Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene
with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my
head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write
to you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his
pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all
means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for they
only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he continued,
"Ever since I was near suffering for my extreme caution, I will have
nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the story. "I was
staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's house in the
country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I slept without
any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself, doing nothing,
when it occurred to me I do not know how that the house might be
attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we might in short, you
know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing better to do. I gave
the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He was playing with the
maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol went off—God knows
how!—the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went straight through
her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to endure all the
lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since that time, I have
kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend, what is the use of
prudence? We can never be on our guard against all possible dangers.
However,"—now, you must know I can tolerate all men till they come to
"however;"—for it is self-evident that every universal rule must have
its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly accurate, that, if he only
fancies he has said a word too precipitate, or too general, or only half
true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify, and extenuate, till at last
he appears to have said nothing at all. Upon this occasion, Albert was
deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became
lost in reverie. With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol
to my forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even if not,"
he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I cannot comprehend how
a man can be so mad as to shoot himself, and the bare idea of it shocks
me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all
this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do
you understand—can you explain the causes which occasion them, and make
them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal, let
them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged
my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an
object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a
husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices his faithless
wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young maiden, who, in her
weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love?
Even our laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and
withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the
influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is
regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever
ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You
moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and
detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God,
like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more
than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on extravagance:
I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my own
experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great and
astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken or
insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can
undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise
to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon you,
ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always
exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we
were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it
is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much easier
to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts me
so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched commonplace
when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed myself, for
I had often heard the same observation with sufficient vexation; and
I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You call this a
weakness—beware of being led astray by appearances. When a nation,
which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at
last and throws off its chains, do you call that weakness? The man
who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his physical strength
redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of
excitement, he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult,
attacks and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons
to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how can
the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do
not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the
question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that
my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see
if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring
what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from
the burden of life,—a burden often so pleasant to bear,—for we cannot
otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a
certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as soon
as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not whether a
man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure
of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and in
my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys
himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you
imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal
when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted,
that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change
that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in
his natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him,
destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the
condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no
more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil his
strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no pleasure
beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best attire,
accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance now and then
at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours with a neighbour,
discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the village, trifles
sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth of her nature is
influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries
of men, her former pleasures become by degrees insipid, till at length
she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted by an indescribable
feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world
around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He
alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of
an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its object,
she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting union with
him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss for which
she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes: embraces and
endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires, overmaster her
soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation of her happiness; and
her feelings become excited to their utmost tension. She stretches out
her arms finally to embrace the object of all her wishes and her lover
forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All
is darkness around her. No prospect, no hope, no consolation—forsaken
by him in whom her existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide
world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might
supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by
the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul,
she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of
death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not
this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the
labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she can contend no longer, and the
poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl!
she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the
impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have
found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool,
to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored,
till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would
have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some
further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the
case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more enlarged
views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to comprehend. "My
friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be the extent
of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when passion rages
within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow limits of nature.
It were better, then—but we will talk of this some other time," I said,
and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without
conviction on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand
each other!