_From the “Castle in the Air,” to the “Little Corner of the
World.”_
Memory like a beauty that is always present to hear herself flattered,
is flattered by every one. But the silent goddess Forgetfulness has no
votaries, 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 is
crowded with the most horrid images Imagination can create, this kind
speechless goddess 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 away with the silence of a departing
shadow.
How dismal must the picture of life appear to that soul which resolves
on darkness and to die! Yet how many of the young and beautiful, timid
in everything else, have shut their eyes upon the world and made the
waters their sepulchral bed! Ah! if at that crisis they had thought
or tried to think that Forgetfulness would eventually come to their
relief, they would lay hold on life.
All grief, like all things else, will yield to the obliterating power
of time, while Despair is preying on the mind, Time is preying upon
Despair and Forgetfulness will change the scene.
I have twice been present at a scene of attempted suicide. The one
a love-distracted girl in England; the other a patriotic friend in
France. I will relate these circumstances to you. They will in some
measure corroborate my assertion upon Forgetfulness.
About the year 1766 I was in Lincolnshire on a visit to a widow lady,
Mrs. E. It was summer and after supper one evening Mrs. E. and I went
to take a turn in the garden. It was about eleven o’clock, to avoid
the night air of the Fens, we were walking in a bower shaded by hazel
bushes. On a sudden she screamed and pointed to a white shapeless
figure without head or arms, moving along one of the walks at some
distance away. I quitted my companion and went after it. When I got up
into the walk where the figure was, it took a cross walk. There was a
holly bush on the corner of the two walks, which, 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, which thus appeared to have
vanished. But when I had passed the bush I caught sight of the figure
again, and coming up to it put out my hand to touch it. My hand rested
on the shoulder of a human figure. I spoke, it answered “Pray let me
alone.” I then recognised a young lady on a visit to Mrs. E., who that
evening, on the plea of indisposition, had not joined us at supper. I
said, “My God! I hope you are not going to do yourself some hurt!” She
replied, with pathetic melancholy, “Life has not one pleasure left for
me.” I got her into the house, and Mrs. E. took her to sleep in her
room.
The case was, the man who had promised to marry her had forsaken her,
and was about to be married to another. The shock and sorrow appeared
to her too great to be borne. She had retired to her room, and when, as
she supposed, all the family had gone to bed, she undressed herself,
tied her apron over her head--which, descending below her waist, gave
her a shapeless figure--and was going to drown herself in a pond at the
bottom of the garden, when I arrested her progress.
[Sidenote: PAINE’S FORGETFULNESS]
By gentle usage, and leading her into subjects that might distract her
mind and occupy her thoughts, we gradually stole her from the horror
and misery she was in. In the course of a few months she recovered her
former cheerfulness, and was afterwards a happy wife and mother of a
family.
The other case is as follows:[9] In Paris, in 1793, I had lodgings in
the Rue Faubourg St. Denis, No. 63; they were agreeable, except for
the fact that they were too remote from the Convention, of which I was
a member. But this was recompensed by the lodging being also remote
from the alarms and confusion into which the interior of Paris was so
often thrown at this time. The house, which was enclosed by a wall and
gateway from the street, was a good deal like an old mansion farmhouse,
and the courtyard was stocked like a farmyard, with fowls, turkeys and
geese, which for amusement we used to feed out of the window of the
parlour on the ground floor. There were some hutches for rabbits, and
a stye or two for pigs. Beyond was a garden of two acres, well laid
out and stocked with excellent fruit-trees. The orange, the apple,
the greengage and the plum were the best I ever tasted. The place had
formerly been occupied by some curious person.
My apartments consisted of three rooms. The first for wood, water, &c.,
with an old-fashioned chest high enough to hang up clothes in. The
next was the bedroom, and beyond the sitting-room. At the end of the
sitting-room was a glass door leading to a flight of narrow stairs, by
which I could descend privately into the garden.
* * * * *
I went into my chamber to write and sign a certificate for them, which
I intended to take into the guard-house to obtain their release. Just
as I had finished it, a man came into my room dressed in the uniform of
a captain, spoke to me in good English and with a good address.
He told me that two young Englishmen were arrested and detained at the
guard-house, and that “_the section_” had sent him to ask me if
I knew them and would answer for them, and in that case they would be
liberated.
This matter being soon settled between us, he talked to me about the
“Rights of Man,” which he had read in English, and finally took his
leave in the politest and most friendly manner, _saying he was always
at my service_.
This man, who so civilly offered me _his service_, turned out to
be Samson, the public executioner, who guillotined the King and all the
political victims of the Revolution.
* * * * *
As for me, I used to find some relief by walking alone in the garden
after it was dark, and cursing with hearty good will the authors
of that terrible system which had so altered the character of that
Revolution I had been so proud to defend.[10]
I went but little to the Convention, and then only to show an
appearance, because I found it _impossible to join in their
tremendous decrees, and useless and dangerous to oppose them_. My
having voted, as well as extensively spoken (more so than any member)
against the execution of the King, had already fixed a mark upon me;
neither dared any of my associates in the Convention translate and
speak in French for me, as they formerly did when I wished to make my
views publicly known.[11]
* * * * *
Pen and ink was then of no use to me. No good could be done by writing
what no printer dared to print; and whatever I might have written
for my private amusement as anecdotes of the times would have been
continually exposed to be examined and tortured into any meaning the
rage of party might fix upon it. And my heart was in distress at the
fate of my friends, and my harp strung upon the weeping willows.
[Sidenote: PAINE’S FORGETFULNESS]
It was summer; we therefore spent most of our time in the garden, and
passed it away in childish amusements, such as marbles, scotch hop,
battledore, &c., so as to try and keep reflection from our minds.
* * * * *
In this retired manner we remained about six or seven weeks. Our
landlord went every evening into the city to bring us the news of the
day and the _Evening journal_.
* * * * *
He recovered, and being anxious to get out of France, a passport was
obtained for him and his friend, chiefly, I believe, by the means of
the huissier Rose, and secretly by the influence of some of the members
of the Committee.[12] They received their passport late in the evening,
but set off that same night in a post-chaise to Basle, which place they
reached in safety. The very morning after their departure I heard a
rapping at the gate, and looking out of the window I beheld entering
the courtyard a guard with muskets and fixed bayonets. It was a guard
to take up the fugitives, but they were already, happily, out of their
reach.[13]
The same guard returned a month later and took the Landlord Geit and
myself to prison!
I have often been in company with Mr. Paine since my arrival in
Paris. I was surprised to find him quite indifferent about the public
spirit in England or the influence of his doctrines upon his fellow
countrymen. Indeed he disliked the mention of the subject, and when
one day I casually remarked that I had altered my opinions upon my
principles, he said:
“You certainly have the right to do so, but you cannot alter the nature
of things; the French have alarmed all honest men, but still truth
is truth. My principles are possibly almost impracticable and might
cause in their carrying out much misery and confusion, but they are
_just_.” Here he spoke with the greatest severity of Mr. ----,
who had obtained a seat in Parliament, and said: “parsons were always
mischievous fellows.” I then hinted to him that his publication of the
“Age of Reason” had lost him the good opinion of many Englishmen. He
became uncommonly warm at this remark, and said he only published it
“to inspire mankind with a higher idea of the Supreme Architect of the
Universe, and to put an end to villainous imposture.”
He then broke out into violent invectives against Christianity,
declaring at the same time his intense reverence for the Omnipotent
Supreme Being. He avowed himself ready to lay down his life in support
of his opinions and said “The Bishop of Llandaff may roast me in
Smithfield if he likes, but human torture cannot shake my opinions.”
I assured him that the Bishop of Llandaff was a man of too enlightened,
tolerant and humane a disposition to wish to roast any man for
differing with him in opinions, and that his celebrated apology
breathes tolerance in every page.
[Sidenote: RETENTIVE MEMORY OF PAINE]
“Aye, it is an apology indeed, for priestcraft. Parsons will meddle
and make mischief, they thus hurt their own cause, but I have a rod in
pickle for Mr. Bishop.” Here he reached down a copy of the Bishop’s
work, interleaved with remarks upon it, which he read to me. It seems
as if in proportion to his present listlessness in politics, his zeal
in his religious or anti-religious opinions increases; of this the
following anecdote is an instance.
An English lady of our acquaintance, as remarkable for her talents as
her charm of person and manners, entreated me to arrange a meeting
for her with Mr. Paine. As this lady is a very rigid Roman Catholic I
cautioned Mr. Paine beforehand to be very discreet in touching upon
religious subjects, and with much good nature he promised to be so. For
about four hours he kept every one of the company on this occasion in
astonishment and admiration of his memory, of his keen observation of
men and women, his numberless anecdotes of the American Indians, of the
American War, of Franklin, Washington and even of his Majesty the King,
of whom he told several curious anecdotes of humour and benevolence.
His remarks on genius and taste can never be forgotten by those present.
So far all went excellently well, and the sparkling champagne gave a
zest to his conversation, and we were all delighted. But, alas! alas!
one of the company happened to allude to his “Age of Reason,” he
then broke out immediately. He began with astronomy, and addressing
himself to Mrs. Y----, the lady in question, he declared that the
least inspection of the motion of the stars proved Moses to be a liar.
Nothing would then stop him. In vain I attempted to change the subject
by every artifice in my power. He returned to the charge with unabated
ardour.
The ladies gradually stole unobserved from the room, and left three
other gentlemen and myself to contest or rather leave him master of the
field of battle.