This article has been transcribed from a copy of the Cardiff Times in the online collection of scanned Welsh newspapers 1804-1919 in the National Library of Wales, with grateful recognition of the free access accorded to all readers. Paragraph breaks have been introduced for easier reading.

Samuel cannot resist the melodrama of the suicide of the 'fallen woman' who prefers 'rather the silent river with its rushing tide than the perpetual memory of such a past.

There are two quotations so frequent as to be habitual: 'conscience does indeed "make cowards of us all”' from Hamlet III.i.85; and 'the last state of that man is worse than the first', from Luke 11:26. —— David Skilton

Decorated initial F

orgetulness is not of necessity the result of what is called 'a bad memory,' but far more frequently arises from pure carelessness or lacking in the matter of concentration. The boy with his head full of his games forgets things of graver import from the mere fact that the faculty of concentration is being entirely devoted to the less important object or occupation.

The lover forgets some small commision undertaken on behalf of his mother or sister because his thoughts are with his lady-love. And the business man, with his mind full of the details of his ventures, forgets to buy his wife some present he has promise her, with the result that there is, on his arrival it home, 'a storm in a teacup,' which is more annoying than enduring.

Left till called for.

The gentlemen who 'borrow' things and do not return them owing to forgetfulness are of a numerous and varied class, and include in their ranks the nimble-fingered purloiner of the silk pocket-handkerchief and the enterprising burglar, who 'borrows' anythinq that is not too hot or too heavy to remove. He invariably forgets to return the articles he purloins, unless caught in the act by his natural enemy, a policeman.

There are few things more forgotten in this world than books. They outrivaJ umbrellas. Once lend a man a book, and it is almost a certainty that you will see it no more.

There is something peculiar about books, and they produce a forgetfulness which is really extraordinary.

An apropos story comes to my mind. A man was spending the evening with a friend, and was particularly struck with his collection of books, included in which were many rare copies and first editions. As he was taking his departure he picked a hook from the shelf and said to his friend: by the way, old man, you might lend me this for a day or two.' To which the host, pointing to the contents of the bookcase, replied, 'Not likely, my boy; I borrowed those.'

Conveniently forgotten.

lady that they never forget the little things which go to make life pleasant, and no one is ever likely to have their feelings hurt by either one or the other owing to an accidental reference to some subject which is painful and which they desire to forget. To many people forgetfulness is indeed a boon, and many a poor devil has committed suicide from the mere fact that his organism was so finely wrought that he could not stand the perpetual strain of memory. To such a man forgetfulness is heaven, and he would sooner have his mind a blank than be endowed with the faculties of thought and memory. He wants to forget, and anything that makes him remember the shadows and thorns of his wretched existence is a thing to be avoided.

Do you think the woman who has given her heart's love to a scoundrel and had it lacerated by his coward hand wants to remember the days when, with implicit faith and perfect love, she fell from purity to shame? No, rather the silent river with its rushing tide than the perpetual memory of such a past. It is the absence of the power to forget which drives these deserted and dishonoured women into the primrose path where pleasure's cup helps to drown memory and guides them to a haven of forgetfulness. Do you, good reader, never feel that there are things in your life you would like to pass into the region of oblivion, where thought and memory lie dead, and where the ghosts of departed days do not flit to and from from hour to hour with wan worn faces, which seem perpetually to be saying, 'Do you remember?' Conscience does indeed 'make cowards of us all,' and it is when we feel its power that we desire to forget.

Forgotten by his country.

It is no pleasure for the broken-down man to remember the days when he revelled in the delights of purple and fine linen. No; he would rather forget that he ever knew the pleasures attached to them.

Not remembered.

Apart from this phase, forgetfulness leads to much unpleasantness, and I know of no more pitiable object than the man of forgetful habits, who, having tied a piece of string round his finger to remind him to remember not to forget something, has to stand and ruminate because he has entirely forgot what it was he had to remember. The last state of that man is certainly worse than the first. Equally absurd is the position of the man who wakes up in the middle of the night with the horrible thought that he has forgotten to lock or bolt the door. He gets out of bed and shiveringly dons such of his apparel as will prevent his catching cold, and goes to remedy the accident. Arrived at the door he finds to his intense astonishment and annoyance that it is both locked and bolted. Then he returns to bed, making complimentary remarks about himself as he ascends the stairs, but not even the satisfaction of knowing that he had not forgotten repays him for the anger he feels at having had to get up because he fancied he had neglected the thing. As he drops off to sleep he mentally decides that in future the door may take care of itself; and if every door in the house is left open he will not get up to see to them.

As l said at the start, so I say at the finish – forgetfulness is the result of carelessness or want of concentration, and a little training in this direction would soon remedy all the evils resulting from it.

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Last modified 20 April 2022