Memory, like a beauty that is always present to hear her-self
flattered, is flattered by every one. But the absent and silent goddess,
Forgetfulness, has no votaries, and is never thought of: yet we owe her
much. She is the goddess of ease, though not of pleasure.
When the mind is like a room hung with black, and every corner of it
crowded with the most horrid images imagination can create, this kind
speechless goddess of a maid, Forgetfulness, is following us night
and day with her opium wand, and gently touching first one, and then
another, benumbs them into rest, and at last glides them away with the
silence of a departing shadow. It is thus the tortured mind is restored
to the calm condition of ease, and fitted for happiness.
How dismal must the picture of life appear to the mind in that dreadful
moment when it resolves on darkness, and to die! One can scarcely
believe such a choice was possible. Yet how many of the young and
beautiful, timid in every thing else, and formed for delight, have shut
their eyes upon the world, and made the waters their sepulchral bed! Ah,
would they in that crisis, when life and death are before them, and
each within their reach, would they but think, or try to think, that
Forgetfulness will come to their relief, and lull them into ease, they
could stay their hand, and lay hold of life. But there is a necromancy
in wretchedness that entombs the mind, and increases the misery, by
shutting out every ray of light and hope. It makes the wretched
falsely believe they will be wretched ever. It is the most fatal of all
dangerous delusions; and it is only when this necromantic night-mare of
the mind begins to vanish, by being resisted, that it is discovered to
be but a tyrannic spectre. All grief, like all things else, will yield
to the obliterating power of time. While despair is preying on the mind,
time and its effects are preying on despair; and certain it is, the
dismal vision will fade away, and Forgetfulness, with her sister Ease,
will change the scene. Then let not the wretched be rash, but wait,
painful as the struggle may be, the arrival of Forgetfulness; for it
will certainly arrive.
I have twice been present at the scene of attempted suicide. The one
a love-distracted girl in England, the other of a patriotic friend in
France; and as the circumstances of each are strongly pictured in my
memory, I will relate them to you. They will in some measure corroborate
what I have said of Forgetfulness.
About the year 1766, I was in Lincolnshire, in England, and on a visit
at the house of a widow lady, Mrs. E____, at a small village in the fens
of that county. It was in summer; and one evening after supper, Mrs.
E____ and myself went to take a turn in the garden. It was about eleven
o'clock, and to avoid the night air of the fens, we were walking in a
bower, shaded over with hazel bushes. On a sudden, she screamed out,
and cried "Lord, look, look!" I cast my eyes through the openings of the
hazel bushes in the direction she was looking, and saw a white shapeless
figure, without head or arms, moving along one of the walks at some
distance from us. I quitted Mrs. E______, and went after it. When I got
into the walk where the figure was, and was following it, it took up
another walk. There was a holly bush in the corner of the two walks,
which, it being night, I did not observe; and as I continued to step
forward, the holly bush came in a straight line between me and the
figure, and I lost sight of it; and as I passed along one walk, and the
figure the other, the holly bush still continued to intercept the view,
so as to give the appearance that the figure had vanished. When I came
to the corner of the two walks, I caught sight of it again, and coming
up with it, I reached out my hand to touch it; and in the act of doing
this, the idea struck me, will my hand pass through the air, or shall I
feel any thing? Less than a moment would decide this, and my hand rested
on the shoulder of a human figure. I spoke, but do not recollect what I
said. It answered in a low voice, "Pray let me alone." I then knew who
it was. It was a young lady who was on a visit to Mrs. E------, and who,
when we sat down to supper, said she found herself extremely ill, and
would go to bed. I called to Mrs. E------, who came, and I said to her,
"It is Miss N------." Mrs. E------ said, "My God, I hope you are not
going to do yourself any hurt;" for Mrs. E------ suspected something.
She replied with pathetic melancholy, "Life has not one pleasure for
me." We got her into the house, and Mrs. E------ took her to sleep with
her.
The case was, the man to whom she expected to be married had forsaken
her, and when she heard he was to be married to another the shock
appeared to her to be too great to be borne. She had retired, as I have
said, to her room, and when she supposed all the family were gone to
bed, (which would have been the case if Mrs. E------ and I had not
walked into the garden,) she undressed herself, and tied her apron over
her head; which, descending below her waist, gave her the shapeless
figure I have spoken of. With this and a white under petticoat and
slippers, for she had taken out her buckles and put them at the servant
maid's door, I suppose as a keepsake, and aided by the obscurity of
almost midnight, she came down stairs, and was going to drown her-self
in a pond at the bottom of the garden, towards which she was going when
Mrs. E------screamed out. We found afterwards that she had heard the
scream, and that was the cause of her changing her walk.
By gentle usage, and leading her into subjects that might, without
doing violence to her feelings, and without letting her see the direct
intention of it, steal her as it were from the horror she was in, (and
I felt a compassionate, earnest disposition to do it, for she was a good
girl,) she recovered her former cheerfulness, and was afterwards a happy
wife, and the mother of a family.
The other case, and the conclusion in my next: In Paris, in 1793, had
lodgings in the Rue Fauxbourg, St. Denis, No. 63.(1) They were the most
agreeable, for situation, of any I ever had in Paris, except that they
were too remote from the Convention, of which I was then a member. But
this was recompensed by their being also remote from the alarms and
confusion into which the interior of Paris was then often thrown. The
news of those things used to arrive to us, as if we were in a state of
tranquility in the country. The house, which was enclosed by a wall and
gateway from the street, was a good deal like an old mansion farm house,
and the court yard was like a farm-yard, stocked with fowls, ducks,
turkies, and geese; which, for amusement, we used to feed out of the
parlour window on the ground floor. There were some hutches for rabbits,
and a sty with two pigs. Beyond, was a garden of more than an acre
of ground, well laid out, and stocked with excellent fruit trees. The
orange, apricot, and green-gage plum, were the best I ever tasted;
and it is the only place where I saw the wild cucumber. The place had
formerly been occupied by some curious person.(2)