UPTON,
Dec. 5, 1904.
MY DEAR HERBERT,--I am very sorry to hear you have been suffering from
depression; it is one of the worst evils of life, and none the better
for being so intangible. I was reading a story the other day, in some
old book, of a moody man who was walking with a friend, and, after a
long silence, suddenly cried out, as if in pain. "What ails you?" said
his friend. "My mind hurts me," said the other. That is the best way to
look at it, I think--as a kind of neuralgia of the soul, to be treated
like other neuralgias. A friend of mine who was a great sufferer from
such depression went to an old doctor, who heard his story with a
smile, and then said: "Now, you're not as bad as you feel, or even as
you think. My prescription is a simple one. Don't eat pastry; and for a
fortnight don't do anything you don't like."
It is often only a kind of cramp, and needs an easier position. Try and
get a little change; read novels; don't get tired; sit in the open air.
"A recumbent position," said a witty lady of my acquaintance, "is a
great aid to cheerfulness."
I used, as you know, to be a great sufferer; or perhaps you don't know,
for I was too miserable sometimes even to speak of it. But I can say
humbly and gratefully that a certain freedom from depression is one of
the blessings that advancing years have brought me. Still, I don't
altogether escape, and it sometimes falls with an unexpected
suddenness. It may help you to know that other people suffer similarly,
and how they suffer.
Well, then, a few days ago I woke early, after troubled dreams, and
knew that the old enemy had clutched me. I lay in a strange agony of
mind, my heart beating thick, and with an insupportable weight on my
heart. It always takes the same form with me--an overwhelming sense of
failure in all that I attempt, a dreary consciousness of absolute
futility, coupled with the sense of the brevity and misery of human
life generally. I ask myself what is the use of anything? What is an
almost demoniacal feature of the mood is that it lays a spell of utter
dreariness upon all pleasures as well as duties. One feels condemned to
a long perspective of work without interest, and recreation without
relish, and all confined and bounded by death; whichever way my
thoughts turned, a grey prospect met me.
Little by little the misery abated, recurring at longer and longer
intervals, till at last I slept again; but the mood overclouded me all
day long, and I went about my duties with indifference. But there is
one medicine which hardly ever fails me--it was a half-holiday, and,
after tea, I went to the cathedral and sate in a remote corner of the
nave. The service had just begun. The nave was dimly lighted, but an
upward radiance gushed behind the screen and the tall organ, and lit up
the vaulted roof with a tranquil glory. Soon the Psalms began, and at
the sound of the clear voices of the choir, which seemed to swim on the
melodious thunder of the organ, my spirit leapt into peace, as a man
drowning in a stormy sea is drawn into a boat that comes to rescue him.
It was the fourth evening, and that wonderful Psalm, My God, my God,
look upon me--where the broken spirit dives to the very depths of
darkness and despair--brought me the message of triumphant sorrow. How
strange that these sad cries of the heart, echoing out of the ages, set
to rich music--it was that solemn A minor chant by Battishill, which
you know--should be able to calm and uplift the grieving spirit. The
thought rises into a burst of gladness at the end; and then follows
hard upon it the tenderest of all Psalms, The Lord is my Shepherd, in
which the spirit casts its care upon God, and walks simply, in utter
trust and confidence. The dreariness of my heart thawed and melted into
peace and calm. Then came the solemn murmur of a lesson; the
Magnificat, sung to a setting--again as by a thoughtful tenderness--of
which I know and love every note; and here my heart seemed to climb
into a quiet hope and rest there; the lesson again, like the voice of a
spirit; and then the Nunc Dimittis, which spoke of the beautiful rest
that remaineth. Then the quiet monotone of prayer, and then, as though
to complete my happiness, Mendelssohn's Hear my prayer. It is the
fashion, I believe, for some musicians to speak contemptuously of this
anthem, to say that it is over-luscious. I only know that it brings all
Heaven about me, and reconciles the sadness of the world with the peace
of God. A boy's perfect treble--that sweetest of all created sounds,
because so unconscious of its pathos and beauty--floating on the top of
the music, and singing as an angel might sing among the stars of
heaven, came to my thirsty spirit like a draught of clear spring water.
And, at the end of all, Mendelssohn's great G major fugue gave the note
of courage and endurance that I needed, the strong notes marching
solemnly and joyfully on their appointed way.
I left the cathedral, through the gathering twilight, peaceful,
hopeful, and invigorated, as a cripple dipped in the healing well.
While music is in the world, God abides among us. Ever since the day
that David soothed Saul by his sweet harp and artless song, music has
thus beguiled the heaviness of the spirit. Yet there is the mystery,
that the emotion seems to soar so much higher and dive so much deeper
than the notes that evoke it! The best argument for immortality, I
think.
Now that I have written so much, I feel that I am, perhaps,
inconsiderate in speaking so much of the healing music which you cannot
obtain. But get your wife to play to you, in a quiet and darkened room,
some of the things you love best. It is not the same as the cathedral,
with all its glory and its ancient, dim tradition, but it will serve.
And, meanwhile, think as little of your depression as you can; it won't
poison the future; just endure it like a present pain; the moment one
can do that, the victory is almost won.
The worst of the grim mood is that it seems to tear away all the
pretences with which we beguile our sadness, and to reveal the truth.
But it is only that truth which lies at the bottom of the well; and
there are fathoms of clear water lying above it, which are quite as
true as the naked fact below. That is all the philosophy I can extract
from such depression, and, in some mysterious way, it helps us, after
all, when it is over; makes us stronger, more patient, more
compassionate; and it is worth some suffering, if one lays hold of true
experience instead of wasting time in querulous
self-commiseration.--Affectionately yours,