Literature and Life.—We have many examples of this tendency to depression that come to the literary man in the lives and letters of distinguished writers that have been published so frequently in recent years. Perhaps one of the most striking is to be found in the life of Robert Bulwer Lytton, the second Lord Lytton, so well known as a diplomatist in European circles and throughout the English-speaking world as a poet, under the pen name of "Owen Meredith." [Footnote 51] It might be thought that Lytton would be one of the men safely harbored from storms of depression and discouragement, for his life seemed ideally situated to enable him to get the best out of himself without worry or dissipation of energy in occupation with mere personal matters. His father had made a distinguished success as a literary man and a politician, had been raised to the peerage and the son began life with every possible advantage. He made a distinguished success in literature so that he even converted his father to praise him and as a diplomatist he occupied nearly every important post in English diplomacy and had hosts of friends all over the world.
[Footnote 51: Personal and Literary Letters of Lord Lytton, edited by Lady Betty Balfour. New York, 1909.]
It is all the more surprising, then, to have many passages in his letters refer to periodic attacks of depression. He says, for instance, "My physical temperament has a great tendency to beget blue devils and when those imps lay siege to my soul they recall those words of Schopenhauer's and say to me 'thou art the man.'" Perhaps the price that the artistic temperament pays for the satisfaction that it gets out of life in other directions is this occasional tendency [{649}] to depression because achievement does not equal aspiration. Certainly the price often seems excessive to those who have to pay it. In the same letter to his daughter, Lytton continues:
When my blue devils are cast out, and I recover sanity of spirits, then I say to myself just what you say to me in your letter—that the main thing is not to do but to be; that the work of a man is rather in what he is than in what he does; that one may be a very fine poet yet a very poor creature; that my life has at least been a very full one, rich in varied experiences, touching the world at many points; that had I devoted it exclusively to the cultivation of one gift, though that the best, I might have become a poet as great at least as any of my contemporaries, but that this is by no means certain to me for my natural inclination to, and unfitness for, all the practical side of life are so great that I might just as likely have lapsed into a mere dreamer; that the discipline of active life and forced contact with the world has been specially good for me, perhaps providential, and that what I have gained from it as a man may be more than compensation for whatever I may have lost by it as an artist.
It is surprising to think of a man of this kind becoming so depressed by the death of a son that all the world and the meaning of life took on a somber hue for him. In 1871 Lord Lytton lost a young boy by a very painful illness which had probably been more painful for sympathetic onlookers than for the patient himself. The incident proved sufficient, however, to make the father think that there could not be a beneficent Providence ruling over the world. He felt sure that somehow God's power must be shortened, if such suffering, for which he could see no reason, had to be permitted. He was much depressed after this and never was quite the same in his outlook upon the world and the significance of life. It was easy to understand that this was due rather to his character than his intellect, but it illustrates forcibly how much a deeply intelligent man may be affected by something that seems after all, only the course of nature.
It is sometimes surprising to find from the life stories of men how often those who would be thought least likely to suffer from periodical depression were victims of it. Few Americans in our time have apparently had a more satisfying career than that of James Russell Lowell, a successful author as a young man, then a successful editor, a teacher whom his students appreciated very much, and in later life the subject of many honors and such honors as provided him with splendid opportunities for the exhibition of his special genius. He would seem to be the last who should suffer from depression. His post as Minister to Spain gave him an opportunity which he took magnificently to study the great Spanish authors and to store up material for writing about them. As Minister to England few men were so popular. He was constantly in demand for occasional addresses and his special style enabled him to respond to these demands with brilliant success. Here in America no great occasion was complete without Lowell. In spite of all this that would surely seem ample to satisfy the aspirations of any man, Lowell was often depressed and sometimes even talked about the possibility of suicide. Life seemed at times very empty to him. The story of the lives of such men, if made familiar to patients, proves a source of consolation, for it makes them realize that they are not alone in their experiences, that depression at some times is the lot of man, and that very few people are without the sphere of its influence.
Depression an Incident, not a State.—This suggestion may, in the case of some of those inclined to longer periods of depression, lead to indulgence in the luxury of being depressed and so putting off the doing of things. It must be pointed out, however, that just inasmuch as depression has this effect it is pathological. It seems to be natural to man to suffer from periods of discouragement and depression which keep him from devoting himself too persistently to lines of work that may be insignificant and make him take cognizance of the real values of what he is doing. Depression, however, that continues after the recognition of this takes place is morbid and must be actively resisted. Just inasmuch as depression precedes and prepares patients for a reaction, it is an incident in practically all lives. Indulged in as a luxury, it is abnormal.
Suggestive Treatment.—The most important thing for patients who suffer from periodic depression is to make them understand that this state of mind, far from being personal to them or very rare, or even uncommon, is an extremely frequent experience of men and women. There are certain men and a few women eminently occupied with the external life, busy with many things, though often they are trivial enough, and even when they are important, significant only in a financial or a social way, but meaning nothing for the great realities of life, who seem during their younger active years to escape the periodical attacks of depression that come to most people and come almost without exception to people who think seriously. Some of the best thoughts and inspirations of men come to them as the result of the serious mood that follows an attack of depression. A butterfly existence lacks these sources of inspiration. Far from being objectionable then, attacks of depression, if not allowed to proceed too far, and if kept from paralyzing activity, prove to be intervals when life values are seriously weighed and when a proper estimation of such values is come to. Men are prone without such interruptions to get too interested in trivial concerns that seem to them important because they are occupied with them to the exclusion of other ideas, but that prove to be of no real import when seen on the background of a certain hollowness that there is in human life, if lived merely for its own sake.
The occurrence of periodical depression is a part of the mystery of life and it affords us a better opportunity to get a little closer to the heart of the mystery than almost anything else. It is out of such periods that men have risen "on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things" and have even risen to the highest that there is in life. Geniuses have nearly always had deep periods of depression, but in the midst of them have read new meanings into life and have read the lessons of humanity in their own souls better than at any other time. Depression throws a man back on himself and makes him think deeper than in his mind—in what has been called his heart. "The fascination of trifles obscures the good things in life" are words of old-time wisdom and men are weaned from this by fits of depression that are really moods of precious dissatisfaction with their work inasmuch as it falls short of the best accomplishment. Without periodic depression, apparently, a man never gets as close to the heart of life as he otherwise would. Far from being an unwelcome visitant, it should be rather welcome as a stimulus to the possibility of further study of self and the realities of life.