LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 624, 19 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A “ CASE” OF MINE. The subject of “Memory” haying been much discussed lately, in connection with a celebrated trial, I propose placing before my readers a case that I had under my own ken and care for some time, that may be interesting as an illustration of “Imperfect Memory” versus “Imperfect Knowledge.” I was one day called, upon to visit professionally a lady residing not far from my own house iu Bloomsbury; the malady some common ailment, influenza or feverish cold, but accompanied by unusual nervous depression. I found my patient a woman about thirty or thirty-two years of age ; of nervous temperament and rather constrained manner, A half suspicious, restless look in her eyes made me notice her more particularly than 1 otherwise might have done, and when I left the room the impression that I received was that she was a woman with a “story.” . She was dreesed m deep mourning, which made me remark to her sister, who was taking a few instructions from me concerning my .treatment; “ She has sustained a loss I see, and the nervous depression at' teudant on that has lowered the vital energies ; thus an otherwise slight cold has fastened itself rather tightly on her.” “Yes,” returned her sister; “she has indeed gone through much lately. Perhaps, as her doctor, you ought to be told more fully the details of her case ; and indeed, they may interest you from another point of view.”

We sat down, and I will condense her narrative as far a a possible. My patient, Mrs Hammond, and her husband was returning to England from the West Indies, where the latter had some property, when one of those unfortunate collisions between ships occurred, which, though, unhappily, so frequent of late, *were then rare. The collision took place in very rough

weather ; a high sea, and a boisterous, fitful wind.

A few were saved, among them Mrs Hammond ; but her husband was never seen again. Her baby, only six months old, was washed away. I did not attend very much to the particulars of the shipwreck, and all I can be certain of is that Mrs Hammond, husbandless and childless, penniless and unconscious, was, with a few others, saved on that fearful night in one of the ship’s boats, and taken on board by another homeward bound vessel of some sort that came to them soon after the calamity. Her husband’s family were well off, and ‘when the ship reached England, she proceeded to their house in London. It was at the residence of her father-in-law that I had now seen the poor lady, just a year and a her bereavement.

‘ But the strange thing is this,’ continued my companion; ‘ that she does not fret the least for the child, because all memory of having had one is gone! When returning to consciousness we are told that she cried piteously for her husband - but no one expression ever escaped her lips about the baby, and when naturally we condoled with her on its loss, she looked at us as if we had taken leave of our senses!’

* Perhaps it is God’s mercy,’ I said, reverently. ‘ The double grief might have upset her reason.’ ‘ But has it not already?’ asked her sister. ‘She has as utterly forgotten the baby’s having existed as if—well, as if in fact it never had !’

“ Are you sure she has really forgotten it?’ I questioned, * Oh, certainly. She was never particularly fond of children. She was brought up by an aunt, separate from me and my brother Frank, very much to herself, and never took to children even of her own age. She used to say she hoped she never would have any, but when baby came, then,’ laughed Miss Dennis, ‘ she made as great a fuss over it as anyone; at least, so I heard, for it was bom in Jamaica.’

‘The child was certainly drowned?’ I asked.

*oh, yes. Out of seven little ones on board, only one was saved; the child of a poor steerage woman, who was taken back by the culprit steamer. Althcv.gh gometimes endeavour to rake up old memories to her mind, we do not try her too much. What would you advise?’

* Leaving her with her own sorrow, unconscious of her other loss, I answered. 4 lf the truth ever dawns upon herj she will the better bear up against its consequent grief, the more strength of mind and body can be garnered up now. Keep her up in every away; cheerful looks about her, and plenty of light nourishing food.’ ‘lt is not madness, is it doctor ? ’ said poor Miss Dennis, looking me searchingly in the face.

* By no means;*merely'a case of suspended memory. The veil may be lifted any moment, though we could hardly wish for it. ’ And to myself I said, 4 How many of us would pray that such a veil might fall upon our past! ’ Her cold took its usual course, una* tended by any worse symptom than ordinary, except for the natural depression consequent upon her peculiar circumstances. Two o» three times I led the way cautiously to the subject we were interested in; I mean her sister and myself ; but the suspicious, restless look in her eyes became so intense that I desisted, quite aware that she would bo far more likely to think us insane than I could think her to be so. In two or three week’s time I discontinued my attendance, with the full undeH standing between her sister and myself that if any material change took place in her mental condition I should be made aware of it. Almost a year passed by without my hearing any more of her, when one afternoon, just as I had finished a hasty lunch, preparatory to going my afternoon 4 round,I received a note from Miss Dennis, saying how grateful she would be to me if I could look in upon her that afternoon. At three o’clock I was at their house, and found myself once more tete-a-tete with Miss Dennis. ‘We agreed,’ she commenced, ‘that I should let you know anything special concerning your old patient, and I have really something very odd to tell you. About six months ago there was some little hitch in my sister’s money affairs—you know her husband had some property in Jamaica, and it was considered advisable that some one should go out and see after the estate, which had been entrusted to careless hands on my poor brother-in-law’s death. The money had been coming in very irregularly, so our brother Frank, who has lived in the north of England for the last seven years, volunteered to go and look up matters for her. He has not been well for some time, and his doctor said a sea voyage would be just the very thing for him. The long and the short of it is, that yesterday the mail arrived with letters from him for us both. He hopes, he says, to make everything straight very soon; found affairs in a great muddle, and believes the agent anything but trustworthy. In his letter to me was another enclosure marked “ Private.” This I took into my own room and read. The best way, doctor, is for you to read it yourself; it will not take you long.’ Miss Dennis handed me the letter, of which the substance was as follows: ‘ln one of my many rambles before the sun is well up, I was walking along a path near Kingston, when I came upon a woman with two children sitting by the roadside. The eldest was playing with little red berries, and seemed between two and three years old ; the other, quite a baby. I should not have noticed them much but that the mother spoke crossly to the eldest as I passed, which caused me to look at him. As I did so, 1 was staggered to see what at the first glance seemed the image of Mary. Then the resemblance resolved itself into a still stronger likenness to poor Edward; not in the features, perhaps, but as he lifted his eyes to mine, the same half melancholy expression looked out from them. There was not the slightest likenness to the woman in him. I stopped in my walk and got into conversation with her, and as I did so the little fellow quietly put his hand in mine, as if we had been old acquaintances. She noticed it by saying, 4 Well! ihat is a wonder ! he hardly ever takes to anyone — little shy monkey ! ’ The words were said playfully, but the tone was hardly motherly, I thought. 4 1 questioned her about different things? and as we talked the wind got much fresher, aud the morning betokened a rough day. I made a remark on the change in the weather. [7<7 be continued.']