18112 



(U.EANINtJS IN HEE CULTURE. 



cm 



coiuiiiut'd Idmh (Midiiiili til coinoloto tlu'cuif; 

 but as soon as the lolapsc was fully ostablislitHi. 

 no piTsnasions of my family could iudui-i> mi> to 

 submit to furtlicr tivatmcnt. 



In ivvisiiii: liiis stati'mcut. I ougiit. to coiTcct 

 what 1 said about there never beinj; but one 

 issue to an attack after its inoiuiont staRes were, 

 clearly develojted. In the fall of IS.V? I was as 

 much depressed as I had ever i)eeii. when, by 

 the kindness of friends. I was able to visit a 

 brother w ho was resiilinij in Matainoras. Mexico. 

 Wliile travelinii by steamboat, railroad, and 

 stasje-coach to New Orleans— a journey which 

 then occupied ov(>r a week — I recovered en- 

 tirely before 1 reached tliat city, and had an 

 unusually long interval of complete relief. 

 Also on anoth(>r occasion while greatly desjion- 

 dent. I was suminoniHi. at the expense of oti(> of 

 the parties, as a witness in a suit at law, which 

 had bei'n brought against him for an alleged 

 infringment on the right of another patentee, 

 Tho entire change of scene, with all its many 

 diversions, completely cured me. lUit for these 

 instances. I might naturally infer that time 

 was the only remedial agent, and that the 

 disease could never be arrested, but must al- 

 ways run its usual course. 



Among the many mistakes of my life. I connt 

 this to be one of the greatest, that, instead of 

 seeking an entire change as soon as I begin to 

 feel the api)roach of another attack, I have 

 usually refused to admit the possibility of suc- 

 cumbing to it, and have struggled against it 

 until no power of will was left for further con- 

 flict. Those who know how large a portion 

 of my life 1 have lost by this disease will not be 

 surprised at my unwillingness to quit my work, 

 when to give it up often meant to forego oppor- 

 tunities never to be recalled. Besides all this, 

 I have usually been so straitened for means 

 that it has been very difficult for me to give up 

 my necessary avocations for change of scene. 



With thankfulness to God I can truly §ay 

 that few men have had better friends, and that 

 there has never been a time when I might not 

 have secured means for travel and change of 

 occupation simply by applying to them. But 

 I have received so many favors, often most un- 

 expected and entirely unsolicited, that it is only 

 with extreme reluctance that I have been able 

 to ask assistance of even my most intimate 

 friends and relations. It may well be that some 

 of them will be pained to know that I did not 

 do so. when a little timely aid might have pre- 

 served me from long periods of snfT'ering and 

 inactivity. For the many favors I have receiv- 

 ed from bee-keepers at home and abroad, and 

 from personal friends and relations. I hereby 

 tender my most heartfelt thanks. 



No doubt some of my readers will blame me 

 for spending so much time, when under the 

 power of melancholy, in playing chess, even 

 though I tempted nobody else to waste any time 

 upon it. But I most devoutly believe, that, in 

 fighting such a malady, the end fully justifies 

 all means which are not in themselves immoral. 

 It would be well, if it were plainly understood 

 and more fully realized, that, by dwelling too 

 long upon painful subjects, we may at last 

 lose mental control and become absolutely in- 

 sane. There is no doubt that many who have 

 strong hereditary tendencies that way may, 

 by wise foresight and strong effort, counteract 

 them. The following true story will make more 

 emphatic the above remarks: 



About .50 years ago the Rev. Dr. Walker, who 

 was pastor of the Congregational Church in 

 Brattleboro. Vermont, exchanged pulpits with 

 me. On Saturday evening his wife spoke of 

 the singular state of mind into which a well- 

 known minister had fallen. He had been a very 

 acceptable pastor, and had declined, but a short 



time liefoi'e. an invitation from an institution 

 of learning, to solicit funds for them. As they 

 still urged him to accept, he call(>d a council of 

 the neighboring ministers, who advised him not 

 to accept the Mgenc>': whereii[)on (snch often is 

 human nature) he rejected their advice. l'"rom 

 the beginning of his work, his health, whicli 

 before had been unusuallv good, b(>gan to fail. 

 He became discouraged and morbid; and in 

 conversation with Mrs. Walker he contended 

 that his alllictions were even greati^r than those; 

 of ,Jol). H(» was reminded l)y her of a Chris- 

 tian brother known to thetii both, who. after an 

 absence from hom(! of a few days, found, on his 

 return, his beloved wife dead, and her dead in- 

 fant lying in her arms. Even such an over- 

 whelming calamity he thought was more bear- 

 able than those which had befallen himl At 

 tnis point in her narrative I Ix-came too much 

 excited to sit still. Rising to my feet I exclaim- 

 ed. "Oh that I could see this unhappy brother, 

 and warn him of the fate which, if he persists 

 in cherishing these delusions, may soon over- 

 take him ' He is on the very verge of insanity, 

 if not already insane." After the sermon next 

 morning, Mrs. Rockwell, the wife of the super- 

 intendent of the insane-a.sylum of that place, 



said to us, " Do you know that Mr. " (the 



very brother we had been talking about) " was 

 brought to our institution last night, quite in- 

 sane?" 



I once related this circumstance to a family 

 circle, entirely unconscious that it could have 

 any personal application. To my surprise, the 

 father of the family privately said to me, with 

 deep emotion, that nothing could have been 

 told better adapted to influence for good one of 

 his own children. 



Oh how often does some bereaved soul cry 

 out in anguish, " I do well to give myself up to 

 the indulgence of grief. I have no heart for 

 any thing but lamentations for the loved ones 

 who have been buried out of my sight"! No! 

 poor afflicted soul, you do not do well when you 

 neglect any positive duty. Beware lest what 

 you call "the luxury of grief" may be carried 

 so far as to become rebellions murmurings 

 against the divine will. 



I can not here forbear giving a short extract 

 from Walter Scott's Antiquary. An old fisher- 

 man had lost his son in a storm at sea. His 

 landlord makes him a visit of condolence. 



" When he came in front of the fisherman's 

 hut he observed a man working intently, as if 

 to repair a shattered boat that lay upon the 

 beach; and going up to him he said, in a tone 

 of sympathy, ' I am glad, Saunders, that you 

 feel yourself able to make this exertion.' ' And 

 what would ye have me do, ' answered the 

 fisherman. " unless I wanted to see four children 

 starve because one is drowned? It Is weel with 

 you gentles, that can sit in the house with 

 hankerchers at your eyes when ye lose a friend; 

 but the like of us maun to our work again, if 

 our hearts were beating as hard as my hammer. 

 . . . . She maun be mended for the mornin' 

 tide — that's a thing of necessity." Let us thank 

 God for these " things of nece.ssity." 



Many of my experiences when under the at- 

 tack of melancholia resemble very closely those 

 of the poet Cowper. He had long spells of de- 

 spondency, when his pen was entirely idle, and 

 no persuasions of his most intimate friends could 

 induce him to resume employments in which 

 he once took so much delight. After he had 

 abandoned, apparently for ever, the revision of 

 his translation of Homer's Iliad, a relative one 

 day placed on his writing-desk the manuscript 

 at the place where he had left off, together with 

 his books of reference. It was with great de- 

 light that he perceived that it attracted the 

 attention of the afflicted poet, and that he be- 



