Editor's Easy Chair.
"Ouf! ouf!"—The French have a funny way of writing a letter, as well as of telling a story. For instance, our friend of the Courrier, whose gossip we have time and again transmuted, with some latitude of construction into our own noon-tide sentences, commences one of his later epistles with the exclamation, "Ouf! ouf!" "And this," says he, "is the best resumé that I can give you of the situation of Paris." It is a cry of distress, and of lassitude, breaking out from the Parisian heart, over-burdened with plenitude of pleasure; it is the re-action of the fêtes of May. How many things in ten days! How much dust—cannon-smoke—fire—fury—Roman candles—thunder—melodramas—and provincials! How much theatre-going—dining out—spent francs—demitasses—and ennui!
It is no wonder that your true Parisian is troubled with the crowd and uproar that the fêtes bring to Paris, and, above all, with the uncouth hordes of banditti provincials. The New-Yorker or the Philadelphian can look complacently upon the throngs that our Eastern and Northern steamers disgorge upon the city, and upon the thousand wagons of "Market-street;" for these, all of them, not only bring their quota of money to his till, but they lend a voice and a tread to the hurry and the noise in which, and by which, your true-blooded American feels his fullest life.
But the Parisian—living by daily, methodic, quiet, uninterrupted indulgence of his tastes and humors—looks harshly upon the stout wool-growers and plethoric vineyard men, who elbow him out of the choicest seats at the Theatre of the Palais Royal, and who break down his appreciative chuckle at a stroke of wit, with their immoderate guffaw. Then, the dresses of these provincials are a perpetual eye-sore to his taste. Such coats! such hats! such canes! The very sight of them makes misery for your habitual frequenter of the Maison d'or, or of the Café Anglais.
Moreover, there is something in the very insouciance of these country-comers to Paris which provokes the citizen the more. What do they care for their white bell-crowns of ten years ago? or what, for marching and counter-marching the Boulevard, with a fat wife on one arm, and a fat daughter on the other? What do they care for the fashion of a dinner, as they call for a bouillon, followed with a steak and onions, flanked by a melon, and wet with a deep bottle of Julienne premier?
What do they care for any mode, or any proprieties of the Faubourg St. Honoré, as they leer at the dancers of the Bal Mabil, or roar once and again at the clown who figures at the Estaminet-Café of the Champs Elyssées?
In short, says our aggrieved friend, the letter-writer, they press us, and torture us every where; they eat our bread, and drink our wine, and tread on our toes, and crowd us from our seats, as if the gay capital were made for them alone! Nor is the story unreal: whoever has happened upon that mad French metropolis, in the days of its fête madness, can recall the long procession of burly and gross provincials who swarm the streets and gardens, like the lice in the Egypt of Pharaoh.
In the old kingly times, when fêtes were regal, and every Frenchman gloated at the velvet panoply, worked over with golden fleurs-de-lis, as they now gloat at the columns of their Republican journals, their love for festal-days was well hit off in an old comedy. The shopkeeper (in the play) says to his wife, "Take care of the shop; I am going to see the king." And the wife presently says to the chief clerk, "Take care of the shop; I am going to see the king." And the clerk, so soon as the good woman is fairly out of sight, says to the garçon, "Take care of the shop; I am going to see the king." And the garçon enjoins upon the dog to "take care of the shop, as he is going to see the king." And the dog, stealing his nose out at the door, leaves all in charge of the parroquet, and goes to see the king!
The joke made a good laugh in those laughing days: nor is the material for as good a joke wanting now. The prefect leaves business with the sub-prefect, that he may go up to the Paris fête. The sub-prefect leaves his care with some commissioner, that he may go up to the Paris fête. And the commissioner, watching his chance, steals away in his turn, and chalks upon the door of the prefecture, "Gone to the fêtes of May."
All this, to be sure, is two months old, and belonged to that festive season of the Paris year, which goes before the summer. Now, if report speaks true, with provincials gone home, and the booths along the Champs Elyssées struck, and the theatric stars escaped to Belgium, or the Springs, the Parisian is himself again. He takes his evening drive in the Bois de Boulogne; he fishes for invitations to Meudon, or St. Cloud; he plots a descent upon Boulogne, or Aix la Chapelle; he studies the summer fashions from his apartments on the Boulevard de la Madeleine; he takes his river-bath by the bridge of the Institute; he smokes his evening cigar under the trees by the National Circus; and he speculates vaguely upon the imperial prospects of his President, the Prince Louis.
Meantime, fresh English and Americans come thronging in by the Northern road, and the Havre road, and the road from Strasbourg. They cover every floor of every hotel and maison garnie in the Rue Rivoli. They buy up all the couriers and valets-de-place; they swarm in the jewelry and the bronze shops of the Rue de la Paix; and they call, in bad French, for every dish that graces the carte du jour in the restaurants of the Palais Royal. They branch off toward the Apennines and the Alps, in flocks; and, if report speak true, the Americans will this year outnumber upon the mountains of Switzerland both French and German travelers. Indeed, Geneva, and Zurich, and Lucerne, are now discussed and brought into the map of tourists, as thoughtlessly as, ten years since, they compared the charms of the Blue Lick and the Sharon waters.
Look at it a moment: Ten days, under the Collins guidance, will land a man in Liverpool. Three days more will give him a look at the Tower, the Parks, Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, and Paternoster Row; and on the fourth he may find himself swimming in a first-class French car, on damask cushions, at forty miles the hour from Boulogne to Paris. Five days in the capital will show him (specially if he is free of service-money) the palaces of Versailles, the Louvre, the park at St. Cloud, the church of Notre Dame, the Madeleine, the Bourse, the Dead House, a score of balls, half as many theatres, the pick of the shops, and the great Louis himself.
Three other summer days, allowing a ten hours' tramp over the galleries and sombre grounds of Fontainebleau, will set him down, at the door of "mine host" of the Hotel de l'Ecu, in the city of Geneva, and he will brush the dews from his eyes in the morning, within sight of the "blue, arrowy Rhone," and "placid Leman, and the bald white peak of Mont Blanc." A Sunday in the Genevese church, will rest his aching limbs, and give him hearing of such high doctrine as comes from the lips of Merle d'Aubigné, and Monday will drift him on char-a-banc straight down through wooded Sardinia—reading Coleridge's Hymn—into the marvelous valley of Chamouny.
There, he may take breath before he goes up upon the Sea of Ice; and afterward he may idle, on donkeys or his own stout feet, over such mountain passes as will make Franconia memories tame, and boat it upon the Lake of Lucerne; and dine at the White Swan of Frankfort, and linger at Bingen, and drink Hock at Heidelberg; and chaffer with Jean Maria Farina at Cologne, and measure the stairs of the belfry at Antwerp, and toss in a cockle shell of a steamer across the straits, and lay him down in his Collins berth one month from his landing, a fresher and fuller man—with only six weeks cloven from his summer, and a short "five hundred" lifted from his purse.
The very fancy of it all—so easy, and so quick-coming—makes our blood beat in the office-chair, and tempts us strangely to fling down the pen, and to book ourselves by the Arctic.
We happened the other day upon an old French picture of Washington, which it may be worth while to render into passable English. It comes from the writings of M. de Broglie.
"I urged," he says, "M. de Rochambeau to present me, and the next day was conducted by him to dine with the great general. He received, most graciously, a letter from my father, and gave me a pleasant welcome. The general is about forty-nine—tall, well-made, and of elegant proportions. His face is much more agreeable than generally represented: notwithstanding the fatigues of the last few years, he seems still to possess all the agility and freshness of youth.
"His expression is sweet and frank; his address rather cold, though polished; his eye, somewhat pensive, is more observant than flashing; and his look is full of dignified assurance. He guards always a dignity of manner which forbids great familiarity, while it seems to offend none. He seems modest, even to humility; yet he accepts, kindly and graciously, the homage which is so freely rendered him. His tone of voice is exceedingly low; and his attention to what is addressed to him, so marked, as to make one sure he has fully understood, though he should venture no reply. Indeed this sort of circumspection is a noted trait of his character.
"His courage is rather calm than brilliant, and shows itself rather in the coolness of his decision, than in the vigor with which he battles against odds.
"He usually dines in company with twenty or thirty of his officers; his attention to them is most marked and courteous; and his dignity, at table only, sometimes relapses into gayety. He lingers at dessert for an hour or two, eating freely of nuts, and drinking wine with his guests. I had the honor of interchanging several toasts with the general; among others, I proposed the health of the Marquis de Lafayette. He accepted the sentiment with a very benevolent smile, and was kind enough to offer, in turn, the health of my own family.
"I was particularly struck with the air of respect and of admiration with which his officers uniformly treated General Washington."
M. de Broglie makes mention of the meeting of Washington and Gates, after their unfortunate difference, and speaks in high praise of the conduct of both. He furthermore suggests that the assignment of the chief command of the army to General Greene was owing to a certain feeling of jealousy which Washington entertained for the reputation of Gates: a suggestion, which neither contemporaneous history, or the relative merits of Greene and of Gates would confirm.
It is not a little singular how greedy we become to learn the most trivial details of the private life of the men we admire. Who would not welcome nowadays any bona fide contemporaneous account of the meals or dress of William Shakspeare, or of Francis Bacon? And what a jewel of a spirit that would be, who would make some pleasant letter-writer for the Tribune, the medium of communicating to us what colored coat Shakspeare wore when he wooed Ann Hathaway, and how much wine he drank for the modeling of Jack Falstaff! Were there no Boswells in those days, whose spirits might be coaxed into communicative rappings about the king of the poets? We recommend the matter, in all sincerity, to the Misses Media.
A French court-room is not unfrequently as "good as a play:" besides which, the Paris reporters have a dainty way of working up the infirmities of a weak wicked man into a most captivating story. They dramatize, even to painting the grave nod of the judge; and will work out a farce from a mere broken bargain about an ass!—as one may see from this trial of Léonard Vidaillon.
Léonard Vidaillon, as brave a cooper as ever hammered a hoop, having retired from business, bethought him of buying an equipage for his family; but hesitated between the purchase of a pony or a donkey.
"A pony," said he, to himself, "is a graceful little beast, genteel, coquet, and gives a man a 'certain air;' but on the other hand, your pony is rather hard to keep, and costly to equip. The donkey takes care of himself—eats every thing—wants no comb or brush; but, unfortunately, is neither vivacious or elegant."
In the midst of this embarrassment, an old friend recommended to him—a mule. With this idea flaming in his thought, Léonard ran over all of Paris in search of a mule, and ended with finding, at the stable of a worthy donkey-drover, a little mule of a year old—of "fine complexion"—smaller than a horse—larger than a donkey—with a lively eye—in short, such a charming little creature as bewitched the cooper, and secured the sale.
The price was a hundred francs, it being agreed that the young mule should have gratuitous nursing of its donkey-mother for three months; at the expiration of which time our cooper should claim his own.
The next scene opens in full court.
Léonard, the defendant, is explaining.
"Yes, your honor, I bought the mule, to be delivered at the end of three months. At the end of three months I fell sick; I lay a-bed twelve weeks; I drugged myself to death; I picked up on water-gruel; I got on my legs; and the second day out I went after my little mule."
Donkey-man (being plaintiff).—The court will observe that three months and twelve weeks make six months.
The Judge nods acquiescence.
Leonard.—Agreed. They make six months. I went then after my little mule, a delicate creature, not larger than a large ass, that I had picked out expressly for my little wagon. I went, as I said, to see my little mule. And what does the man show me? A great, yellow jackass, high in the hips, with a big belly, that would be sure to split the shafts of my carriage! I said to him, "M. Galoupeau, this is not my little mule, and I sha'n't pay you."
Galoupeau (plaintiff).—And what did I say?
Leonard.—You swore it was my mule.
Galoupeau.—I said better than that: I said I couldn't constrain the nature of the beast, and hinder a little mule from growing large.
Leonard.—But mine was a blond, and yours is yellow.
Galoupeau.—Simply another effect of nature! And I have seen a little black ass foal turn white at three months old!
Leonard.—Do you think I have filled casks so long, not to know that red wine is red, and white wine, white.
Galoupeau.—I don't know. I don't understand the nature of wines; but donkeys—yes.
Judge (to the defendant).—So you refuse to take the mule?
Leonard.—I rather think so—a mule like a camel, and such a ferocious character, that he came within an ace of taking my life!
Judge.—You will please to make good this point of the injuries sustained.
Leonard.—The thing is easy. This M. Galoupeau insisted that I should take a look at his beast, and brought him out of the stable. The animal made off like a mad thing, and came near killing all the poultry. Then M. Galoupeau, who professes to know his habits, followed him up to the bottom of the yard, spoke gently to him, and after getting a hand upon his shoulder, called me up. As for myself, I went up confidently. I came near the beast, and just as I was about to reach out my hand for a gentle caress, the brute kicked me in the stomach—such a kick!—Mon Dieu! but here, your Honor, is the certificate—"twelve days a-bed; one hundred and fifty leeches." All that for caressing the brute!
Galoupeau.—If you were instructed, M. Léonard, in the nature of these beasts, you would understand that they never submit to any flattery from behind; and you know very well that you approached him by the tail.
Here two stable-boys were called to the stand, who testified that Signor Léonard Vidaillon, late cooper, did approach their master's jackass by the tail; and furthermore, that the mule (or jackass) was ordinarily of a quiet and peaceable disposition. This being shown to the satisfaction of the Court, and since it appeared that an inexperience, arising out of ignorance of the nature of the beast, had occasioned the injury to Signor Vidaillon, the case was decided for the plaintiff. Poor Léonard was mulcted in the cost of the mule, the costs of the suit, the cost of a hundred and fifty leeches, and the cost of broader shafts to his family wagon.
We have entertained our reader with this report—first, to show how parties to a French suit plead their own cause; and next, to show how the French reporters render the cause into writing. The story is headed in the French journal, like a farce—"A little mule will grow."
As for the town, in these hot days of summer, it looks slumberous. The hundreds who peopled the up-town walks with silks and plumes, are gone to the beach of Newport, or the shady verandas of the "United States." Even now, we will venture the guess, there are scores of readers running over this page under the shadow of the Saratoga colonnades, or in view of the broad valley of the Mohawk, who parted from us last month in some cushioned fauteuil of the New York Avenues.
The down-town men wear an air of ennui, and slip uneasily through the brick and mortar labyrinths of Maiden-lane and of John-street. Brokers, even, long for their Sunday's recess—when they can steal one breath of health and wideness at New Rochelle, or Rockaway. Southerners, with nurses and children, begin to show themselves in the neighborhood of the Union and Clarendon, and saunter through our sunshine as if our sunshine were a bath of spring.
Fruits meantime are ripening in all our stalls; and it takes the edge from the sultriness of the season to wander at sunrise, through the golden and purple show of our Washington market. Most of all, to such as are tied, by lawyer's tape or editorial pen, to the desks of the city, does it bring a burst of country glow to taste the firstlings of the country's growth, and to doat upon the garden glories of the year—as upon so many testimonial clusters, brought back from a land of Canaan.
And in this vein, we can not avoid noting and commending the increasing love for flowers. Bouquets are marketable; they are getting upon the stalls; they flank the lamb and the butter. Our civilization is ripening into a sense of their uses and beauties. They talk to us even now—(for a tenpenny bunch of roses is smiling at us from our desk) of fields, fragrance, health, and wanton youth. They take us back to the days when with urchin fingers we grappled the butter-cup and the mountain daisy—days when we loitered by violet banks, and loved to loiter—days when we loved the violets, and loved to love; and they take us forward too—far forward to the days that always seem coming, when flowers shall bless us again, and be plucked again, and be loved again, and bloom around us, year after year; and bloom over us, year after year!
The two great hinges of public chat are—just now—the rival candidates, Generals Pierce and Scott; serving not only for the hot hours of lunch under the arches of the Merchants' Exchange, but toning the talk upon every up-bound steamer of the Hudson, and giving their creak to the breezes of Cape May.
Poor Generals!—that a long and a worthy life should come to such poor end as this. To be vilified in the journals, to be calumniated with dinner-table abuse, or with worse flattery—to have their religion, their morals, their courage, their temper, all brought to the question;—to have their faces fly-specked in every hot shop of a barber—to have their grandparents, and parents all served up in their old clothes; to have their school-boy pranks ferreted out, and every forgotten penny pitched into their eyes; to have their wine measured by the glass, and their tears by the tumbler; to have their names a bye-word, and their politics a reproach—this is the honor we show to these most worthy candidates!
As a relief to the wearisome political chat, our city has just now been blessed with Alboni; and it is not a little curious to observe how those critics who were coy of running riot about Jenny Lind, are lavishing their pent-up superlatives upon the new-comer. The odium of praising nothing, it appears, they do not desire; and seize the first opportunity to win a reputation for generosity. The truth is, we suspect, that Alboni is a highly cultivated singer, with a voice of southern sweetness, and with an air of most tempered pleasantness; but she hardly brings the prestige of that wide benevolence, noble action, and naïve courtesy, which made the world welcome Jenny as a woman, before she had risked a note.
In comparing the two as artists, we shall not venture an opinion; but we must confess to a strong liking for such specimen of humanity, as makes its humanity shine through whatever art it embraces. Such humanity sliding into song, slides through the song, and makes the song an echo; such humanity reveling in painting, makes the painting only a shadow on the wall. Every true artist should be greater than his art; or else it is the art that makes him great.
And while we are upon this matter of song, we take the liberty of suggesting, in behalf of plain-spoken, and simple-minded people, that musical criticism is nowadays arraying itself in a great brocade of words, of which the fustian only is clear to common readers. We can readily understand that the art of music, like other arts, should have its technicalities of expression; but we can not understand with what propriety those technicalities should be warped into such notices, as are written professedly for popular entertainment and instruction.
If, Messrs. Journalists, your musical critiques are intended solely for the eye of connoisseurs, stick to your shady Italian; but if they be intended for the enlightenment of such hungry outside readers, as want to know, in plain English, how such or such a concert went off, and in what peculiar way each artist excels, for Heaven's sake, give us a taste again of old fashioned Saxon expletive! He seems to us by far the greatest critic, who can carry to the public mind the clearest and the most accurate idea of what was sung, and of the way in which it was sung. It would seem, however, that we are greatly mistaken; and that the palm of excellence should lie with those, whose periods smack most of the green-room, and cover up opinions with a profusion of technicalities. We shall not linger here, however, lest we be attacked in language we can not understand.
Among the novelties which have provoked their share of the boudoir chit-chat, and which go to make our monthly digest of trifles complete, may be reckoned the appearance of a company of trained animals at the Astor Place Opera House. Their débût was modest and maidenly; and could hardly have made an eddy in the talk, had not the purveyors of that classic temple, entered an early protest against the performance, as derogatory to the dignity of the place.
This difficulty, and the ensuing discussions, naturally led to a comparison of the habits of the various animals, who are accustomed to appear in that place, whether as spectators, or as actors. What the judicial decision may have been respecting the matter, we are not informed. Public opinion, however, seems to favor the conclusion that the individuals composing the monkey troup would compare well, even on the score of dignity, with very many habitués of the house; and that the whole monkey tribe, being quite harmless and inoffensive, should remain, as heretofore, the subjects of Christian toleration, whether appearing on the bench (no offense to the Judges) or the boards.
With this theatric note, to serve as a snapper to our long column of gossip, we beg to yield place to that very coy lady—the Bride of Landeck.
AN OLD GENTLEMAN'S LETTER.
"THE BRIDE OF LANDECK."
Dear Sir—The small village of Landeck is situated in a very beautiful spot near the river Inn, with a fine old castle to the southeast, against the winds from which quarter it shelters the greater part of the village—a not unnecessary screen; for easterly winds in the Tyrol are very detestable. Indeed I know no country in which they are any thing else, or where the old almanac lines are not applicable—
"When the wind is in the east,
'Tis neither good for man or beast."
Some people, however, are peculiarly affected by the influence of that wind; and they tell a story of Dr. Parr—for the truth of which I will not vouch, but which probably has some foundation in fact. When a young man, he is said to have had an attack of ague, which made him dread the east wind as a pestilence. He had two pupils at the time, gay lads, over whose conduct, as well as whose studies, he exercised a very rigid superintendence. When they went out to walk, Parr was almost sure to be with them, much to their annoyance on many occasions. There were some exceptions, however; and they remarked that these exceptions occurred when the wind was easterly. Boys are very shrewd, and it did not escape the lads' attention, that every day their tutor walked to the window, and looked up at the weather-cock on the steeple of the little parish church. Conferences were held between the young men; and a carpenter consulted. A few days after, the wind was in the east, and the Doctor suffered them to go out alone. The following day it was in the east still. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, all easterly wind—if the weather-cock might be believed. Sunday, Parr went to church, and shivered all day. The next week it was just the same thing. Never was such a spell of easterly wind. Parr was miserable. But at the end of some five weeks, a friend, and man of the world, came to visit him, with the common salutation of—"A fine day, Doctor!"
"No day is a fine day, sir, with an easterly wind," said Parr, with his usual acerbity.
"Easterly wind?" said his visitor, walking toward the window; "I don't think the wind is east—yes it is, indeed."
"Ay, sir, and has been for these six weeks," answered Parr, sharply. "I could tell it by my own sensations, without looking at the weather-cock."
"Why, Doctor," answered the other, "the wind was west yesterday: that I know; and I thought it was west to-day."
"Then you thought like a fool, sir," answered Parr. "A man who can not tell when the wind is in the east, has no right to think at all. Let him look at the weather-cock."
"But the weather-cock may be rusty," answered the other; "and your weather-cock must be rusty if it pointed to the east yesterday; for it blew pretty smartly from the west all day."
"Do you think I am a fool, sir: do you think I am a liar?" asked Parr, angrily.
"No; but you may be mistaken, Doctor," replied the other. "Even Solomon, as you know, made a mistake sometimes; and you are mistaken now; and the weather-cock too. Look at the clouds: they are coming rapidly from the west. If you would take my advice, you would look to our friend there on the top of the steeple."
"I will, sir—I will this moment," replied Parr; and ringing the bell violently, he ordered his servant to take the village carpenter and a bottle of oil, and have the weather-cock examined and greased. He and his visitor watched the whole proceeding from the window—the bringing forth of the ladders, the making them fast with ropes, the perilous ascent, and then the long operations which seemed much more complicated than the mere process of greasing the rusty weather-cock. "What can the fools be about?" said Parr. In the end, however, the deed, whatever it was, was done; and the servant and the carpenter descended, and came toward the house. By this time the weather-cock had whirled round, pointing directly to the west, and the Doctor asked eagerly, as soon as the men appeared. "Well, sir—well: what prevented the vane from turning?"
"A large nail, sir," answered the man.
"I will never trust a weather-cock again," cried Parr.
"Nor your own sensations either, Doctor," said his friend, "unless you are very sure they are right ones; for if you pin them to a weather-cock, there may be people who will find it for their interest to pin the weather-cock to the post."
The two poor pupils from that day forward lost their advantage; but they had six weeks of fun out of it, and, like the fishes in the Arabian tale, "were content."
There is an old proverb, that "Fancy is as good for a fool as physic," and I believe the saying might be carried further still; for there is such a thing as corporeal disease, depending entirely upon the mind; and that with very wise men too. The effect of mental remedies we all know, even in very severe and merely muscular diseases. Whether Doctor Parr was cured of his aguish sensations or not, I can not tell; but I have known several instances of mental remedies applied with success; to say nothing of having actually seen the incident displayed by old Bunbury's caricature of a rheumatic man enabled to jump over a high fence by the presence of a mad bull. I will give you one instance of a complete, though temporary cure, performed upon a young lady by what I can only consider mental agency. One of the daughters of a Roman Catholic family, named V——, a very beautiful and interesting girl, had entirely lost the use of her limbs for nearly three years, and was obliged to be fed and tended like a child. Her mind was acute and clear, however, and as at that time the celebrated Prince Hohenloe was performing, by his prayers, some cures which seemed miraculous, her father entered into correspondence with him, to see if any thing could be done for the daughter. The distance of some thousand miles lay between the Prince and the patient; but he undertook to pray and say mass for her on a certain day, and at a certain hour, and directed that mass should also be celebrated in the city where she resided, exactly at the same moment. As the longitude of the two places was very different, a great deal of fuss was made to ascertain the precise time. All this excited her imagination a good deal, and at the hour appointed the whole family went to mass, leaving her alone, and in bed. On their return they found Miss V——, who for years had not been able to stir hand or foot, up, dressed, and in the drawing-room. For the time, she was perfectly cured; but I have been told that she gradually fell back into the same state as before.
Mental medicine does not always succeed, however; and once, in my own case, failed entirely. When traveling in Europe, in the year 1825, I was attacked with very severe quartan fever. I was drugged immensely between the paroxysms, and the physician conspired with my friends to persuade me I was quite cured. They went so far as, without my knowing it, to put forward a striking-clock that was on the mantle-piece, and when the hour struck, at which the fit usually seized me, without any appearance of its return, they congratulated me on my recovery, and actually left me. Nevertheless, at the real hour, the fever seized me again, and shook me nearly to pieces. Neither is it that mental medicine sometimes fails; but it sometimes operates in a most unexpected and disastrous manner; especially when applied to mental disease; and I am rather inclined to believe, that corporeal malady may often be best treated by mental means; mental malady by corporeal means.
A friend of my youth, poor Mr. S—— lost his only son, in a very lamentable manner. He had but two children: this son and a daughter. Both were exceedingly handsome, full of talent and kindly affection; and the two young people were most strongly attached to each other. Suddenly, the health of young S—— was perceived to decline. He became grave—pale—sad—emaciated. His parents took the alarm. Physicians were sent for. No corporeal disease of any kind could be discovered. The doctors declared privately that there must be something on his mind, as it is called, and his father with the utmost kindness and tenderness, besought him to confide in him, assuring him that if any thing within the reach of fortune or influence could give him relief, his wishes should be accomplished, whatever they might be.
"You can do nothing for me, my dear father," replied the young man, sadly; "but you deserve all my confidence, and I will not withhold it. That which is destroying me, is want of rest. Every night, about an hour after I lie down, a figure dressed in white, very like the figure of my dear sister, glides into the room, and seats itself on the right side of my bed, where it remains all night. If I am asleep at the time of its coming, I am sure to wake, and I remain awake all night with my eyes fixed upon it. I believe it to be a delusion; but I can not banish it; and the moment it appears, I am completely under its influence. This is what is killing me."
The father reasoned with him, and took every means that could be devised either by friends or physicians, to dispel this sad phantasy. They gave parties; they sat up late; they changed the scene; but it was all in vain. The figure still returned; and the young man became more and more feeble. He was evidently dying; and as a last resource, it was determined to have recourse to a trick to produce a strong effect upon his mind. The plan arranged was as follows. His sister was to dress herself in white, as he had represented the figure to be dressed, and about the hour he mentioned, to steal into his room, and seat herself on the other side of the bed, opposite to the position which the phantom of his imagination usually occupied, while the parents remained near the door to hear the result. She undertook the task timidly; but executed it well. Stealing in, with noiseless tread, she approached her brother's bed-side, and by the faint moonlight, saw his eyes fixed with an unnatural stare upon vacancy, but directed to the other side. She seated herself without making the least noise, and waited to see if he would turn his eyes toward her. He did not stir in the least, however; but lay, as if petrified by the sight his fancy presented. At length she made a slight movement to call his attention, and her garments rustled. Instantly the young man turned his eyes to the left, gazed at her—looked back to the right—gazed at her again; and then exclaimed, almost with a shriek, "Good God: there are two of them!"
He said no more. His sister darted up to him. The father and mother ran in with lights; but the effect had been fatal. He was gone.
Nor is this the only case in which I have known the most detrimental results occur from persons attempting indiscreetly to act upon the minds of the sick while in a very feeble state. Once, indeed, the whole medical men—and they were among the most famous of their time in the world—belonging to one of the chief hospitals of Edinburgh, were at fault in a similar manner. The case was this: A poor woman of the port of Leith had married a sailor, to whom she was very fondly attached. They had one or two children, and were in by no means good circumstances. The man went to sea in pursuit of his usual avocations, and at the end of two or three months intelligence was received in Leith of the loss of the vessel with all on board. Left in penury, with no means of supporting her children but her own hard labor, the poor woman, who was very attractive in appearance, was persuaded to marry a man considerably older than herself, but in very tolerable circumstances. By him she had one child; and in the summer of the year 1786, she was sitting on the broad, open way, called Leith-walk, with a baby on her lap. Suddenly, she beheld her first husband walk up the street directly toward her. The man recognized her instantly, approached, and spoke to her. But she neither answered nor moved. She was struck with catalepsy. In this state she was removed to the Royal Infirmary, and her case, from the singular circumstances attending it, excited great interest in the medical profession in Edinburgh, which at that time numbered among its professors the celebrated Cullen, and no less celebrated Gregory. The tale was related to me by one of their pupils, who was present, and who assured me that every thing was done that science could suggest, till all the ordinary remedial means were exhausted. The poor woman remained without speech or motion. In whatever position the body was placed, there it remained; and the rigidity of the muscles was such, that when the arm was extended, twenty minutes elapsed before it fell to her side by its own weight. Death was inevitable, unless some means could be devised of rousing the mind to some active operation on the body. From various indications, it was judged that the poor woman was perfectly sensible, and at a consultation of all the first physicians of the city, the first husband was sent for, and asked if he was willing to co-operate, in order to give his poor wife a chance of life. He replied, with deep feeling, that he was willing to lay down his own life, if it would restore her: that he was perfectly satisfied with her conduct; knew that she had acted in ignorance of his existence; and explained, that having floated to the coast of Africa upon a piece of the wreck, he had been unable for some years to return to his native land, or communicate with any one therein. In these circumstances, it was determined to act immediately. The Professors grouped themselves round the poor woman, and the first husband was brought suddenly to the foot of the bed, toward which her eyes were turned, carrying the child by the second husband in his arms. A moment of silence and suspense succeeded; but then, she who had lain for so many days like a living corpse, rose slowly up, and stretched out her hands toward the poor sailor. Her lips moved, and with a great effort she exclaimed, "Oh, John, John—you know that it was nae my fault." The effort was too much for her exhausted frame: she fell back again immediately, and in five minutes was a corpse indeed.
This story may have been told by others before me, for the thing was not done in a corner. But I always repeat it, when occasion serves, in order to warn people against an incautious use of means to which we are accustomed to attribute less power than they really possess.
And now, I will really go on with "The Bride of Landeck" in my next letter.—Yours faithfully,
P.