THE SUICIDE.
It is a vain question, that which has been often stirred among men of our profession and metaphysicians, whether insanity—including under that word all the modes of derangement of the mental powers—is strictly a disease, the definition of which, according to the best authorities, is "an alternation from a perfect state of bodily health." Both parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one, including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit a gradation in the scale of derangement: beginning at the slightest peculiarity; passing on to an eccentricity; from that to idiosyncrasy; from that to a decay or an extraordinary increase of strength in a particular faculty—say memory; from that to a decay or an increase in the intensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion; from that to false perception—such as monomania, progressing to derangement as to one point or subject, often called madness, quoad hoc; and so on, through many other changes, almost imperceptible in their differences, to perfect madness—all without the slightest indication of a pathological nature being to be discovered or detected by the finest dissecting-knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable—for we medical men have demonstrated the fact—that a certain degree of madness is almost always accompanied with derangement in the cerebral organs—the most ordinary appearance being the existence of a fluid of a certain kind in the chambers of the brain.
The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions alone; for, so long as we remain—and that may be, as it likely will be, for ever—ignorant of the subtle principle of organic life—the nature of the mysterious union of mind and matter—we will never be able to tell (notwithstanding all our mental achievements) whether madness has its primary beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain contented with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with that melancholy lore which treasures up—alas! for how little good!—the dreadful symptoms which distinguish this miserable state of proud man from all other conditions of his earthly sorrow; exhibiting him conscious of being still a human creature impressed with the image of God, yet incapable of using the proudest gift of Heaven—his reason; susceptible of and suffering the most excruciating of all pains—imaginary evils, torments, agonies—yet placed beyond the pale of human sympathy; bent upon—following with cunning and assiduity the cruellest modes of self-immolation; and sometimes calmly reasoning on the nature of the mysterious power that impels to a horrible and revolting suicide.
I have been led into this train of thought by the circumstances of the case I am now about to relate. It is one of a calm, reasoning, determined self-destroyer, in whom, with the single exception of wishing to die by violent and bloody means, I could discover no mental derangement. The case occurs every day; but there are circumstances in this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I have witnessed, and seen described; and, as it bears the invaluable stamp of truth, my description of it may be held to be a chapter, and a melancholy one, in the wonderful history of human life, wherein, perhaps, the succeeding capital division may consist of an account of our own tragic fate, not less lamentable or less awful. Such creatures are we lords of the creation!—so completely veiled are the destinies of man!
It was, I think, in the month of December in the winter of 18—, that a man in the garb of a farmer called upon me, and requested me to visit George B——, a person, he said, of his own craft, who held a small sheep-farm back among the hills about three miles distant. I asked the messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me to proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first time that I passed that way, which might be next day, would suffice. He replied that his friend was not in immediate danger, and did not wish me to travel three miles for the special purpose of seeing him, but would be contented with, and grateful for, a visit from me on any early day that suited my convenience.
On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of the country, and called at the house to which I had been directed. The day was cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern north wind whistled among the brackens of the hills. I was struck with the situation and appearance of the house. It had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much larger than the ordinary residences of small sheep-farmers among the hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered, and even dismal: no trees could be discovered in any direction; there was no outhouses attached to the dwelling; and no neighbouring residence was to be seen. The house stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless, in the midst of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered through the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I discover any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the windows were closed up—the under part of the house apparently being only inhabited by the inmates, who showed no anxiety to ascertain by looking out who it was that had accomplished the task of getting to this barren and sequestered place.
On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young woman about eighteen years of age. She appeared to be delicate—being thin in her person, pale in her complexion, and of an irritable temperament, for she started when she saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded features not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention, by almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if George B—— was in the house. She answered that her father, for such he was, had just gone to bed, having been for some time ailing. I told her that it was upon that account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know who I was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in; and, as I followed the young woman through a long passage to the room occupied by her father, she told me that her mother had died about a year before, and that there was no other individual living in the house but her and her remaining parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair! thought I, as I looked on her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning through the big, open house.
On entering the room, which was cold and poorly furnished, I observed George B—— sitting up in his bed reading a book, which I discovered to be a large Bible. He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy yellow; his eyes wore the heaviness generally found in people of that temperament; the muscles were firmly bound down by the rigid, severe, and desponding expression of dejection, generally found associated with these other characteristics; and throughout his face and manner there was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which was only very partially relaxed by his recognition of me as I entered. There was, however, nothing of the look of a diseased man about him; for his face was full and fleshy, his nerves firm and well strung, his eye steady and unclouded, and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong, and even rough and burly. His face resembled very much the ideal of that of the old Covenanters; and the large Bible he held in his hands aided the conception, and increased the picturesque effect of the whole aspect of the man.
He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon he had sent for, pointed to a chair, that I might sit down, and beckoned to his daughter Margaret, as he called her, to leave the room. The young woman retired slowly, and I observed, as she proceeded towards the door, she threw back two or three nervous looks, which I thought indicated a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost the catch; the father caught the sound, appeared angry, and requested me to rise and shut it effectually, and, as he added, carefully. I complied, and he seemed to listen for some time, as if to try to ascertain whether his daughter had proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was uncertain, and listened again, but was still unresolved; at last, he said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he felt he could not enter upon the subject about which he wished to consult me until he was satisfied, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not listening. I rose and went to the door. On opening it, I saw the young woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut the door; and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause of all this mysterious secrecy and suspicion, to betray the poor girl, who had perhaps some good legitimate object in solicitude, I said simply that there was now nobody there. He was satisfied; and I again sat down.
I then asked him what was the particular complaint about which he wished to consult me.
"That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied. "I hae nae complaint aboot my body, which, God be thanked! is just as strong as it used to be. But there is a change in my mind, different frae the healthy griefs, and sorrows, and pains o' mortals. My wife, the best o' women, died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae payin my Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife, and mony a shepherd his sheep, without tellin a doctor o' their loss. I laid my account wi' sufferin grief as heavy as mortal ever suffered; and in this house, in this bed, on these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head towards me, and speaking low, "it winna a' do."
He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, as if he had already, as it were, broached a subject that was fearful to himself.
"What mean you?" said I.
"I mean, that I canna live!" he replied, energetically, seizing the Bible with a spasmodic grasp—closing it—throwing it to the back of the bed—then falling in an instant into a state of real dejection, with his arms folded over his breast, and his eyes cast down.
"Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I; "but they are the mere fancies of a sick mind—generated in sorrow, and dying with the time-subdued cause that produces them. There is not a bereaved husband, wife, parent, or child in the land, that does not, in the first struggle with a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing moments of agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must have patience."
"There is some consolation in that," he replied. "I am glad when I think that the thought that haunts and alarms me is no sae dangerous as it sometimes appears to me. This book (sweet comforter!) tells me that Tobit prayed to be dissolved, and become earth, because o' his sorrow. It tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried, 'My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than life.' My experience o' the ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have some portion o' that) informs me o' the truth o' what you have told me, that an extraordinary burden o' grief often wrings frae the sick soul a wish to dee and be at rest. But oh! I fear my situation is different. I hae mair than a wish to be dissolved; for sure none o' my brethren in sorrow"—here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears rolled down his cheek—"ever lay wi' the like o' that"—holding up a razor—"under his sick pillow."
I was alarmed, being utterly unprepared for this exhibition.
"You need be under nae alarm," he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes. "My courage is not yet strong enough. God be praised for it! Moments o' fearfu fortitude sometimes come owre me, and I have held that instrument in my clenched hand—ay, within an inch o' my bared throat; but the resolution passes as quickly as it comes, and terror, cowardice, and a shiverin cauld—dreadfu to suffer—come in their place. Lay it past, sir—lay it past."
I obeyed; and, as I proceeded to place the instrument on the top of a chest of drawers, I heard the noise of some one in the passage, with suppressed ejaculations of—"O God! O God!"
"I wadna hae shown you that," he continued, as I sat down, "but that it is my wish to tell you the warst; for nae man can expect assistance, if he is ashamed or afraid to show his necessities and his danger. I didna send for you to cure my body, but to examine my mind, and tell me if it is sound and healthy, or weak and diseased, and therefore I will conceal naething frae ye that may show you its state and condition."
I was pleased to find I had so tractable a patient. I paused for a moment, to consider in what way I should draw him out, and on what side I should attack him—whether I should argue calmly with him, and endeavour to stimulate his feelings of duty to his Maker, to himself and his poor daughter; or shake him roughly as a vain and sinful dreamer who had voluntarily swallowed a pernicious soporific, and try to awaken him, and keep him awake, after the manner of our remedial endeavours to save those who have attempted to poison themselves by laudanum. I saw, in an instant, that he was by far too strong-minded a man to be operated upon effectually by the mere charm of the imputed reach and strength of our cabalistic lore—an agent, if well employed, of great good in our profession—and too determined (for such resolutions are always, in some degree, a false result of reasoning powers) to be put from his purpose either by a firm pressure of logical authority, or the subtle and more dangerous means of good-humoured or severe satire. My course was clearly to endeavour to affect the form of his own reasoning, and, if possible, to invest it with a character which might be recognised as true by the peculiar, and, no doubt, morbid perceptions he possessed of moral truth. I began by securing his eye, which I saw was, at times, inclined to wander, or take on that unmeaning, dull, glazed aspect which people in the act of brooding over intense sorrows—as if the optic nerves were thereby paralysed—so often exhibit.
"What train of mind are you in generally," said I, "when the wish to die, accompanied with the fortitude you have mentioned, comes upon you in its strongest form?"
"I first fall into a state of low spirits," said he, "and then nae effort I can use will tak my mind aff my dead wife. I think for whole hours—sometimes on the hills, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in my bed—of our courtship, our marriage, our happy life, and her miserable, painful, untimely death. This feeds my sorrow, which grows stronger, and descends deeper and deeper, till it reaches my brain, and I am sunk in the darkness o' despair. To escape frae thoughts o' past sorrows that are owre strong to be borne, I try to look forward to the future; but, alas! I see naething there but the pain o' livin for a number o' comfortless years o' auld age, draggin after me, a memory clogged wi' past ills, and naething afore me but a jail, and want, and lingerin death."
"These are false views of life," said I—"overstrained and morbid. I must teach you to think better. You have a daughter who will comfort you, and whom you are bound to support and protect."
"True, true," he cried; "I hae a dochter, and a better never sacrificed her ain thochts and feelins to the comforts o' a faither. The idea o' leavin her, young, faitherless, poor, and full o' sorrow, in the midst o' a bad world, has before this" (lowering his voice) "brought down that rebellious hand from this throat. But, alas for the inconsistency and mutability o' man's fancies!—dearly as I love that creature, and she is now my only comfort, my very affection for her sometimes sinks me deeper into that sorrow which produces the dreadfu purpose o' takin awa my ain life; for I think—oh! how weak is man's proud reason, when the heart is broken wi' grief!—that an auld parent under the ban o' poverty is a burden to a child. His death (so in these unhappy moments do I think) relieves the unhappy bairn o' twa evils—that o' toilin maybe in vain to support him, and that o' witnessin age, decrepitude, pain, misery, and want, wringin frae his shrivelled and diseased body groans o' agony, strikin the heart o' his child wi' mair pain than would be caused by the knell o' his death."
He now sank his face in the bedclothes, which he grasped with a spasmodic hand, and groaned so deep and loud that the sounds might have reached the passage. I again heard a noise from that quarter, as if of stifled sighs and hysterical sobs. I was placed between the groans of a father bent against his own judgment on self-destruction, and the terrors and griefs of a daughter listening to the horrible recital of her parent's designs against his life. The loneliness of the house, and the solitude of the unhappy pair—with no one to aid the young woman, in the event of any appalling extremity to which the unnatural purpose of her father might drive him—struck me forcibly. I had no recollection of ever experiencing a scene of grief so peculiar, with such fearful and uncertain issues, so irremediable and heart-stirring. The groans of the one and the sobs of the other seemed to vie with each other in the effect they produced upon me; but, great as the pain of the father was, the sufferings of the daughter, perhaps as peculiar and touching as any that could be conceived, engaged to the greatest extent my sympathy. It was my duty and wish to try to remove the fundamental cause of all this suffering; and I waited the end of the paroxysm of the father's sorrow in order to resume the conversation.
"These views," said I, as he calmed, "which you take of life, and its duties and affections, are all false and distorted. It is our duty to try to regulate our thoughts as well as our actions by some steady supporting principle, which mankind have agreed in considering as true, whether it be derived from the direct Word of God or from the written tablets of the heart. The taking away of our life—originally given to us as a trust, or imposed on us by the Author of all good, for certain ends and purposes which are veiled from our view—is undoubtedly in many respects, as regards God himself, ourselves, our children, and our neighbours, a great, flagrant, horrible crime. It is against the law of God, the law of our country, the organic law of our physical constitution, and the moral law of our minds. It is indeed the only act that can be mentioned that is against all these. It does not require me to tell you that suicide, with other murders, was denounced by God himself, speaking in words that all mankind have heard, from the 'thick cloud' that hung over Mount Sinai. You are, I presume, a Christian, and the Sacred Book containing that denunciation lies at your side; and yet you have made the dreadful confession to me, that you have dared to meditate on the breaking, the despising, the contemning of the command of Him who by less than a command—ay, than even a word, by the lifting up of his finger—may consign you to an eternity of agony, in comparison of which all the sorrow you now suffer is less than a grain of sand to the sandbanks of the sea."
"It is true, it is true!" replied the unhappy man. "I know, I feel that every word you have uttered is true, maist true and undeniable as are the sentiments o' this holy book," grasping again the Bible; "but can ye—wha, by the command o' books and education, can dive farther into the nature o' the mind than ane like me—explain this mystery, that, when my soul is filled wi' the darkness o' sorrow, and my rebellious purpose o' self-murder whispers in my mind treachery and war against God, thae truths ye hae uttered, for they hae occurred to me before, tak flight like guid angels, and leave me to warsle wi' a power that subdues me? It is then that I am in danger, and the hand that has held up to my throat that fatal instrument I had under my pillow, has the moment before been lifted up vainly in prayer to God, to throw owre my mind the light o' thae grand truths. What avails it, then, that there are times when I love them, and am guided by them, and thank Heaven for the precious gift o' knowin, feelin, and appreciatin them, if there are other moments when they flee frae me, and I am left powerless in the grasp o' my enemy?" Pausing, and falling again into a fit of dejection. "I fear, I fear the best o' us are only the slaves o' some mysterious power. But"—starting up, as if recollecting himself—"I put a question to you—answer me in the name o' Heaven; for if I gie mysel up to the belief o' an all-powerful necessity, I am a lost man and a self-murderer."
He was now clearly approaching a rock whereon many a gallant bark has been shivered to atoms. Even healthy-minded men cannot look at the question of the necessity of the will without staggering and reeling; and hypochondriacs love to get drunk by inhaling the vapours of mysticism that rise from it, destroying as they do all moral responsibility, and concealing the vengeance of heaven and the terrors of hell. It was necessary to lead him from this dangerous subject, which it was clear he had been studying and dreaming about, with all that love of subtlety and mysticism which melancholy generates.
"No sensible man," said I, "believes in the absolute necessity of the will. After the will is fixed, the liberty is already exercised, and there is indeed no will in the mind at all, until it takes the form of an active, moving, propelling principle. But these are abstruse fancies, which you must fly, if you wish to possess a healthy mind. Sorrow, or any other feeling of pain, will extinguish while it lasts the burning lights of principle or sentiment. The pain of the amputation of a limb prevents, while it lasts, the natural working of the mind; but grief may be averted, and the great healing secret of that is, that the mind must be occupied. Renounce all abstruse thinking, all day-dreaming, all sorrowful remembering, all sentimental musing—look upon application, exercise, work, as a duty and a medicine, and I will answer for your expelling from your mind that dreadful purpose that entails upon you misery, and disgraces the nature of man."
"Your advice is excellent," replied he, somewhat roused; "but, unfortunately, I hae got the same frae my ain mind; and, what is mair, I hae tried it—I hae tried it again and again;—the medicine is worth nae mair to me than a bread pill. My efforts to exercise my mind, when a fit o' sorrow presses upon it, only mak the sorrow the heavier, by makin the mind less able to bear it. My soul is for ever bent on that question o' the necessity o' the will which you despise and avoid. I will, God is my witness, argue it with you, calmly and reasonably."
"Unless you agree to renounce that question," said I, "I can do you no good."
"Then," replied he, with a groan, "I am left to Heaven and my unavoidable fate. May God have mercy on my soul!"
And he again relapsed into a fit of dejection, his head leaning on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the bed.
I could, I found, make no more of him that day, and my other avocations required my departure. I told him I would call again, and bring or send him some medicine.
"It is an unnecessary waste o' your valuable time," he said, lifting up his head, "to call again upon a wretch like me. I am much obliged to you for advice; but the only medicine for me is—death."
He pronounced the fearful word with an emphatic guttural tone, which gave it a terrific effect. I opened the door to depart, and was surprised to find that it would not go back sufficiently to allow me to pass freely. The probable cause of the interruption flashed upon my mind in an instant. Without speaking a word, I edged myself through, and saw, lying at the back of the door, the body of the unfortunate young woman, in a state of insensibility. I had presence of mind enough not to carry her into the room where her father lay; but, seeing the light of the kitchen at the further end of the long gloomy passage, I snatched her up in my arms, and hastened with her thither. Having laid her on a small truckle bed, whereon, I presume, she usually slept, I found she was in a deep swoon; and, notwithstanding that it was getting dark, and my time was expired, I waited her recovery. As she lay before me, pale as a corpse, and as I thought of the cause of her illness, and looked round in vain for any one to give her assistance or consolation (the groans of her father, which I indistinctly heard, being the only answer that would have been given to a call for aid in a house more like a haunt for ghosts and spectres than a residence for human beings), I felt the impression of her peculiar misery pass over me, making me shudder as if I had been seized with a fit of the ague. The frail, brittle creature lying there, a victim of hysterics, fit only to be cherished and guarded by a doting mother—placed in a large, empty, gousty mansion—doomed to guard alone a suicide and a father, and, perhaps, to wrestle with him through blood—her parent's blood!—for the preservation of a remaining spark of a self-taken life! She at length recovered, exhibiting the ordinary precursors of returning consciousness—convulsive shiverings, rolling of the eyes, and beating about with the hands. On perceiving me indistinctly, she articulated—
"Death! death!—that was the word he spoke sae wildly.—Ah! I know it now!—James H—— has lang tried to conceal it frae me; but I hae discovered it at last. Can you save him, sir?—can you save the faither o' her wha has scarcely anither freend on earth?"
A flood of tears followed this ejaculation. She tore her hair like a maniac. I tried everything in my power to pacify her; but terror had completely mastered her weak nerves, and she shook as the successive frightful images suggested by her situation passed through her excited and still confused mind.
"Is there no one in those parts," said I, "that can attend your father, and assist you? Who is the James H—— you just now mentioned?"
"He is my cousin," replied she. "He lived with us for some time; but my father and he quarrelled about a razor, which he said James wanted to steal from him. But I see it now. There was nae theft. James, poor James, was innocent, and wanted to save him; but they concealed it frae me, and my cousin was turned away."
The mention of the word razor made me start. I had left the instrument on the head of the drawers, and I had even now heard the wretched man's groans. I hurried to the room, and entered softly. He was in a fit of dejection, groaning, at intervals, deeply, like a man in bodily pain. I took up the instrument without being noticed, and returned to the kitchen. It was now almost dark. I had three miles to ride through wild hill paths, and I heard some threatening indications of a night-storm. The young woman was still lying on the couch, with her terrors undiminished; but I could do nothing more for her, and to have impressed her with the necessity of watching her parent would have created additional alarm, without increasing her zeal in a cause that concerned too nearly her own heart. I told her, therefore, that I required to depart, and was in the act of leaving to go to the door, when, in a paroxysm of terror, she started up, and seized me, clutching me firmly, and crying loudly—
"Will you leave me alone wi' him in this house, and throughout the dark night! He will do it when you are gone. Heaven preserve me frae the sight o' a father's blood!"
I tried to calm her, and to reason with her; but it was in vain. She still clung to me; and I found myself necessitated either to use some gentle force to detach myself from her grasp, or remain all night. I adopted the former expedient, and rushing out, shut the door after me, mounted my horse, and proceeded home. She had come out after me; for I heard her cries for some time as I rode forward in the dark.
Though soon out of sight of the house, I felt myself unconsciously turning my head once or twice in the direction of the deserted mansion. With all my efforts to think of some other subject—and my own safety among these wild hills might have been sufficient to occupy my attention—I could not, for some time, take my mind off the scene I had witnessed, and the prospective misery that, in such different forms, waited these two individuals. When I had gone about a mile and a-half on my journey, I was accosted by a man, who asked me familiarly how George B—— was. I recognised in him at once the individual who had asked me to call for him. I told him that he was well enough in his body, but had taken some wild and distorted views of life, which might place him in danger of his own hands, while there was nobody in the house to watch him but his daughter, who did not seem to me to be well fitted for the task, seeing she was weakly, hysterical, and timid. He told me he knew all I had stated; that his name was James H——; that he was a cousin of the young woman's, George B—— having been married on his mother's sister; that he had resided in the house, and had discovered the tendency of his uncle's mind; and that, on one occasion, he had snatched out of his hands a razor with which he intended to destroy himself—an act for which he was expelled the house, though he was the acknowledged suitor of the young woman, whom he intended to wed. I told him he should marry her, protect her, and save the father; but he replied that the old man would neither allow him to live in the house, nor take his daughter from him; so that she was compelled to remain in the dreadful condition in which I had found her. I told him to call upon me next day, and proceeded homewards.
Before James H—— called, which he did about two o'clock, I revolved in my mind what should be done for the unfortunate man. I recollected that, in a conversation I had with Dr D—— of Edinburgh, he told me of a case of melancholy, and accompanying determination to commit self-murder, which he had successfully treated by presenting to the mind of the patient such horrific stories and narratives of men who had taken their own lives, and suffered in their death inexpressible agonies, and such shocking pictures of murders where the wretched victims were brought back, by the hand of their offended Maker, from the gates of death, with their consciences seared by the burning iron of his vengeance, that the man got alarmed, was cured of his thirst for his own blood, and never again spoke of self-destruction. I resolved upon trying this expedient, and could not think of a better book for my purpose than that extraordinary record of human vice and suffering, the "Newgate Calendar." I fortunately possessed a copy, with those fearfully graphic pictures, that suit so well, in their coarse, half-caricatured, grotesque delineations, with the dreadful narratives they are intended to illustrate. I picked out the most fearful volume, that contained, at the same time, the greatest number of attempted self-murders, where the victims were snatched from their own chosen death, and, after their wounds were healed, devoted to that pointed out by the law as due to their crimes. When James H—— called in the afternoon, I gave him the volume, and requested him to hand it to the patient's daughter, with directions to put it into the hands of her father, as having been sent to him by me. He said he would take the first opportunity of complying with my request.
I had no visits to make that required my presence in that part of the country for two or three days. On the second day after I had sent the book, I had another call from James H——, who said that he had been requested by the patient's daughter to return the volume, and to request another one, which the patient desired, above all things, to be sent to him that day. I accordingly sent him another volume, although I did not know whether to augur well or ill from this anxiety; but I was inclined to be of opinion that the symptom was an auspicious one. Two days afterwards, the messenger called again, with a repetition of his former request for another volume as soon as it could be sent. I complied with it instantly; sending, however, on this occasion, two—for I thought my medicine was operating beneficially, and it was of that kind that could be of no use unless administered in large doses, so, as it were, to surfeit and sicken the disease, and force it, by paralysing its energies, to relinquish its grasp of the patient's mind and body.
Two days more having elapsed, I felt anxious to ascertain the effect of my moral emetocathartics, and set out on the special errand of visiting my patient. The house, as I approached, exhibited the same still, dead-like aspect it possessed on my first visit. On knocking at the door, it was opened timidly and slowly by the daughter, who appeared to be paler, more sorrow-stricken, more weak and irritable, than on the occasion of my former visit. Her eye exhibited that terrorstruck look which nervous people, kept on the rack of a fearful apprehension, so often exhibit. Her voice was low, monotonous, and weak, as if she had been exhausted by mental anxiety, watching, and care. There was still no one in the house but her and her father; the same stillness reigned everywhere—the same air of dejection—the same goustiness in the large empty dwelling. On asking her how her father was, she replied, mournfully, that he had scarcely ever been out of his bed since my last visit; that he lay, night and day, reading the books I had sent him; that he had eaten very little meat, and had fallen several times into dreadful fits of groaning, and talking to himself. She added that he felt, at times, disinclined to see her; but at others, his affection for her rose to such a height, that he flung his arms about her neck, and wept like a child on her bosom. She had proposed to him, she said, to bring some person into the house; but he got into a violent rage when she mentioned it, and said he would expel the first intruder, whether man or woman. She had therefore been compelled to remain alone. She had lain at the back of his room-door every night, watching his motions, whereby, in addition to her grief, she had caught a violent rheumatism, which had stricken into her bones. When, for a short time, she had gone to sleep, she was awakened by terrific dreams and nightmares, which made her cry aloud for help, and exposed the situation she had taken, for the purpose of watching her parent, and defeating his purpose of self-murder.
I proceeded to the patient's room. When I entered, which I did softly, I found him lying in bed, with his head, as formerly, bound up in a handkerchief; a volume of the "Newgate Calendar" lying on his breast. So occupied was he with his enjoyment of this morceau of horrors, that he did not notice my entry or approach to his bedside. I stood and gazed at him. He had finished the page that was open before him—exhibiting John Torrance, the blacksmith of Hockley. His eye rested at least five minutes on this horrific picture; and, as he continued his rapt gaze, he drew deep sighs—his breast heaving with great force, as if to throw off an unbearable load. He turned the page, and noticed me.
"You are very intent upon that book," said I. "I hope it interests you."
"Yes," replied he. "My mind has been dead or entranced for a year. This is the only thing in the world I have met wi' during my sorrow capable o' putting life into my soul. It seems as if all the energies that have been lying useless for that period had risen at the magic power o' this wonderfu book, to pour their collected strength upon its pages."
"Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly the truth of my own statement. "I sent it for the purpose of entertaining you—that is—interesting you."
"Entertaining me!" he ejaculated. "You mean, binding my soul wi' iron bands: my heart now loves the misery it formerly loathed. But, sir, I am not fed with this food. I devour it wi' a false and ravenous appetite; and were there a thousand volumes, I think I could read them a' before I broke bread or closed an ee."
He rolled out these words with a volubility and an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was clear that I had poisoned the mind of this poor man. I had stimulated and partly fed his appetite for horrors. Familiarity with fearful objects kills the terror, and sometimes raises in its place a morbid affection—a fact established in France at the end of the last century by an empirical test of a horrific character, but which no knowledge of man's mind could have dreamed of à priori. Why had I forgotten this matter of history, and allowed myself to be led astray by vain theories and partial experiments? What was I now to do? The man's appetite for the bloody narratives was so strong, that, even while I was thus cogitating, his greedy eye had again sought the page. It was necessary that I should conceal from him my apprehensions, and take up his words on a feigned construction.
"This kind of reading," said I, "interests you, I presume, because it fills your mind with a salutary disgust and terror—makes you loathe the act of the suicide—and mans your soul against the hateful purpose you entertained against your own life."
He looked to the door, and beckoned to me to see if it was shut. I went and satisfied him that it was, while I was myself assured that she whom he was so anxious to deceive was again at her post behind it.
"You ask me," he continued, "if this book has disgusted or terrified me against my purpose o' deein. Are we disgusted and terrified at what we love? I hae seen the day when thae stories had sma' attraction for me. But, alas! alas! I am a changed—a fearfully changed man. My soul now gloats owre tales o' crime and scenes o' blood. To me there is an interest, an indescribable, mysterious interest in this book, beyond the charm o' the miser's wealth, or the bridegroom's bride—ay, sir, or what I ance thocht was in life to the deein sinner. It is a medicine; but"—pausing, and eyeing me sorrowfully—"do you mean it to kill or cure?"
"To save you from self-destruction," said I—"the most fearful and the most cowardly of all the terminations of human life."
"If you could keep me readin this for ever," he said, "yer object would be served."
"I can give you no more of it," said I, conscious that, by indulging his morbid appetite for blood, I had been leading him to his ruin.
"Then I must read thae volumes owre, and owre, and owre again," said he; "and when I hae dune, I hae naething mair to interest me in this dark, bleak warld."
He fell now into one of his fits of dejection, assuming his accustomed attitude of folding his hands over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the bed, while deep sighs and groans were thrown from his heaving breast. It was necessary, I now saw, to take from him the book which had produced an effect the very opposite of what I had intended and expected. I took it up and placed it beside the other volume that was lying on a side-table, with a view to take them away with me—blaming myself sorely and deservedly for the injury I had done by experimenting so rashly on the life and eternal interests of a human being. As I moved away the volume, he observed me, and followed it wistfully and sorrowfully with his eye.
"Ye hae dune weel," he said—"ye hae whetted my appetite for my ain life; and it matters naething that the whetter and the whet-stane are taen awa when they're nae mair needed!"
I felt keenly the reproach, for it was just. I might have taken credit for a good intention; but my sympathy for the wretched being restrained any wish I had to defend myself I endeavoured to change the subject of our conversation, and turn his mind to a subject which I knew engaged his interests and feelings more than anything else on earth.
"Your daughter," said I, "is unwell. She seems to be miserable. I know a change upon her both in mind and body, since I called here only a few days ago. Her body is thin and emaciated, her cheek is blanched, and her eye dimmed. These signs do not visit the young frame for nothing. I fear she has heard of the deadly intention you still persist in entertaining—to take away your own life. It is clear to me that her sickly constitution cannot long stand against a terror and an apprehension which even the aged and the strong cannot endure without grievous injury to all the faculties of the body and mind. Sir, take heed"—pausing and looking at him seriously and impressively—"you may become a daughter's murderer before your cowardly courage enables you to become your own!"
"Hold, sir!—hold!" cried the roused man. "You now speak daggers to me! I could hae borne this when you were here last; but ye hae unmanned me—ye hae made me familiar wi' him, the king o' terrors, wha waits for me. I know him in his worst shapes. He is nae langer hideous to me; and, being his friend, I canna be my dochter's faither and guardian! Why cam you here to revive a struggle that was past? My mind was made up. Owre the pages o' that book, my resolution was fixed; now you wad re-resolve me back to my doubt, my pain, my insufferable agony, by bringin up into my mind the tender image o' a sufferin, sorrowin, starvin dochter. My Margaret—my Margaret!—her mother's image—the pledge o' a love dearer than life——"
The door opened, and the young woman, who had been listening at the back of it, rushed in and flung herself on the bosom of the agonised man.
"O father!" she cried, "I ken everything. Yer dreadfu purpose has been revealed to me. Ye intend to tak awa yer ain life, which my mother, yer beloved Agnes, on her death-bed, bade ye preserve for my sake. But ye canna do that without takin also mine. Yer death will be my death. I hae already seen yer bleedin body in my dreams—the image haunts me like a spirit, and leaves me nae rest. The doctor says true—ye will kill me before yer dreadfu purpose is fulfilled; but if, in God's will, I should be left when ye are awa, wha is to guard me, wha is to comfort me—without freends, without means, and without health?"
The scene now presented to me transcended anything I had ever seen during my long intercourse with suffering humanity. The excited girl clung with a firm grasp to the neck of her parent, and sobbed intensely; while he, struggling to be liberated, and holding away his face to the back of the bed, groaned and appealed for relief in broken, guttural, half-choked aspirations to Heaven. I saw his eyes turned to the throne of mercy, and big tears rolled down his rugged cheeks. In my anxiety to aid this struggle, and assist him to the return to his natural love of life and duty to his God, I was afraid to interfere with the sacred service of a bursting heart, turned in its agony to the only source of consolation and healing virtue; while, if I allowed this opportunity to escape, I might not have another for adding a mortal's means and energies (sometimes God's instruments) to the workings of nature, and the silent but powerful voice of religion speaking from the innermost recesses of his moral constitution.
"This is nature and truth," said I, after a pause—"powers a thousand times stronger than the brain-sick fancies of a diseased mind. It is the voice of God himself, sounding through the heart, and, like the electric energy, heaving it with convulsive throes, as if to cast forth from it the impious daring and unnatural purpose you have cherished in it so long that no lesser power will expel it. I rejoice in these throes; cherish them and aid them, for they are the expulsers of poison that, having got into your blood, and reached the heart, the seat of life, madly stimulates it to self-destruction. This is the time—here is the vantage-ground of a return to all that is right, true, and good, from cowardice, cruelty, irreligion, and even rebellion against God!"
"Listen to him—listen to him!" cried the young woman, still sobbing. "Hear thae words o' truth, for they are sent from Heaven. Receive them into your heart, and it will be changed, and I will live to see my father enjoy life and be happy."
"When?" groaned the miserable man, satirically, as if roused by the sound of the distasteful word "happy." "When I am sittin at the window o' a prison, thinkin o' my dead Agnes, and lookin at the red settin o' my sixty-fifth sun?"
These words showed that the struggle had been ineffectual. Released from the grasp of his daughter, who sat at the side of the bed, he doggedly and sternly folded his arms, and relapsed into a silent fit of dejection. No effort would make him open his lips. There seemed to be no principle of reaction in his moral economy; all was penetrated by a fatal lethargy, which closed up every issue, broke every spring of living thought, feeling, or motion. My professional knowledge was entirely useless, my personal services unavailing. I called to him loudly to answer me, and got no reply but deep groans. I even shook him roughly, and tried to bend his head to his weeping daughter. My efforts were quickened by a sense that bore in upon me with fearful strength and importunity, that I had, by experimenting on his mind, and filling it with images of horror, increased the disease I intended to cure. Pained beyond measure, I was anxious to redeem my fault and correct my error by getting him again engaged in conversation, whereby I might have a last opportunity of drawing him into a train of thought which might lead to a sense of his awful condition, and a prospect of escaping from its present misery, and its horrible consequences. But my medicine had operated too powerfully. There he sat, unmoved, immoveable—a sad and melancholy victim of the worst species of hypochondria—that which exhibits as one of its pathognomonic symptoms, the desire, the determination, persevered in through all difficulties, all oppositions, all wiles and schemes, to commit self-murder.
I waited for a considerable period, standing at the side of his bed, to see if he would exhibit any signs of returning moral vitality: but in vain. My other pressing avocations demanded imperiously my presence in quarters where I could be of more service. The daughter was herself buried in despondency, her face being hid in her hands, and broken ejaculations escaping from her lips. I took up the book which had produced so much harm, and whispered lowly in her ear, to request James H—— to call for me next day. At the sound of this name she started, and looked up wildly. I was afraid I might have to encounter another scene like that I had witnessed on the occasion of my last departure. I therefore hurried away, giving her no time to reply, where conversation was apparently useless. My intention was to try and devise some means of introducing a person into the house—though against the determined will of the father—to guard him and assist the daughter; but that could only be done through the medium of the messenger who went between me and the young woman.
When I had got some distance from the house, I could not resist the feeling that on the occasion of my prior visit compelled me to look back upon this miserable dwelling. I had seen diseases of all kinds grinding the feelings of unhappy man; but in the worst of them there is some principle, either of resistance or resignation, that comes to the aid of the sufferer, and enables him to pass the ordeal, whether for life or death. The duty he is called upon to perform is to bear; for no man I ever yet saw on a sick-bed can get quit of the thought—however much he may try to philosophise about physical causes, or to conceal his sense of a divine influence—that he is placed there by a superior Hand for the very purpose of suffering, with a view to some end that is veiled from his eye. Every pang, therefore, that is borne carries with it, or leaves after it, some feeling of necessity to bear, and a satisfaction of having endured, and to a certain extent obeyed, the behest of Him that sent it. In many, this feeling is strong and decided, yielding comfort and consolation when no other power could have any effect; and though in others it may be less discernible—being often denied by the patients themselves, and attempted to be laughed at and scorned—it is, I assert, still there, silently working its progress in the heart, and spreading its balm even against the sufferer's own rebellious will. But the case of the suicide is left purposely by Him against whose law and authority the unholy purpose is directed, in a solitary condition of unmitigated horror; for the desire to get quit of pain—the inheritance of mortals—is itself the very exclusion of that resignation which is its legitimate antidote, while the devoted victim, obeying a necessity that forces him to eschew a misery he is not noble-minded enough to bear, not only has no good in view, but is conscious that he is flying from evil, through evil, to evil; so that from behind, around him, within him, before him—wherever he casts his eye—there is nothing but darkness, pain, and utter desolation. To complete the scene—there is, perhaps, no living natural evil more peculiar and acute, and less capable of generating resistance or resignation, than the rack of apprehension and terror of an only daughter watching, alone and unaided, the issues of a purpose that is, in all likelihood, to force her through the energies of the strongest instinct—filial affection—to stop, with her trembling hands, the flow of a father's life-blood. Yet all this evil, this misery, was to be found in that house, standing alone in the midst of these bleak hills, like a temple dedicated to sorrow.
Next day James H—— called upon me, having seen the young woman, unknown to the father, on the previous night, and received from her the instructions I left for him. He saw himself the necessity of something being done towards the amelioration of the condition of the two unhappy individuals; but he acknowledged the difficulty of effecting it. He perceived (what was true) that, if any watch were set over his uncle, it might only make certain that which at present was doubtful; that the watchman could only proceed on the principle that he was mad, and bind him, or confine him, or otherwise treat him as insane; and that, besides, he knew no one who, without pay (and there was no money), would undertake so unpleasant a duty, which might last for weeks, or months, or even years. No concealed surveillance could be kept over him; for he suspected in an instant the object of any one visiting him, and had ordered one or two individuals, who had come from a distance to call for him, out of the house, suspecting (such is the way of all his unhappy tribe) that they came for the purpose of observing his motions. The difficulty was greatly owing to the lonely position of the house: the cloak of friendly intercourse might have covered the frequent visits of near neighbours; but there were none such—for the nearest house was two miles off; and as for relations, they were in another part of the country, distant in locality as well as blood.
The case was hedged with difficulties. Violent diseases require strong remedies. I recollected that James H—— said, on a former occasion, that he was the suitor of the young woman, and wished to wed her. I came to a resolution on the instant—firm, decided, and sound. I told him that, if he wished to save the father and the daughter, he must accelerate his intended marriage with the latter, even in the midst of the unfortunate circumstances in which she was placed, and under the unfavourable auspices of an event of joy being shadowed with a cloud of sorrow. This would give him a claim on the daughter; and if the old man would not permit his son-in-law to remain in the house, and assist him as formerly with the labours of his land, he could threaten to take her from him altogether—a threat that would not, in all likelihood, fail to make him consent to his becoming an inmate in the house. The young man was pleased with an advice that quadrated with his wishes, and left me, to consult with some other friends on the propriety of instantly following it.
I heard the banns proclaimed next Sunday in the parish church, and was somewhat surprised at the rapidity with which my advice had been adopted, and the plan put into execution. The intelligence was promptly communicated to me by the bridegroom himself, who informed me also that the fact of the proclamation of the banns had been communicated to his uncle, who had expressed himself strongly against the match. He had, in fact, taken up a strong prejudice against his nephew, in consequence of the latter's interference with his purpose of self-immolation. He had never allowed the young man to come near him since the day on which he had taken the razor out of his hands by force; and the intelligence that he was to marry his daughter, and deprive him of her society, roused him to fury. He denounced the union, and said that it added another drop of bitterness to the cup of his misery, which was already overflowing. I told the young man that the anger into which his uncle had been thrown would, in all likelihood, do him more good than harm: it might stimulate a mind, dead or dormant, from the effects of brooding over imaginary evils, which produced ten times more self-murders than the real misfortunes of life. He told me the marriage would not, on account of his uncle's anger, be put off; that it was fixed for the 15th of the month, and would be celebrated in private. I informed him that I required to go to a distant part of the country, and could not, for some time, see his uncle, and that he must endeavour, by all means, to support and comfort the unhappy bride in her watchful care over her unfortunate father, who, according to his account, was still under the cloud from which he threatened every instant to draw down the lightning that was to strike him to death.
When I returned from my journey, I called again upon the unfortunate man, in the hope of finding some amelioration in his condition, as well as that of his daughter. I found him still in bed, though he had been up and out on several occasions since I visited him. I saw no signs of improvement. I endeavoured to get him engaged in a conversation about his own condition; but I saw that, in place of being fond of dwelling on the state of his mind, talking of his sorrows, and contemplating the purpose he entertained against his existence, he showed an utter repugnance to the subject, having become perfectly taciturn, sullen, and morose, giving me monosyllables for answers, and sometimes not deigning even to show that he attended to me, or understood me. The only thing that seemed to interest him was his daughter's marriage—looking dark and gloomy when the subject was broached, and muttering indistinct words of reproach and anger. The condition of his daughter was changed; but it was only a new form of anguish. Some days previous, she had observed him with another razor in his hand; but he had secreted it somewhere, and all her efforts had as yet been ineffectual to get it. Her watch had therefore been more unremitting—her apprehensions were increased, while her strength was greatly diminished. She was reduced to a shadow; the pale skin that covered her face seemed to be in contact with the bones; while her eyes burned with fever and excitement. Yet her marriage was fixed to take place two or three days after! She could not avoid it; she had pledged her word, and her father's safety depended in a great degree upon it. She could bear her condition no longer—all her powers of suffering were worn out; and if her father would not permit her husband to remain in the house, she would, she said, allow the latter to exercise what authority he pleased, in endeavouring, by force, to save his father-in-law and his wife from the ruin that seemed to await them. The gloom that enveloped her mind was deepened by the contrast of the light of a happiness she had long sighed for, now changed into a refinement of peculiar pain. She shuddered when she thought of her marriage with the man she loved, and feared that the power of Heaven would fall on her, for presuming to bring joy into the chamber of mourning, if not death. As she spoke, tears moistened her burning eye, and ran down her thin, pallid cheeks. She wished the ceremony over, as an evil to be endured, and then fate must take its course, though she feared the termination would be miserable, as well for her father as for her. His life was hanging by a thread; hers was worn out by watching, fainting, and suffering, till it was on the very eve of leaving the body, which was no longer able to support or contain it. These were the misfortunes in the inside of the house; but there were others without-doors. The landlord had sequestrated the stock belonging to her father—a circumstance that had plunged him deeper in his despondency and misery, and explained the very altered state in which I had found him. The attorney, a hard man, laughed at the device of threatened self-murder, resorted to for the purpose of exciting his sympathy, and robbing his client's pocket.
"Yes," she concluded, "he laughed"—and she repeated the word "laughed" with a hysterical action of the throat, as if it choked her, and next moment burst into tears.
Two days afterwards, a man on horseback arrived at my door, and rapped with great violence; his horse was heated, and foaming at the mouth, as if it had been hard pressed, and he himself was flushed and excited. He told me, in a hurried manner, that I was wanted instantly at George B——'s; he had been sent to me by another man, and could tell me nothing beyond the fact that something very alarming had taken place, and that, if I did not hasten thither on the instant, and with my very greatest speed, I could be of no use. I took with me what I conceived might be wanted, for my suspicions were more communicative than the messenger, and proceeded, with all the expedition in my power, to the house where I had lately seen so much suffering.
On my entering the house, a most extraordinary spectacle presented itself. On the small truckle-bed that stood opposite the door in the kitchen lay a female figure, dressed in white, with both her hands wrapped up in cloth, from which issues of blood rolled on the bed; and her face, not less pale than her dress, was spotted and besmeared with the same element. It was Margaret B—— in her marriage dress. A young woman, her bridesmaid, was beside her, looking in her face as if to see whether life was still in her body. A young man, also dressed as if for the marriage, hurried me to the apartment of George B——, where a scene not less awful was presented to me. The unhappy man was lying in the middle of the floor, on his back, with his throat cut, and James H——, in his bridegroom clothes, was bending over him, with his hands busily occupied in stanching a wound that would have let out ten lives, if he had had as many to destroy; the floor was literally swimming in blood, and on a chair in the corner of the room lay the fatal instrument, still open. My services were useless: the man was dead; his attendants were engaged in stopping blood already curdled with death. I hurried to the patient that was still living. She had lost almost the whole blood of her body, and it was difficult to detect in her any symptoms of life. I unloosed the cloths from her hands; they were cut in a fearful manner—the blade of the razor, which she had, in her struggles with her parent, endeavoured to wrest from him, having been whisked through them when hard clenched. No one had been in the house; her marriage-dress was still incomplete—her bosom bare, and her head uncovered; a proof that she had been called from the mirror wherein she saw a half-dressed bride, to see a father kill himself by his own hand against her efforts to save him. Her screams were heard by the bridesmaid and bridegroom, as they approached the house; but, before they entered, the struggle was nearly over; they found her bending over the body of her father, which lay on the floor, grasping the open wound with her hands. So spoke the attendants as I dressed the wounds. I took up several arteries; but there was one in the left wrist which, for a long period, defied my efforts, unassisted as I was with professional aid, to stem its torrent. I succeeded at last—so, at least, I thought—in my endeavours to stop all the issues. Vain thought! Death had stopped them!
This was the first time I had seen a dead bride.