The publicity afforded by newspapers to any remarkable case of suicide, with full description of details, has unquestionably a pernicious effect, not only by suggesting a means to those already predisposed to the act, but also by its tending to lessen the natural horror of self-murder inherent in the human mind. Example has avowedly a great influence in exciting the propensity to suicide; and a man who cannot justify the rash act to his own conscience, will find excuses for it in the examples of others. This imitative propensity may even amount to an epidemic, as at Versailles in 1793, when no fewer than thirteen hundred persons destroyed themselves. Some years ago, the Hôtel des Invalides, Paris, was the scene of one of these outbreaks; one of the invalids hanged himself on a crossbar of the institution; and in the ensuing fortnight, six or seven others followed his example on the same bar, the epidemic being only stopped by the governor having the passage closed.
Insane people will sometimes display great ingenuity and perseverance in the means by which they choose to put an end to themselves. They are very determined; and if frustrated in one attempt, will make others, perhaps all in different ways; and unless very strictly guarded, will generally succeed at last in effecting their purpose. An instance of almost incredible determination to die is that of a French gentleman who dug a trench in a wood and lay in it sixteen days, writing down in a journal each day the state of his feelings. From this journal it appeared that he suffered greatly, at first from hunger, and afterwards from thirst and cold. He left his trench, and got a little water from the pump of an inn near the wood on the sixth night; and this he continued to do until the tenth day, when he was too weak to stir. He ceased to write on the fifteenth day; and on the sixteenth he was discovered by a countryman, who tried—but in vain—to restore him. He died on the eighteenth day.
The heredity of suicide, though not universally conceded, is admitted by most authorities, and according to some, the tendency to self-destruction is more disposed to be hereditary than any other form of insanity. Certainly a great number of those who put an end to their own lives are members of families in which instances of suicide or insanity have previously occurred, and the propensity is usually most strong at some particular age. Dr Gall mentions the case of a Frenchman of property who killed himself, leaving a large sum of money to be divided among his seven children. None of these met with any real misfortunes in life, but all succumbed, before attaining their fortieth year, to the mania for suicide.
Intemperance, the root of half the idiocy and a considerable percentage of the insanity of the country, is also largely contributory to the rapidly increasing number of cases of self-murder. In the French classification, which is ‘generally admitted to be pretty true of all countries,’ fifteen per cent. are put down to drink; while thirty-four per cent. are attributed to insanity, twenty-three per cent. to grief, and twenty-eight per cent. to various other causes.
Suicide, whether regarded as a crime or a disease, is in all cases a rash, ill-advised act of impatience. Napoleon—who, when his misfortunes reached a climax, declared he had not ‘enough of the Roman in him’ for suicide—described it as an act of cowardice, a running away from the enemy before being defeated. Perhaps the best safeguards against it are domestic ties and the sense of responsibility and accountability. Very few instances of self-destruction occur among prudent hard-working heads of families who have insured their lives.
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
Mrs Abbot drove home in her stately carriage thinking deeply. Her mind was tolerably easy. She knew there was little chance of a young man’s love living through years of absence and silence. Frank would go into the great world, and gaze on many a fair face during that time; till the beautiful face of Millicent Keene—for even Mrs Abbot could not gainsay the girl’s beauty—would gradually fade from his thoughts. He would taste the cup of ambition; he would see what power and station meant in the world, and would soon laugh to scorn his boyish dream. He would very quickly realise the difference between Abbot of Chewton Hall and plain Frank Abbot, who had to earn the bread to keep a wife, be she ever so charming. In fact, the thoughts of Mrs Abbot in her carriage and Miss Keene on her sofa were almost identical, although the words which expressed them differed.
Save for one thing, Mrs Abbot’s reflections were very comforting. The drawback was that she felt lowered in her own eyes. She had made a mistake, and had been treated with contumely. The victory was hers, but she had not won it herself. It was not her cleverness, but the girl’s right-mindedness which would bring about the separation. She blamed herself for having misread the girl’s character, and found her honest indignation at the imputation that her love for Frank was influenced by his possessions, mortifying to think of. Still, matters had turned out well. She would have the satisfaction of telling her husband that all was, or would be, at an end—that the hope of the Abbots would not marry nobody’s daughter. So busy was she with these thoughts, that she did not notice, when some three miles outside the smoky town of Bristol, a horseman approaching. Upon seeing him, her coachman gathered up the reins preparatory to stopping his horses; but, as the rider made a negative gesture, he simply touched his hat and drove on; whilst Frank Abbot and his mother passed, neither apparently noticing the other.
He was a handsome young fellow, and without a cent to his name might have given many a wealthy competitor long odds in the race for a girl’s heart. Tall and broad-shouldered—clever face, with deep-set eyes, large chin, and firm lips. He sat his horse gracefully, looking every inch a gentleman and an Englishman. Not, one would say, the man to win a woman’s love, and throw it aside at the bidding of father or mother. Not the man to do a thing hastily and repent the deed at his leisure. Rather, a man who, when once engaged in a pursuit, would follow it steadfastly to the end, whatever that end might be. It was scarcely right that Millicent Keene should allow fear to mingle with her grief at the approaching long separation from her lover. She should have looked into that handsome powerful face and understood that years would only mould the boy’s intention into the man’s determination.