manner of her meditated death, she plunged into the
river; but being immediately taken out, she was restored to life. The
night following this attempt, she was harassed with a pain in her head,
and after a short sleep, awoke, incapable of recognising any of the
friends about her. She was evidently delirious, but made no allusion
to her former melancholy impressions. Although previously religious
and well-behaved, she uttered nothing but obscenities. This delirious
excitement continued three days, and was succeeded by melancholy and a
disposition to suicide. Headache again came on, with nausea and bilious
vomitings, which, however, soon subsided. She became considerably
emaciated after this, and looked the picture of despair; in fact, she
could not look into the glass at herself without terror. Once more she
wished the aid of religion, which afforded her some consolation, but
was insufficient to dissipate entirely her sufferings. Meanwhile, her
mother revealed to her the secret that her real father was still alive;
and, after considerable scepticism on the point, she consented to an
interview with him. The physical resemblance was so striking, that
all doubt was instantly removed from her mind. From that moment all
idea of suicide vanished; her spirits and health became progressively
re-established. Fourteen years, says Falret, have now elapsed since the
attempt at self-destruction. She is the mother of three children, and,
during her married state, has been reduced to the greatest penury and
distress; but has never, since the period alluded to, entertained the
remotest idea of suicide; on the contrary, she has proved an exemplary
wife and affectionate parent, having the full possession of her
intellectual faculties.[36]
Everything that tends to throw the mind off its healthy balance will,
of course, predispose to suicide. Excessive devotion of the attention
to any particular branch of study, or to business, often originates
cerebral disease and suicidal mania. In alluding to the injurious
effects of excessive study, Marcilius Ficinus, as quoted by Burton,
justly observes—“Other men look to their tools: a painter will wash
his pencils; a smith will look to his hammer, anvil, and forge; a
husbandman will mend his plough-irons and grind his hatchet, if it
be dull; a falconer or huntsman will have an especial care of his
hawks, hounds, horses, and dogs; a musician will string and unstring
his lute,—only scholars neglect that instrument (their _brain_ and
_spirit_, I mean) which they daily use, and by which they range over
all the world, and which by much study is consumed.”
The melancholy case of William Eyton Tooke, Esq., who committed
suicide some years ago, will illustrate the operation of the cause
referred to.
“This gentleman,” says a relative, in a letter to the _Times_
newspaper, explanatory of the causes of Mr. T.’s death, “from a very
early period of life, devoted himself to the most abstruse inquiries
into moral and political philosophy, and has thus fallen a victim
to the absorbing and exclusive nature of the pursuit.” One of the
witnesses who was examined at the inquest stated, that the deceased
was of an exceedingly studious turn, and had for many months past been
directing his attention particularly to commercial subjects. This
subject was his constant study, and the theme of his conversation. It
seemed to engross the whole of his attention, and his health, both
bodily and mentally, was evidently impaired by it. A short period
before his death, he was heard frequently to say, placing his hand upon
his head, “This subject is too much for me; my head is distracted!” It
was under the influence of this over-excited state of brain that he
committed suicide.
It has been observed, in another part of this work, that many commit
suicide from the notion that death from natural causes is attended
with considerable agony.[37] This is the generally received notion,
but it is an erroneous one. Those who have often witnessed the act of
dying allow that it is not a painful process. In some delicate and
irritable persons, a kind of struggle is indeed sometimes excited when
respiration becomes difficult; but more frequently the dying obviously
suffer nothing, and express no uneasiness. Dr. Ferriar says, “In those
who die of chronic diseases, the gradation is slow and distinct.
Consumptive patients are sometimes in a dying state for several
days; they appear at such times to suffer little, but to languish for
complete dissolution; nay, I have known them express great uneasiness
when they have been recalled from the commencement of insensibility,
by the cries of their friends, or the efforts of the attendants to
alleviate pain. In observing persons in this situation, I have always
been impressed with an idea that the approach of natural death produces
a sensation similar to that of falling asleep. The disturbance of
respiration is the only apparent source of uneasiness to the dying; and
sensibility seems to be impaired just in proportion to the decrease of
that function. Besides, both the impressions of present objects and
those recalled by memory are influenced by the extreme debility of the
patient, whose wish is for absolute rest. I could never see the close
of life under these circumstances without recollecting those beautiful
lines of Spencer—
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas,
Ease after war, death after life, doth greatly please.”
Professor Hufeland, on the subject of death, observes, “that many fear
death less than the operation of dying.” People, he continues, “form
the most singular conceptions of the last struggle—the separation
of the soul from the body, and the like; but this is all void of
foundation. No man certainly ever felt what death is; and insensibly
as we enter life, equally insensibly do we leave it. The beginning
and the end are here united. My proofs are as follows:—First, man can
have no sensation of dying; for to die means nothing more than to lose
the vital powers; and it is the vital power which is the medium of
communication between the soul and the body. In proportion as the vital
power decreases, we lose the power of sensation and consciousness; and
we cannot lose life without, at the same time, or rather before, losing
our vital sensation, which requires the assistance of the tenderest
organs. We are taught also by experience that all those who ever
passed through the first stage of death, and were again brought to
life, unanimously asserted that they felt nothing of dying, but sunk at
once into a state of insensibility.[38]
“Let us not be led into a mistake by the convulsive throbs, the
rattling in the throat, and the apparent pangs of death, which are
exhibited by many persons when in a dying state. These symptoms are
painful only to the spectators, and not to the dying, who are not
sensible of them. The case here is the same as if one, from the
dreadful contortions of a person in an epileptic fit, should form a
conclusion respecting his internal feelings: from what affects us so
much, he suffers nothing.
“Let one always consider life, as it really is, a mean state, which
is not an object itself, but a medium for obtaining an object, as the
multifarious imperfections of it sufficiently prove: as a period of
trial and preparation, a fragment of existence, through which we are to
be fitted for, and transmitted to, other periods. Can the idea, then,
of really making this transition—of ascending to another from this mean
state, this doubtful, problematical existence, which never affords
complete satisfaction—ever excite terror? With courage and confidence
we may, therefore, resign ourselves to the will of that Supreme Being
who, without our consent, placed us in this sublunary theatre, and give
up to his management the future direction of our fate.
“Remembrance of the past, of that circle of friends who were nearest,
and always will be dearest to our hearts, and who, as it were, now
smile upon us with a friendly look of invitation from that distant
country beyond the grave, will also tend very much to allay the fear of
death.”
We recollect attending the case of a young lady labouring under a
disease which produced extreme mental and physical suffering, who
exhibited, a short period before her death, some singular phenomena.
This lady had not been seen to smile, or to shew any indication of
freedom from pain, for some weeks prior to dissolution. Two hours
before she died, the symptoms became suddenly altered in character.
Every sign of pain vanished; her limbs, from being subject to violent
spasmodic contractions, became natural in their appearance; her face,
which had been distorted, was calm and tranquil. All her friends
supposed that the crisis of the disease had arrived, and that it had
taken a favourable turn, and delight and joy were manifested by all
who were allowed access to her chamber, and who were made acquainted
with the change which had taken place. She conversed most freely,
and smiled as if in a happy condition. We must confess that the case
puzzled us, and that we were for a short time induced to entertain
sanguine hopes of her ultimate recovery. But, alas! how fragile are
all our best hopes! For two hours we sat by the bed, watching the
patient’s countenance with great anxiety. Every unfavourable indication
had vanished; her face was illuminated by the sweetest smile that ever
played on the human countenance. During the conversation we had with
her, she gave a slight start, and said, in a tone of great earnestness,
“Did you see that?” Her face became suddenly altered; an expression
of deep anguish fixed itself upon her features, and her eyes became
more than ordinarily brilliant. We replied, “What?” She answered, “Oh!
you must have seen it. How terrible it looked as it glided over the
bed. Again I see it,” she vociferated, with an unearthly scream, “I am
ready!” and, without a groan, her spirit took its flight!
Dr. Symonds recollects to have heard a young man, who had been but
little conversant with any but civic scenes, discourse most eloquently,
a short period before his death, of sylvan glen and bosky dells,
purling streams and happy valleys, as if his spirit had been already
luxuriating itself in the gardens of Elysium. Nothing more frequently
prognosticates the approach of death than the appearance of a spectre
at the bed-side of the patient. In some cases, the mind, when in a happy
frame, dwells with delight on the contemplation of the last struggle,
and has a foretaste of that heavenly joy which is the reward of a
well-spent life. The spirits of good men and of angels are said to
hover round the departing soul of the Christian, as if waiting to bear
it to the mansions of bliss:—
“Saw you not even now a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?
They promised me eternal happiness;
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
I am not worthy yet to wear.”
KING HENRY VIII.
Many have, under the notion that the fear of death is beneficial to the
mind, done their best to keep the idea constantly before them.
“If I must die, I’ll snatch at anything
That may but mind me of my latest breath;
Death’s-heads, graves, knells, blacks, tombs, all these shall bring
Into my soul such useful thoughts of death,
That this sable king of fears
Shall not catch me unawares.”
Young raised about him an artificial idea of death; he darkened his
sepulchral study, placing a skull on his table by lamp-light. At the
end of an avenue in his garden was placed on a seat an admirable
chiaro-oscuro, which when approached presented only a painted surface,
with an inscription, alluding to the deception of the things of this
world.
Dr. J. Donne, the celebrated English divine and poet, is said to have
longed for the hour of dissolution. Previous to his death, he gave
instructions for a monument, which his friends had declared their
intention to erect to his memory. A carver made him in wood the figure
of an urn, and having secured the services of a painter, the Doctor
ordered the urn to be brought into his chamber. Having taken off his
clothes, he procured a white sheet, which was put on him, and tied with
knots at his hands and feet. In this state he stood upon the urn, with
his eyes closed, and a portion of the sheet turned aside in order to
shew his lean, pale, and death-like face. In this posture, the painter
sketched him; and when the monument was finished, it was placed by his
bed-side, and was hourly the source of contemplation until his death.
The “lightening up before death,” so often perceptible, is but the
result of venous blood being sent to the brain. When respiration
becomes imperfect, the blood does not undergo the proper chemical
change in the lungs (arterialization), and its effect on the sentient
organ is such as is occasionally witnessed prior to dissolution.
Abernethy considers the sensations of the dying similar to those
experienced by persons labouring under delirium. He relates the case
of a man who appeared, during his delirious state, to meet with old
acquaintances. The companions of his youthful days flocked once more
around him—old associations were revived. “How are you, my dear
fellow?” he exclaimed. “It is long since we met. Give us your fist, my
hearty. Now, that is a good joke; I never heard a better. Ah! ah! ah!”
We had once the painful duty of watching the expiring struggles of
a man whose life had been one long career of vice and debauchery.
His death was truly appalling. It was evident, from the expressions
which escaped him when dying, that his mind had a vivid conception
of the scenes in which he had played so conspicuous a part. “Now for
the dice!” he exclaimed, with the fury of a maniac. “That’s mine! No!
all, all is gone! More wine, d—— you; more wine! Oh! how they rattle!
Fiends, fiends, assail me! I say, you cheat! the cards are marked! Now
the chains rattle! O death! O death!” and with a terrific groan he
breathed his last.
Among the causes which operate in producing the disposition to commit
suicide, we must not omit to mention those connected with erroneous
religious notions. M. Falret justly remarks, that the religious system
of the Druids, Odin, and Mahomet, by inspiring a contempt for death,
have made many suicides. The man who believes that death is an eternal
sleep, scorns to hold up against calamity, and prefers annihilation.
The sceptic also often frees himself by self-destruction from the agony
of doubting. The maxim of the Stoics, that man should live only so long
as he ought, not so long as he is able, is, we may observe, the very
parent of suicide. The Brahmin, looking on death as the very entrance
into life, and thinking a natural death dishonourable, is eager at all
times to get rid of life. The Epicureans and Peripatetics ridiculed
suicide, as being death caused by fear of death. M. Falret, however,
goes perhaps too far when he asserts that the noble manner in which the
gladiators died in public, not only familiarized the Romans with death,
but rendered the thoughts of it rather agreeable than otherwise.
Misinterpretations of passages of scripture will sometimes lead those
who are piously inclined to commit suicide. M. Gillet hung himself
at the age of seventy-five, having left in his own handwriting the
following apology:—“Jesus Christ has said, that when a tree is old and
can no longer bear fruit, it is good that it should be destroyed.”
(He had more than once attempted his life before the fatal act.) Dr.
Burrows attended a nobleman who, for fear of being poisoned, though
he pretended it was in imitation of our Saviour’s fast, took nothing
but strawberries and water for three weeks, and these in very moderate
quantities. He never voluntarily abandoned his resolution. He was at
length compelled to take some nutriment, but not until inanition had
gone too far; and he died completely attenuated. When sound religious
principles produce a struggle in the mind which is beginning to
aberrate, the contest generally ends in suicide.
Some murder themselves to get rid of the horrid thoughts of suicide;
whilst others brood over them like Rousseau, for months and for years,
and at length perpetrate the very action which they dread. A countryman
of Rousseau’s, who advocated suicide as a duty, and who spent the
greater part of a long life in writing a large folio volume to prove
the soundness of his doctrine, thought it his duty, after he had
completed his work, to give a practical illustration of his principles,
and, accordingly, at the age of seventy, threw himself into the Lake of
Geneva, and was drowned.
It may appear strange that religion, the greatest blessing bestowed
by Heaven on man, should ever prove a cause of one of his severest
calamities. But perhaps it would be more accurate to impute such
unhappy effects to fanaticism, or to the total want of religion.
Instances very frequently occur in practice in which patients have
appeared, some suddenly, and others gradually, to be seized with
a species of religious horror, despairing of salvation, asserting
that they had committed sins which never could be forgiven, who had
never previously appeared to be under religious impressions. Some of
these have been visited by divines of various denominations, and been
induced to hear sermons and read books well calculated to dispel gloomy
apprehensions, and excite religious hope and confidence. With some
this has succeeded, especially when conjoined with medical aid; but
it has been observed, that in the cases of those who have recovered,
the patients have _emerged_ precisely as they _immerged_; for as they
before were unconcerned about religious matters, so they remained
after their recovery; thus the indisposition has been very erroneously
imputed to religion when it has no kind of affinity to, or concern
with it. Such cases almost invariably exhibit the same symptoms, which
generally turn on these points—despair of temporal support, or despair
of final salvation. But the medical practitioner, and not the divine,
is the proper person to be consulted in such cases; and, however the
mind may be affected in them, the patient is to be relieved by means
of medicine. It may be added, that the agonies of mind under which
some persons labour who are called fanatically mad arise from a sense
of moral turpitude, independent of any peculiar religious tenets or
opinions.
The true doctrines of Christianity, when properly inculcated, never
excite a gloomy state of mind. “To be religious,” says South, “it is
not necessary to be dull.” Cowper (perhaps, however, the most miserable
and melancholy of men) beautifully says—
“True piety is cheerful as the day,
Will weep indeed, and heave a pitying groan,
For others’ woes, but smile upon her own.”