"], breathed slowly and with difficulty, had no
inclination to eat and drink, nor to the natural functions; the pulse was
slow, all bodily movements slumberous and indicative of weariness.
inclination to eat and drink, nor to the natural functions; the pulse was
slow, all bodily movements slumberous and indicative of weariness.
Friedrich Schiller
Weave these two natures so
closely together as they really are closely woven, and cause an unknown
something, born of the economy of the animal body, to be assailed by the
power of sensation,--let the soul be placed in the condition of physical
pain. That was the first touch, the first ray to light up the night of
slumbering powers, a touch as from a golden finger upon nature's lute.
Now is sensation there, and sensation only was it that before we missed.
This kind of sensation seems to have been made on purpose to remove all
these difficulties. In the first case none could be produced because we
were not allowed to presuppose an idea; here a modification of the bodily
organs becomes a substitute for the ideas that were lacking, and thus
does animal sensation come to the help of the spirits inward mechanism,
if I may so call it, and puts the same in motion. The will is active,
and the action of a single power is sufficient to set all the rest to
work. The following operations are self-developed and do not belong to
this chapter.
S 10. -Out of the History of the Individual.
Let us follow now the growth of the soul in the individual man in
relation to what I am trying to demonstrate, and let us observe how all
his spiritual capacities grow out of motive powers of sense.
a. The child. Still quite animal; or, rather more and at the same time
less than animal--human animal (for that being which at some time shall
be called man can at no time have been only animal). More wretched than
an animal, because he has not even instinct--the animal-mother may with
less danger leave her young than the mother abandon her child. Pain may
force from him a cry, but will never direct him to the source from which
it comes. The milk may give him pleasure, but he does not seek it. He
is altogether passive.
His thinking rises only to sensation.
His knowledge is but pain, hunger--and what binds these together.
b. The boy. Here we have already reflection, but only in so far as it
bears upon the satisfaction of the animal impulse. "He learns to value,"
says Garve [Observations on Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," p. 319], "the
things of others, and his actions in respect of others, first of all
through the fact of their affording him [sensuous] pleasure. "
A love of work, the love to his parents, to friends, yea even love to
God, must go along the pathway of physical sense [Sinnlichkeit] to reach
his soul. "That only is the sun," as Garve elsewhere observes, "which in
itself enlightens and warms: all other objects are dark and cold; but
they too can be warmed and illumined when they enter into such a
connection with the same as to become partakers of its rays. "
[Observations on Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," p. 393. ] The good things
of the spirit possess a value with the boy only by transferrence--they
are the spiritual means to an animal end.
c. Youth and man. The frequent repetition of this process of induction
at last brings about a readiness, and the transferrence begins to
discover a beauty in what at first was regarded simply as a means. The
youth begins to linger in the process without knowing why. Without
observing it, he is often attracted to think about this means. Now is
the time when the beams of spiritual beauty in itself begin to fall upon
his open soul; the feeling of exercising his powers delights him, and
infuses an inclination to the object which, up to this time, was a means
only: the first end is forgotten. His enlightened mind and the richer
store of his ideas at last reveal to him the whole worth of spiritual
pleasures--the means has become the highest end.
Such is the teaching more or less of the history of each individual man--
whose means of education have been fairly good; and wisdom could hardly
choose a better road along which to lead mankind. Is not the mass of the
people even to this day in leading-strings? --much like our boy. And has
not the prophet from Medina left us an example of striking plainness how
to bridle the rude nature of the Saracens?
On this subject nothing more excellent can be said than what Garve
remarked in his translation of Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," in the
chapter upon the Natural Impulses, and has developed as follows: "The
impulse of self-preservation and the attraction of sensual pleasure first
bring both man and beast to the point of action: he first comes to value
the things of others and his own actions in reference to them according
as they procure him pleasure. In proportion as the number of things
under whose influence he comes increases do his desires cover a wider
circle; as the road by which he reaches the objects of his wishes
lengthens, so do his desires become more artificial. Here we come to the
first line of separation between man and the mere animal, and herein we
may even discover a difference between one species of animal and another.
With few animals does the act of feeding follow immediately upon the
sensation of hunger; the heat of the chase, or the industry of collection
must come first. But in the case of no animal does the satisfaction of
this want follow so late upon the preparations made in reference thereto
as in the case of man; with no animal does the endeavor wind through so
long a chain of means and intentions before it arrives at the last link.
How far removed from this end, though in reality they have no other, are
the labors of the artisan or the ploughman. But even this is not all.
When the means of human subsistence have become richer and more various
through the institutions of society; when man begins to discover that
without a full expenditure of time and labor a surplus remains to him;
when at the same time by the communication of ideas he becomes more
enlightened; then he begins to find a last end for all his actions in
himself; he then remarks that, even when his hunger is thoroughly
satisfied, a good supply of raiment, a roof above him, and a sufficiency
of furniture within doors, there still remains something over and
above for him to do. He goes a step further, he becomes conscious that
in those very actions by which he has procured for himself food and
comfort--in so far as they have their origin in certain powers of a
spirit, and in so far as they exercise these powers--there lies a higher
good than in the external ends which thereby are attained. From this
moment on he works, indeed--in company with the rest of the human race,
and along with the whole animal kingdom--to keep himself alive, and to
provide for himself and his friends the necessaries of physical
existence;--for what else could he do? What other sphere of action could
he create for himself, if he were to leave this? But he knows now that
nature has not so much awakened in him these various impulses and desires
for the purpose of affording so many particular pleasures,--but, and far
more, places before him the attraction of those pleasures and advantages,
in order that these impulses may be put in motion--and with this end,
that to a thinking being there may be given matter for thought, to a
sensitive spirit matter for sensations, to the benevolent means of
beneficence, and to the active opportunity for work. Thus does
everything, living or lifeless, assume to him a new form. All the facts
and changes of life were formerly estimated by him only in so far as they
caused him pleasure or pain: now, in so far as they offer occasion for
expression of his desire of perfection. In the first case, events are
now good, now bad; in the latter, all are equally good. For there is no
chance or accident which does not give scope for the exercise of some
virtue, or for the employment of a special faculty. At first he loved
his fellows because he believed that they could be of use to him; he
loves them now far more--because he looks upon benevolence as the
condition of the perfect mind. "
S 11. -From the History of Humanity.
Yet once more, a glance at the universal history of the whole human
race--from its cradle to the maturity of full-grown man--and the truth of
what has been said up to this point will stand forth in clearest relief.
Hunger and nakedness first made of man a hunter, a fisher, a cowherd, a
husbandman, and a builder. Sensual pleasure founded families, and the
defencelessness of single men was the origin of the tribe. Here already
may the first roots of the social duties be discovered. The soil would
soon become too poor for the increasing multitude of men; hunger would
drive them to other climates and countries that would discover their
wealth to the necessity that forced men to seek it; in the process they
would learn many improvements in the cultivation of the soil, and perhaps
some means to escape the hurtful influence of many things they would
necessarily encounter. These separate experiences passed from
grandfather to grandson, and their number was always on the increase.
Man learned to use the powers of nature against herself; these powers
were brought into new relations and the first invention was made. Here
we have the first roots of the simple and healing arts--always, we admit,
art and invention for the behoof of the animal, but still an exercise of
power, an addition to knowledge; and at the very fire in whose embers the
savage roasted his fish, Boerhaave afterwards made his inquiries into the
composition of bodies; through the very knife which this wild man used to
cut up his game, Lionet invented what led to his discovery of the nerves
of insects; with the very circle wherewith at first hoofs were measured,
Newton measures heaven and earth. Thus did the body force the mind to
pay attention to the phenomena around it; thus was the world made
interesting and important, through being made indispensable. The inward
activity of their nature, and the barrenness of their native soil,
combined in teaching our forefathers to form bolder plans, and invented
for them a house wherein, under conduct of the stars, they could safely
move upon rivers and seas, and sail toward regions new:--
Fluctibus ignotis insultavere carinae.
(Their keels danced upon waves unknown. )
Here again they met with new productions of nature, new dangers, new
needs that called for new exertions. The collision of animal instincts
drives hordes against hordes, forges a sword out of the raw metal, begets
adventurers, heroes, and despots. Towns are fortified, states are
founded: with the states arise civic duties and rights, arts, figures,
codes of law, subtle priests--and gods.
And now, when necessities have degenerated into luxury, what a boundless
field is opened to our eyes! Now are the veins of the earth burrowed
through, the foot of man is planted on the bottom of the sea, commerce
and travel flourish:--
Latet sub classibus aequor.
(The sea is hid beneath the fleets. )
The West wonders at the East, the East at the West; the productions of
foreign countries accustom themselves to grow under other skies, and the
art of gardening shows the products of three-quarters of the world in one
garden. Artists learn her works from nature, music soothes the savage
breast, beauty and harmony ennoble taste and manners, and art leads the
way to science and virtue. "Man," says Schloezer [see Schloezer's Plan
of his Universal History, S 6], "this mighty demigod, clears rocks from
his path, digs out lakes, and drives his plough where once the sail was
seen. By canals he separates quarters of the globe and provinces from
one another; leads one stream to another and discharges them upon a sandy
desert, changed thereby into smiling meadow; three quarters of the globe
he plunders and transplants them into a fourth. Even climate, air, and
weather acknowledge his sway. While he roots out forests and drains the
swamp, the heaven grows clear above his head, moisture and mist are lost,
winter becomes milder and shorter, because rivers are no longer frozen
over. " And the mind of man is refined with the refining of his clime.
The state occupies the citizen in the necessities and comforts of life.
Industry gives the state security and rest from without; from within,
granting to thinker and artist that fruitful leisure through which the
age of Augustus came to be called the Golden Age. The arts now take a
more daring and untrammelled flight, science wins a light pure and dry,
natural history and physical science shatter superstition, history
extends a mirror of the times that were, and philosophy laughs at the
follies of mankind. But when luxury grows into effeminacy and excess,
when the bones begin to ache, and the pestilence to spread and the air
becomes infected, man hastens in his distress from one realm of nature to
another, that he may at least find means for lessening his pains. Then
he finds the divine plant of China; from the bowels of the earth he digs
out the mightily-working mercury, and from the poppy of the East learns
to distil its precious juice. The most hidden corners of nature are
investigated; chemistry separates material objects into their ultimate
elements, and creates worlds of her own; alchemists enrich the province
of physical science; the microscopic glance of a Schwammerdam surprises
nature in her most secret operations. Man goes still further; necessity
or curiosity transcends the boundaries set by superstition: he seizes the
knife, takes courage, and the masterpiece of nature is discovered, even
man. Thus did it behoove the least, the poorest, to help us to reach the
highest; disease and death must lend their aid to man in teaching him
Gnothi seauton ("Know thyself! "). The plague produced and formed our
Hippocrates, our Sydenhams, as war is the mother of generals; and we owe
to the most devastating disease that ever visited humanity an entire
reformation of our medical system.
Our intention was to show the influence upon the perfecting of the soul
through the temperate enjoyment of the pleasures held out by the senses;
and how marvellously has the matter changed, even while under our hands!
We found that even excess and abuse in this direction have furthered the
real demands of humanity; the deflections from the primitive end of
nature--merchants, conquerors, and luxury--have, undoubtedly, tended to
hasten a progress which had otherwise been more regular, but very slow.
Let us compare the old world with the new! In the first, desire was
simple, its satisfaction easy; but how mistaken, how painful was the
judgment passed on nature and her laws! Now, the road is made more
difficult by a thousand windings, but how full the light that has been
shed upon all our conceptions!
We may, then, repeat: Man needed to be an animal before he knew that he
was a spirit; he needed to crawl in the dust before he ventured on a
Newtonian flight through the universe. The body, therefore, is the first
spur to action; sense the first step on the ladder to perfection.
ANIMAL SENSATIONS ACCOMPANY MENTAL SENSATIONS.
S 12. --Law.
The understanding of man is extremely limited, and, therefore, all
sensations resulting from its action must of necessity be also limited.
In order, therefore, to give these sensations greater impulse, and with
redoubled force to attract the will to good and restrain it from evil,
both natures, the spiritual and the animal, are so intimately connected
with each other that their modifications, being mutually interchanged,
impart strength to one another. Hence arises a fundamental law of mixed
natures, which, being reduced to its primary divisions, runs thus: the
activities of the body correspond to the activities of the mind; that is,
any overstraining of a mental activity is necessarily followed by an
overstraining of certain bodily actions,--just as the equilibrium, or
harmonious action, of the mental powers is associated with that of the
bodily powers in perfect accord. Further: mental indolence induces
indolence in the bodily actions; mental inaction causes them to cease
altogether. Thus, as perfection is ever accompanied by pleasure,
imperfection by the absence of pleasure, this law may be thus expressed:
Mental pleasure is invariably attended by animal pleasure, mental pain by
animal pain. [Complacency and Displacency perhaps more aptly express the
meaning of Lust and Unlust, which we translate by pleasure and pain. ]
S 13. --Mental Pleasure furthers the Welfare of the Human Frame.
Thus, a sensation which embraces within its range the whole spiritual
being agitates in the same measure the whole framework of the organic
body,--heart, veins and blood, muscles and nerves, all, from those mighty
nerves that give to the heart its living impulse of motion down to the
tiny and unimportant nerves by which hairs are attached to the skin,
share equally its influence. Everything tends to a more violent motion.
If the sensation be an agreeable one, all these parts will acquire a
higher degree of harmonious activity; the heart's beat will be free,
lively, uniform, the blood will flow unchecked, gently or with fiery
speed, according as the affection is of a gentle or violent description;
digestion, secretion, and excretion will follow their natural course; the
excitable membranes will pliantly play in a gentle vapor-bath, and
excitability as well as sensitiveness will increase. Therefore the
condition of the greatest momentary mental pleasure is at the same time
the condition of the greatest bodily well-being.
As many as there may be of these partial activities (and is not every
beat of the pulse the result perhaps of thousands? ) so many will be the
obscure sensations crowding upon the soul, each one of which indicates
perfection. Out of this confused complexity arises entire sensation of
the animal harmonies, that is, the highest possible combined sensation of
animal pleasure, which ranges itself, as it were, alongside of the
original intellectual or moral sensation, which this addition infinitely
increases. Thus is every agreeable affection the source of countless
bodily pleasures.
This is most evidently confirmed by the examples of sick persons who have
been cured by joy. Let one whom a terrible home-sickness has wasted to a
skeleton be brought back to his native land, and the bloom of health will
soon be his again; or let us enter a prison in which miserable men have
for ten or twenty years inhabited filthy dungeons and possess at last
barely strength to move,--and let us tell them suddenly they are free;
the single word of freedom will endow their limbs with the strength of
youth, and cause dead eyes to sparkle with life. Sailors, whom thirst
and famine have made their prey during a long voyage, are half cured by
the steersman's cry of "Land! " and he would certainly greatly err who
ascribed the whole result to a prospect of fresh food. The sight of a
dear one, whom the sufferer has long desired to see, sustains the life
that was about to go, and imparts strength and health. It is a fact,
that joy can quicken the nervous system more effectually than all the
cordials of the apothecary, and can do wonders in the case of inveterate
internal disorders denied to the action of rhubarb and even mercury. Who
then does not perceive that the constitution of the soul which knows how
to derive pleasure from every event and can dissipate every ache in the
perfection of the universe, must be the most beneficial to the whole
organism? and this constitution of the soul is--virtue.
S 14. --Mental pain undermines the Welfare of the Whole Organisms.
In the very same way, the opposite result is brought about by a
disagreeable affection of the mind. The ideas which rule so intensely
the angry or terrified man may, as rightly as Plato called the passions a
fever of the soul, be regarded as convulsions of the organ of thought.
These convulsions quickly extend through the nervous system, and so
disturb the vital powers that they lose their perfection, and all organic
actions lose their equilibrium. The heart beats violently and
irregularly; the blood is so confined to the lungs that the failing pulse
has barely enough to sustain it. The internal chemical processes are at
cross-purposes; beneficent juices lose their way and work harm in other
provinces, while what is malignant may attack the very core of our
organism. In a word, the condition of the greatest mental distress
becomes the condition of the greatest bodily sickness.
The soul is informed of the threatened ruin of the organs that should
have been her good and willing servants by a thousand obscure sensations,
and is filled with an entire sensation of pain, associating itself to the
primary mental suffering, and giving to this a sharper sting.
S 15. --Examples.
Deep, chronic pains of the soul, especially if accompanied by a strong
exertion of thought--among which I would give a prominent place to that
lingering anger which men call indignation--gnaw the very foundations of
physical life, and dry up the sap that nourish it. Sufferers of this
kind have a worn and pale appearance, and the inward grief betrays itself
by the hollow, sunken eyes. "Let me," says Caesar, "have men about me
that are fat":--
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights;
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much--such men are dangerous.
Fear, trouble, distress of conscience, despair, are little less powerful
in their effects than the most violent fevers. Richard, when in deepest
anxiety, finds his former cheerfulness is gone, and thinks to bring it
back with a glass of wine. But it is not mental sorrow only that has
banished comfort, it is a sensation of discomfort proceeding from the
very root of his physical organism, the very same sensation that
announces a malignant fever. The Moor, heavily burdened with crimes, and
once crafty enough in absolving all the sensations of humanity--by his
skeleton-process--into nothing, now rises from a dreadful dream, pale and
breathless, with a cold sweat upon his brow. All the images of a future
judgment which he had perhaps believed in as a boy, and blotted out from
his remembrance as a man, assail his dream-bewildered brain. The
sensations are far too confused for the slower march of reason to
overtake and unravel them. Reason is still struggling with fancy, the
spirit with the horrors of the corporeal frame. ["Life of Moor," tragedy
of Krake. Act. v. sc. 1. ]
MOOR. --No! I am not shaking. It was but a dream. The dead are not
beginning to rise. Who says I tremble and turn pale? I am quite well,
quite well.
BED. --You are pale as death; your voice is frightened and hesitating.
MOOR. --I am feverish. I will be bled to-morrow. Say only, when the
priest comes, that I have fever.
BED. --But you are very ill.
MOOR. --Yes truly; that is all. And sickness disturbs the brain and
breeds strange mad dreams. Dreams mean nothing. Fie on womanish
cowardice! Dreams mean nothing. I have just had a pleasant dream.
[He falls down in a faint.
Here we have the whole image of the dream suddenly forcing itself upon a
man, and setting in motion the entire system of obscure ideas, stirring
up from the foundation the organ of thought. From all these causes
arises an intense sensation of pain in its utmost concentration, which
shatters the soul from its depth, and lames per consensum the whole
structure of the nerves.
The cold horror that seizes on the man who is about to commit some crime,
or who has just committed one, is nothing else than the horror which
agitates the feverish man, and which is felt on taking nauseous
medicines. The nightly tossings of those who are troubled by remorse,
always accompanied by a high pulse, are veritable fevers, induced by the
connection between the physical organism with the soul; and Lady Macbeth,
walking in her sleep, is an instance of brain delirium. Even the
imitation of a passion makes the actor for the moment ill; and after
Garrick had played Lear or Othello he spent some hours in convulsions on
his bed. Even the illusion of the spectator, through sympathy with acted
passion, has brought on shivering, gout, and fits of fainting.
Is not he, then, who is plagued with an evil temper, and draws gall and
bitterness from every situation in life: is not the vicious man, who
lives in a chronic state of hatred and malevolence; is not the envious
man, who finds torture in every excellence of his neighbor,--are not
these, all of them, the greatest foes to their own health? Has vice not
enough of the horrible in it, when it destroys not only happiness but
health.
S 16. -Exceptions.
But a pleasant affection has sometimes been a fatal one, and an
unpleasant one has sometimes worked a marvellous cure. Both facts rest
upon experience: should they remove the limits of the law we have
expounded?
Joy is fatal when it rises into ecstacy: nature cannot support the strain
which in one moment is thrown upon the whole nervous system. The motion
of the brain is no longer harmony, but convulsion, an extremely sudden
and momentary force which soon changes into the ruin of the organism,
since it has transgressed the boundary line of health (for into the very
idea of health there enters and is essentially interwoven the idea of a
certain moderation of all natural motions). The joy as well as the grief
of finite beings is limited, and dare not pass beyond a certain point
without ruin.
As far as the second part is concerned, we have many examples of cure,
through a moderate fit of anger, of inveterate dyspepsia; and through
fright,--as in the case of a fire--of rheumatic pains and lameness
apparently incurable. But even dysentery has sometimes resolved an
internal stoppage, and the itch has been a cure for melancholy madness
and insanity: is the itch, for this, less a disease? --is dysentery
therefore health.
S 17. --Indolence of Mind brings about greater Indolence in the Organic
Movements.
As, according to the testimony of Herr von Haller, activity of mind
during the day tends to quicken the pulse towards evening, will not
indolence of mind make it more sluggish, and absolute inactivity
completely stop it? For, although the circulation of the blood does not
seem to be so very dependent on the mind, is it altogether unreasonable
to suppose that the heart, which, in any case, borrows from the brain the
larger portion of its strength, must necessarily, when the soul ceases to
maintain the action of the brain, suffer thereby a great loss of power?
A condition of phlegm is accompanied by a sluggish pulse, the blood is
thin and watery, and the circulation defective in the abdomen. The
idiots, whom Muzell has described for us [Muzell's "Medical and Surgical
Considerations.
"], breathed slowly and with difficulty, had no
inclination to eat and drink, nor to the natural functions; the pulse was
slow, all bodily movements slumberous and indicative of weariness. The
mental numbness which is the result of terror or wonder is sometimes
accompanied by a general suspension of all natural physical activity.
Was the mind the origin of this condition, or was it the body which
brought about this torpid state of mind? But these considerations lead
to subtleties and intricate questions, and, besides, must not be
discussed in this place.
S 18. --Second Law.
All that has been said of the transferrence of the mental sensations to
the animal holds true of the transferrence of animal affections to the
mental. Bodily sickness--for the most part the natural result of
intemperance--brings its punishment in the form of bodily pain; but the
mind also cannot escape a radical attack, in order that a twofold pain
may more powerfully impress upon it the necessity of restraint in the
desires. In like manner the feeling of bodily health is accompanied by a
more lively consciousness of mental improvement, and man is thus the more
spurred on to maintain his body in good condition. We arrive thus at a
second law of mixed natures--that, with the free action of the bodily
organism, the sensations and ideas gain a freer flow; and learn that,
with a corrupted organism, corruption of the thinking faculty and of the
sensations inevitably follows. Or, more shortly, that the general
sensation of a harmonious animal life is the fountain of mental pleasure,
and that animal pain and sickness is the fountain of mental pain.
In these different respects, or from their consideration, soul and body
may not unaptly be compared with two stringed instruments tuned by the
same hand, and placed alongside of one another. When a string of one of
them is touched and a certain tone goes forth, the corresponding string
of the other will sound of itself and give the same tone, only somewhat
weaker. And, using this comparison, we may say that the string of
gladness in the body wakes the glad string in the soul, and the sad
string the string of sadness. This is that wonderful and noteworthy
sympathy which unites the heterogeneous principles in man so as to form
one being. Man is not soul and body--but the most inward and essential
blending of the two.
S 19. --Moods of Mind result from Moods of Body.
Hence the heaviness, the incapacity of thought, the discontented temper;
which are the consequence of excess in physical indulgence; hence the
wonderful effects of wine upon those who always drink in moderation.
"When you have drunk wine," says Brother Martin, "you see everything
double, you think doubly easily, you are doubly ready for any
undertaking, and twice as quickly bring it to a conclusion. " Hence the
comfort and good-humor experienced in fine weather, proceeding partly
from association of ideas, but mostly from the increased feeling of
bodily health that goes along with it, extending over all the functions
of our organism. Then it is that people use such expressions as, "I feel
that I am well," and at such a season they are more disposed towards all
manner of mental labor, and have a heart more open to the humaner
feelings, and more prompt to the practice of moral duties. The same may
be seen in the national character of different peoples. Those who dwell
in gloomy regions mourn along with the dismal scenery: in wild and stormy
zones man grows wild: where his lot is cast in friendly climates he
laughs with the sky that is bright above him. Only under the clear
heaven of Greece lived a Homer, a Plato, a Phidias; there were born the
Muses and the Graces, while the Lapland mists can hardly bring forth men,
and never a genius. While our Germany was yet a wild forest or morass,
the German was a hunter as wild as the beast whose skin he slung about
his shoulders. As soon as industry had changed the aspect of his country
began the epoch of moral progress. I will not maintain that character
takes its rise in climate only, but it is certain that towards the
civilization of a people one main means is the improvement of their
skies.
The disorders of the body may disorder the whole range of our moral
perceptions, and prepare the way for an outburst of the most evil
passions. A man whose constitution is ruined by a course of dissipation
is more easily led to extremes than one who has kept his body as it
should be kept. This is, indeed, the horrible plan of those who destroy
our youths, and that father of robbers must have known man well, who
said, "We must destroy both body and soul. " Catiline was a profligate
before he became a conspirator, and Doria greatly erred when he thought
he had no cause to fear a voluptuary like Fiesco. On the whole, it is
very often remarked that an evil spirit dwells in a sick body.
In diseases this sympathy is still more striking. All severe illnesses,
especially those of malignant nature and arising from the economy of the
abdominal regions, announce themselves, more or less, by a strange
revolution in the character. Even while the disease is still silently
stealing through the hidden corners of our mechanism, and undermining the
strength of nerve, the mind begins to anticipate by dark forebodings the
fall of her companion. This is a main element in that condition which a
great physician described in a masterly manner under the name of
"Horrores. " Hence their moroseness of disposition, which none can
account for, their wavering fancies and inclinations, their disgust at
what used to give them pleasure. The amiable man grows quarrelsome, the
merry man cross, and he who used to lose himself, and gladly, in the
bustle of the world, flies the face of man and retires into a gloomy
melancholy. But underneath this treacherous repose the enemy is making
ready for a deadly onslaught. The universal disturbance of the entire
mechanism, when the disease once breaks forth, is the most speaking proof
of the wonderful dependence of the soul on the body. The feeling,
springing from a thousand painful sensations, of the utter ruin of the
organism, brings about a frightful mental confusion. The most horrible
ideas and fancies rise from their graves. The villain whom nothing could
move yields under the dominant power of mere animal terror. Winchester,
in dying, yells in the anguish of despair. The soul is under a terrible
necessity, it would seem, of snatching at whatever will drag it deeper
into darkness, and rejects with obstinate madness every ray of comfort.
The string, the tone of pain is in the ascendant, and just as the
spiritual misery rose in the bodily disorder, so now it turns and renders
the disorder more universal and more intense.
S 20. --Limitations of the foregoing.
But there are daily examples of sufferers who courageously lift
themselves above bodily ills: of dying men who, amidst the distressful
struggles of the frame, ask, "Where is thy sting, O death? " Should not
wisdom, one might urge, avail to combat the blind terrors of the organic
nature? Nay, much more than wisdom, should religion have so little power
to protect her friends against the assaults springing from the dust? Or,
what is the same thing, does it not depend upon the preceding condition
of the soul, as to how she accepts the alterations of the processes of
life?
Now, this is an irrefragable truth. Philosophy, and still more a mind
courageous and elevated by religion, are capable of completely weakening
the influence of the animal sensations which assault the soul of one in
pain, and able, as it were, to withdraw it from all coherence with the
material. The thought of God, which is interwoven with death, as with
all the universe, the harmony of past life, the anticipation of an
ever-happy future, spread a bright light over all its ideas; while night
is drawn round the soul of him who departs in folly and in unbelief. If
even involuntary pangs force themselves upon the Christian and wise man
(for is he less a human being? ), yet will he resolve the sensations of
his dissolving frame into happiness:--
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
It is precisely this unwonted cheerfulness on the part of those who
are mortally sick which has often a physical reason at the basis, and
which has the most express significance for the practical physician.
It is often found in conjunction with the most fatal symptoms of
Hippocrates, and without being attributable to any bygone crisis. Such
a cheerfulness is of bad import. The nerves, which during the height of
the fever have been most sharply assailed, have now lost sensation; the
inflamed members, it is well known, cease to smart as soon as they are
destroyed; but it would be a hapless thought to rejoice that the time of
burning pain were passed and gone. Stimulus fails before the dead
nerves, and a deathly indolence belies future healing. The soul finds
herself under the illusion of a pleasant sensation, because she is free
from a long-enduring painful one. She is free from pain, not because the
tone of her instrument is restored, but because she no more experiences
the discord. Sympathy ceases as soon as the connection is lost.
S 21. --Further Aspects of the Connection.
If I might now begin to go deeper--if I might speak of delirium, of
slumber, of stupor, of epilepsy and catalepsy, and such like, wherein the
free and rational spirit is subjected to the despotism of the body--if I
might enlarge especially on the wide field of hysteria and hypochondria--
if it were allowed me to speak of temperaments, idiosyncrasies, and
constitutions, which for physicians and philosophers are an abyss--in one
word, should I attempt to demonstrate truth of the foregoing from the bed
of sickness, which is ever a chief school of psychology--my matter would
be extended to an endless length. We have, it seems to me, enough to
prove that the animal nature is throughout mingled with the spiritual,
and that this combination is perfection.
PHYSICAL PHENOMENA EXPRESS THE EMOTIONS OF THE MIND.
S 22. --Physiognomy of Sensations.
It is just this close correspondence between the two natures which is the
basis of the whole science of physiognomy. By means of this nervous
connection (which, as we have seen, lies at the bottom of the
communication of feelings) the most secret movements of the soul are
revealed on the exterior of the body, and passion penetrates even through
the veil of the hypocrite. Each passion has its specific expressions,
its peculiar dialect, so to speak, by which one knows it. And, indeed,
it is an admirable law of Supreme Wisdom, that every passion which is
noble and generous beautifies the body, while those that are mean and
hateful distort it into animal forms. The more the mind departs from the
likeness of the Deity, the nearer does the outward form seem to approach
the animal, and always that animal which has a kindred proclivity. Thus,
the mild expression of the philanthropist attracts the needy, whom the
insolent look of the angry man repels. This is an indispensable guide in
social life. It is astonishing what an accordance bodily appearance has
with the passions; heroism and fearlessness pour life and strength
through the veins and muscles, the eyes sparkle, the breast heaves, all
the limbs arm themselves alike for combat--the man has the appearance of
a war-horse. Fright and fear extinguish the fire in the eyes, the limbs
sink powerless and heavy, the marrow in the bones seems frozen, the blood
falls back on the heart like a stone, a general weakness cripples the
powers of life.
A great, bold, lofty thought compels us to stand on tiptoe, to hold up
the head, to expand the mouth and nose. The feeling of eternity, the
outlook on a wide open horizon, the sea, etc. , make us stretch out our
arms--we would merge ourselves into the eternal: with the mountains, we
would grow towards the heavens, rush thither on storms and waves: yawning
abysses throw us down in giddiness. In like manner, hate is expressed in
the body by a repelling force; while, on the contrary, in every pressure
of the hand, in every embrace, our body will merge into that of our
friend, in the same manner as the souls are in harmonious combination.
Pride makes the body erect as the soul rises; pettiness bends the head,
the limbs hang down; servile fear is expressed in the cringing walk; the
thought of pain distorts our face, if pleasurable aspects spread a grace
over the whole body; anger, on the other hand, will break through every
strong opposing cord, and need will almost overcome the impossible. I
would now ask through what mechanism it happens that exactly these
movements result from these feelings, that just these organs are affected
by these passions? Might I not just as well want to know why a certain
wounding of the ligament should stiffen the lower jaw?
If the passion which sympathetically awakened these movements of the
frame be often renewed, if this sensation of soul become habitual, then
these movements of the body will become so also. If this matured passion
be of a lasting character, then these constitutional features of the
frame become deeply engraved: they become, if I may borrow the
pathologist's word, "deuteropathetic," and are at last organic. Thus, at
last, the firm perennial physiognomy of man is formed, so that it is
almost easier afterwards to change the soul than the form. In this
sense, one may also say, without being a "Stahlian," that the soul forms
the body; and perhaps the earliest years of youth decide the features of
a man for life, as they certainly are the foundation of his moral
character. An inert and weak soul, which never overflows in passions,
has no physiognomy at all; and want of expression is the leading
characteristic of the countenance of the imbecile. The original features
which nature gave him continue unaltered; the face is smooth, for no soul
has played upon it; the eyebrows retain a perfect arch, for no wild
passion has distorted them; the whole form retains its roundness, for the
fat reposes in its cells; the face is regular, perhaps even beautiful,
but I pity the soul of it!
A physiognomy of (perfect) organic parts, e. g. , as to the form and size
of the nose, eyes, mouth, ears, etc. , the color of the hair, the height
of the neck, and such like, may perhaps possibly be found, but certainly
not very easily, however much Lavater should continue to rave about it
through ten quarto volumes. He who would reduce to order the capricious
play of nature, and classify the forms which she has punished like a
stepmother, or endowed as a mother, would venture more than Linnaeus, and
should be very careful lest he become one with the original presented to
him, through its monstrous sportive variety.
Yet one more kind of sympathy deserves to be noticed, since it is of
great importance in physiology. I mean the sympathy of certain
sensations for the organs from which they sprang. A certain cramp in the
stomach causes a feeling of disgust; the reproduction of this sensation
brings back the cramp. How is this?
S 23. --The Remains of the Animal Nature is also a Source of Perfection.
Although the animal part of man preserves for him the many great
advantages of which we have already spoken, still, one may say that, in
another aspect, it remains always despicable; viz. , the soul thus
depends, slave-like, on the activity of its tools; the periodical
relaxation of these prescribes to the soul an inactive pause and
annihilation at periods. I mean sleep, which, one cannot deny, robs us
at least of the third part of our life. Further, our mind is completely
dependent on the laws of the body, so that the cessation of the latter
puts a sudden stop to the continuance of thoughts, even though we be on
the straight, open path towards truth. If the reason have ever so little
fixed upon an idea, when the lazy matter refuses to carry it out, the
strings of the thinking organs grow weary, if they have been but slightly
strained; the body fails us where we need it most. What astonishing
steps, one may infer, would man make in the use of his powers if he could
continue to think in a state of unbroken intensity! How he would unravel
every idea to its final elements; how he would trace every appearance to
its most hidden sources, if he could keep them uninterruptedly before his
mind! But, alas! it is not thus. Why is it not so?
S 24. --Necessity for Relaxation.
The following will lead us on the track of truth:--
1. Pleasant sensation was necessary to lead man to perfection, and he can
only be perfect when he feels comfortable.
2. The nature of a mortal being makes unpleasant feeling unavoidable.
Evil does not shut man out from the best world, and the worldly-wise find
their perfection therein.
3. Thus pain and pleasure are necessary. It seems harder, but it is no
less true.
4. Every pain, as every pleasure, grows according to its nature, and
would continue to do so.
5. Every pain and every pleasure of a mixed being tend to their own
dissolution.
S 25. --Explanation.
It is a well-known law of the connection between ideas that every
sensation, of whatever kind, immediately seizes another of its kind, and
enlarges itself through this addition. The larger and more manifold it
becomes, so much the more does it awaken similar sensations in all
directions through the organs of thought, until, by degrees, it becomes
universally predominant, and occupies the whole soul. Consequently,
every sensation grows through itself; every present condition of the
feeling power contains the root of a feeling to follow, similar, but more
intense. This is evident. Now, every mental sensation is, as we know,
allied to a similar animal one; in other words, each one is connected
with more or less movement of the nerves, which take a direction
according to the measure of their strength and extension. Thus, as
mental sensations grow, must the movements in the nervous system increase
also. This is no less clear. Now, pathology teaches us that a nerve
never suffers alone: and to say, "Here is a superfluity of strength," is
as much as to say, "There is want of strength. " Thus, every nervous
movement grows through itself. Now, we have remarked that the movements
of the nervous system react upon the mind, and strengthen the mental
sensations;
[Why, how one weeps when one's too weary!
Tears, tears! why we weep,
'Tis worth inquiry:--that we've shamed a life,
Or lost a love, or missed a world, perhaps?
By no means. Simply, that we've walked too far,
Or talked too much, or felt the wind in the east, etc.
--Aurora Leigh. ]
vice versa, the strengthened sensation of the mind increase and
strengthen the motions of the nerves. Thus we have a circle, in which
sensation must always increase, and nervous movements every moment become
more powerful and universal.
Now, we know that the movements of the bodily frame which cause the
feeling of pain run counter to the harmony by which it would exist in
well-being; that is, that they are diseased. But disease cannot grow
unceasingly, therefore they end in the total destruction of the frame.
In relation to pain, it is thus proved that it aims at the death of the
subject.
But, the motions of the nerves under pleasant sensations being so
harmonious to the continuance of the machinery that the condition of mind
which constitutes pleasure is that of the greatest bodily well-being,
should not rather, then, pleasant sensation prolong the bloom of the body
eternally? This inference is too hasty. In a certain stage of
moderation, these nervous motions are wholesome, and really a sign of
health. But if they outgrow this stage, they may be the highest
activity, the highest momentary perfection; but, thus, they are excess of
health, no longer health itself.
We only call that condition of the natural motions health in which the
root of similar ones for the future lies, viz. , those which confirm the
perfection of succeeding motions; thus, the destiny of continuance is
essentially contained in the idea of health. Thus, for example, the body
of the most debilitated profligate attains to its greatest harmony at the
moment of excess; but it is only momentarily, and a so much deeper
abatement shows sufficiently that overstraining was not health.
Therefore one may justly accept that an overstrained vigor of physical
action hastens death as much as the greatest disorder or the worst
illness. Both pain and pleasure draw us towards an unavoidable death,
unless something be present which limits their advance.
S 26. --Excellence of this Abatement.
It is just this (the limit to their growth) which the abatement of the
animal nature causes. It must be no other than this limitation of our
fragile frame (that appeared to have lent to our opponents so strong a
proof against its perfection) which ameliorates all the evil consequences
that the mechanism otherwise makes unavoidable. It is exactly this
sinking, this lassitude of the organs, over which tinkers complain so
much, that prevents our own strength destroying us in a short time; that
does not permit our positions to be always increasing towards our
destruction. This limitation shows each passion the period of its
growth, its height and decline (if indeed the passion does not die out in
a total relaxation of the body), which leaves the excited spirits time to
resume their harmony, and the organs to recover. Hence, the highest
pitch of rapture, of fear, and of anger, are the same as weariness,
weakness, or fainting. But sleep vouchsafes more, for as Shakspeare
says:--
Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's sweet restorer.
--Macbeth.
During sleep, the vital forces restore themselves to that healthy
balance which the continuance of our being so much requires; all the
cramped ideas and feelings, the overstrained actions which have
troubled us through the day, are solved in the entire relaxation of the
sensorium; the harmony of the motions of the mind are resumed, and the
newly-awakened man greets the coming day more calmly.
In relation to the arrangement of the whole, also, we cannot sufficiently
admire the worth and importance of this limitation. The arrangement
necessarily causes many, who should be no less happy, to be sacrificed to
the general order and to bear the lot of oppression. Likewise, many,
whom we perhaps unjustly envy, must expend their mental and bodily
strength in restless exertion, so that the repose of the whole be
preserved. The same with sick persons, the same with unreasoning
animals. Sleep seals the eye of care, takes from the prince and
statesman the heavy weight of governing; pours new force into the veins
of the sick man, and rest into his harassed soul; the daylaborer no
longer hears the voice of the oppressor, and the ill-used beast escapes
from the tyranny of man. Sleep buries all cares and troubles, balances
everything, equips every one with new-born powers to bear the joys and
sorrows of the next day.
S 27. --Severing of the Connection.
At length arrived at the point in the circle where the mind has fulfilled
the aim of its being, an internal, unaccountable mechanism has, at the
same time, made the body incapable of being any longer its instrument.
All care for the well-being of the bodily state seems to reach but to
this epoch. It appears to me that, in the formation of our physical
nature, wisdom has shown such parsimony, that notwithstanding constant
compensations, decline must always keep in the ascendancy, so that
freedom misuses the mechanism, and death is germinated in life as out of
its seed. Matter dissolves again into its last elements, which travel
through the kingdom of nature in other forms and relations, to serve
other purposes. The mind continues to practise its thinking powers in
other circles, and to observe the universe from other sides.
We may truly say that it has not by any means exhausted this actual
sphere, that it might have left this sphere itself more perfect; but do
we know that this sphere is lost to it? We lay many a book aside which
we do not understand, but perhaps in a few years we shall understand it
better.
closely together as they really are closely woven, and cause an unknown
something, born of the economy of the animal body, to be assailed by the
power of sensation,--let the soul be placed in the condition of physical
pain. That was the first touch, the first ray to light up the night of
slumbering powers, a touch as from a golden finger upon nature's lute.
Now is sensation there, and sensation only was it that before we missed.
This kind of sensation seems to have been made on purpose to remove all
these difficulties. In the first case none could be produced because we
were not allowed to presuppose an idea; here a modification of the bodily
organs becomes a substitute for the ideas that were lacking, and thus
does animal sensation come to the help of the spirits inward mechanism,
if I may so call it, and puts the same in motion. The will is active,
and the action of a single power is sufficient to set all the rest to
work. The following operations are self-developed and do not belong to
this chapter.
S 10. -Out of the History of the Individual.
Let us follow now the growth of the soul in the individual man in
relation to what I am trying to demonstrate, and let us observe how all
his spiritual capacities grow out of motive powers of sense.
a. The child. Still quite animal; or, rather more and at the same time
less than animal--human animal (for that being which at some time shall
be called man can at no time have been only animal). More wretched than
an animal, because he has not even instinct--the animal-mother may with
less danger leave her young than the mother abandon her child. Pain may
force from him a cry, but will never direct him to the source from which
it comes. The milk may give him pleasure, but he does not seek it. He
is altogether passive.
His thinking rises only to sensation.
His knowledge is but pain, hunger--and what binds these together.
b. The boy. Here we have already reflection, but only in so far as it
bears upon the satisfaction of the animal impulse. "He learns to value,"
says Garve [Observations on Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," p. 319], "the
things of others, and his actions in respect of others, first of all
through the fact of their affording him [sensuous] pleasure. "
A love of work, the love to his parents, to friends, yea even love to
God, must go along the pathway of physical sense [Sinnlichkeit] to reach
his soul. "That only is the sun," as Garve elsewhere observes, "which in
itself enlightens and warms: all other objects are dark and cold; but
they too can be warmed and illumined when they enter into such a
connection with the same as to become partakers of its rays. "
[Observations on Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," p. 393. ] The good things
of the spirit possess a value with the boy only by transferrence--they
are the spiritual means to an animal end.
c. Youth and man. The frequent repetition of this process of induction
at last brings about a readiness, and the transferrence begins to
discover a beauty in what at first was regarded simply as a means. The
youth begins to linger in the process without knowing why. Without
observing it, he is often attracted to think about this means. Now is
the time when the beams of spiritual beauty in itself begin to fall upon
his open soul; the feeling of exercising his powers delights him, and
infuses an inclination to the object which, up to this time, was a means
only: the first end is forgotten. His enlightened mind and the richer
store of his ideas at last reveal to him the whole worth of spiritual
pleasures--the means has become the highest end.
Such is the teaching more or less of the history of each individual man--
whose means of education have been fairly good; and wisdom could hardly
choose a better road along which to lead mankind. Is not the mass of the
people even to this day in leading-strings? --much like our boy. And has
not the prophet from Medina left us an example of striking plainness how
to bridle the rude nature of the Saracens?
On this subject nothing more excellent can be said than what Garve
remarked in his translation of Ferguson's "Moral Philosophy," in the
chapter upon the Natural Impulses, and has developed as follows: "The
impulse of self-preservation and the attraction of sensual pleasure first
bring both man and beast to the point of action: he first comes to value
the things of others and his own actions in reference to them according
as they procure him pleasure. In proportion as the number of things
under whose influence he comes increases do his desires cover a wider
circle; as the road by which he reaches the objects of his wishes
lengthens, so do his desires become more artificial. Here we come to the
first line of separation between man and the mere animal, and herein we
may even discover a difference between one species of animal and another.
With few animals does the act of feeding follow immediately upon the
sensation of hunger; the heat of the chase, or the industry of collection
must come first. But in the case of no animal does the satisfaction of
this want follow so late upon the preparations made in reference thereto
as in the case of man; with no animal does the endeavor wind through so
long a chain of means and intentions before it arrives at the last link.
How far removed from this end, though in reality they have no other, are
the labors of the artisan or the ploughman. But even this is not all.
When the means of human subsistence have become richer and more various
through the institutions of society; when man begins to discover that
without a full expenditure of time and labor a surplus remains to him;
when at the same time by the communication of ideas he becomes more
enlightened; then he begins to find a last end for all his actions in
himself; he then remarks that, even when his hunger is thoroughly
satisfied, a good supply of raiment, a roof above him, and a sufficiency
of furniture within doors, there still remains something over and
above for him to do. He goes a step further, he becomes conscious that
in those very actions by which he has procured for himself food and
comfort--in so far as they have their origin in certain powers of a
spirit, and in so far as they exercise these powers--there lies a higher
good than in the external ends which thereby are attained. From this
moment on he works, indeed--in company with the rest of the human race,
and along with the whole animal kingdom--to keep himself alive, and to
provide for himself and his friends the necessaries of physical
existence;--for what else could he do? What other sphere of action could
he create for himself, if he were to leave this? But he knows now that
nature has not so much awakened in him these various impulses and desires
for the purpose of affording so many particular pleasures,--but, and far
more, places before him the attraction of those pleasures and advantages,
in order that these impulses may be put in motion--and with this end,
that to a thinking being there may be given matter for thought, to a
sensitive spirit matter for sensations, to the benevolent means of
beneficence, and to the active opportunity for work. Thus does
everything, living or lifeless, assume to him a new form. All the facts
and changes of life were formerly estimated by him only in so far as they
caused him pleasure or pain: now, in so far as they offer occasion for
expression of his desire of perfection. In the first case, events are
now good, now bad; in the latter, all are equally good. For there is no
chance or accident which does not give scope for the exercise of some
virtue, or for the employment of a special faculty. At first he loved
his fellows because he believed that they could be of use to him; he
loves them now far more--because he looks upon benevolence as the
condition of the perfect mind. "
S 11. -From the History of Humanity.
Yet once more, a glance at the universal history of the whole human
race--from its cradle to the maturity of full-grown man--and the truth of
what has been said up to this point will stand forth in clearest relief.
Hunger and nakedness first made of man a hunter, a fisher, a cowherd, a
husbandman, and a builder. Sensual pleasure founded families, and the
defencelessness of single men was the origin of the tribe. Here already
may the first roots of the social duties be discovered. The soil would
soon become too poor for the increasing multitude of men; hunger would
drive them to other climates and countries that would discover their
wealth to the necessity that forced men to seek it; in the process they
would learn many improvements in the cultivation of the soil, and perhaps
some means to escape the hurtful influence of many things they would
necessarily encounter. These separate experiences passed from
grandfather to grandson, and their number was always on the increase.
Man learned to use the powers of nature against herself; these powers
were brought into new relations and the first invention was made. Here
we have the first roots of the simple and healing arts--always, we admit,
art and invention for the behoof of the animal, but still an exercise of
power, an addition to knowledge; and at the very fire in whose embers the
savage roasted his fish, Boerhaave afterwards made his inquiries into the
composition of bodies; through the very knife which this wild man used to
cut up his game, Lionet invented what led to his discovery of the nerves
of insects; with the very circle wherewith at first hoofs were measured,
Newton measures heaven and earth. Thus did the body force the mind to
pay attention to the phenomena around it; thus was the world made
interesting and important, through being made indispensable. The inward
activity of their nature, and the barrenness of their native soil,
combined in teaching our forefathers to form bolder plans, and invented
for them a house wherein, under conduct of the stars, they could safely
move upon rivers and seas, and sail toward regions new:--
Fluctibus ignotis insultavere carinae.
(Their keels danced upon waves unknown. )
Here again they met with new productions of nature, new dangers, new
needs that called for new exertions. The collision of animal instincts
drives hordes against hordes, forges a sword out of the raw metal, begets
adventurers, heroes, and despots. Towns are fortified, states are
founded: with the states arise civic duties and rights, arts, figures,
codes of law, subtle priests--and gods.
And now, when necessities have degenerated into luxury, what a boundless
field is opened to our eyes! Now are the veins of the earth burrowed
through, the foot of man is planted on the bottom of the sea, commerce
and travel flourish:--
Latet sub classibus aequor.
(The sea is hid beneath the fleets. )
The West wonders at the East, the East at the West; the productions of
foreign countries accustom themselves to grow under other skies, and the
art of gardening shows the products of three-quarters of the world in one
garden. Artists learn her works from nature, music soothes the savage
breast, beauty and harmony ennoble taste and manners, and art leads the
way to science and virtue. "Man," says Schloezer [see Schloezer's Plan
of his Universal History, S 6], "this mighty demigod, clears rocks from
his path, digs out lakes, and drives his plough where once the sail was
seen. By canals he separates quarters of the globe and provinces from
one another; leads one stream to another and discharges them upon a sandy
desert, changed thereby into smiling meadow; three quarters of the globe
he plunders and transplants them into a fourth. Even climate, air, and
weather acknowledge his sway. While he roots out forests and drains the
swamp, the heaven grows clear above his head, moisture and mist are lost,
winter becomes milder and shorter, because rivers are no longer frozen
over. " And the mind of man is refined with the refining of his clime.
The state occupies the citizen in the necessities and comforts of life.
Industry gives the state security and rest from without; from within,
granting to thinker and artist that fruitful leisure through which the
age of Augustus came to be called the Golden Age. The arts now take a
more daring and untrammelled flight, science wins a light pure and dry,
natural history and physical science shatter superstition, history
extends a mirror of the times that were, and philosophy laughs at the
follies of mankind. But when luxury grows into effeminacy and excess,
when the bones begin to ache, and the pestilence to spread and the air
becomes infected, man hastens in his distress from one realm of nature to
another, that he may at least find means for lessening his pains. Then
he finds the divine plant of China; from the bowels of the earth he digs
out the mightily-working mercury, and from the poppy of the East learns
to distil its precious juice. The most hidden corners of nature are
investigated; chemistry separates material objects into their ultimate
elements, and creates worlds of her own; alchemists enrich the province
of physical science; the microscopic glance of a Schwammerdam surprises
nature in her most secret operations. Man goes still further; necessity
or curiosity transcends the boundaries set by superstition: he seizes the
knife, takes courage, and the masterpiece of nature is discovered, even
man. Thus did it behoove the least, the poorest, to help us to reach the
highest; disease and death must lend their aid to man in teaching him
Gnothi seauton ("Know thyself! "). The plague produced and formed our
Hippocrates, our Sydenhams, as war is the mother of generals; and we owe
to the most devastating disease that ever visited humanity an entire
reformation of our medical system.
Our intention was to show the influence upon the perfecting of the soul
through the temperate enjoyment of the pleasures held out by the senses;
and how marvellously has the matter changed, even while under our hands!
We found that even excess and abuse in this direction have furthered the
real demands of humanity; the deflections from the primitive end of
nature--merchants, conquerors, and luxury--have, undoubtedly, tended to
hasten a progress which had otherwise been more regular, but very slow.
Let us compare the old world with the new! In the first, desire was
simple, its satisfaction easy; but how mistaken, how painful was the
judgment passed on nature and her laws! Now, the road is made more
difficult by a thousand windings, but how full the light that has been
shed upon all our conceptions!
We may, then, repeat: Man needed to be an animal before he knew that he
was a spirit; he needed to crawl in the dust before he ventured on a
Newtonian flight through the universe. The body, therefore, is the first
spur to action; sense the first step on the ladder to perfection.
ANIMAL SENSATIONS ACCOMPANY MENTAL SENSATIONS.
S 12. --Law.
The understanding of man is extremely limited, and, therefore, all
sensations resulting from its action must of necessity be also limited.
In order, therefore, to give these sensations greater impulse, and with
redoubled force to attract the will to good and restrain it from evil,
both natures, the spiritual and the animal, are so intimately connected
with each other that their modifications, being mutually interchanged,
impart strength to one another. Hence arises a fundamental law of mixed
natures, which, being reduced to its primary divisions, runs thus: the
activities of the body correspond to the activities of the mind; that is,
any overstraining of a mental activity is necessarily followed by an
overstraining of certain bodily actions,--just as the equilibrium, or
harmonious action, of the mental powers is associated with that of the
bodily powers in perfect accord. Further: mental indolence induces
indolence in the bodily actions; mental inaction causes them to cease
altogether. Thus, as perfection is ever accompanied by pleasure,
imperfection by the absence of pleasure, this law may be thus expressed:
Mental pleasure is invariably attended by animal pleasure, mental pain by
animal pain. [Complacency and Displacency perhaps more aptly express the
meaning of Lust and Unlust, which we translate by pleasure and pain. ]
S 13. --Mental Pleasure furthers the Welfare of the Human Frame.
Thus, a sensation which embraces within its range the whole spiritual
being agitates in the same measure the whole framework of the organic
body,--heart, veins and blood, muscles and nerves, all, from those mighty
nerves that give to the heart its living impulse of motion down to the
tiny and unimportant nerves by which hairs are attached to the skin,
share equally its influence. Everything tends to a more violent motion.
If the sensation be an agreeable one, all these parts will acquire a
higher degree of harmonious activity; the heart's beat will be free,
lively, uniform, the blood will flow unchecked, gently or with fiery
speed, according as the affection is of a gentle or violent description;
digestion, secretion, and excretion will follow their natural course; the
excitable membranes will pliantly play in a gentle vapor-bath, and
excitability as well as sensitiveness will increase. Therefore the
condition of the greatest momentary mental pleasure is at the same time
the condition of the greatest bodily well-being.
As many as there may be of these partial activities (and is not every
beat of the pulse the result perhaps of thousands? ) so many will be the
obscure sensations crowding upon the soul, each one of which indicates
perfection. Out of this confused complexity arises entire sensation of
the animal harmonies, that is, the highest possible combined sensation of
animal pleasure, which ranges itself, as it were, alongside of the
original intellectual or moral sensation, which this addition infinitely
increases. Thus is every agreeable affection the source of countless
bodily pleasures.
This is most evidently confirmed by the examples of sick persons who have
been cured by joy. Let one whom a terrible home-sickness has wasted to a
skeleton be brought back to his native land, and the bloom of health will
soon be his again; or let us enter a prison in which miserable men have
for ten or twenty years inhabited filthy dungeons and possess at last
barely strength to move,--and let us tell them suddenly they are free;
the single word of freedom will endow their limbs with the strength of
youth, and cause dead eyes to sparkle with life. Sailors, whom thirst
and famine have made their prey during a long voyage, are half cured by
the steersman's cry of "Land! " and he would certainly greatly err who
ascribed the whole result to a prospect of fresh food. The sight of a
dear one, whom the sufferer has long desired to see, sustains the life
that was about to go, and imparts strength and health. It is a fact,
that joy can quicken the nervous system more effectually than all the
cordials of the apothecary, and can do wonders in the case of inveterate
internal disorders denied to the action of rhubarb and even mercury. Who
then does not perceive that the constitution of the soul which knows how
to derive pleasure from every event and can dissipate every ache in the
perfection of the universe, must be the most beneficial to the whole
organism? and this constitution of the soul is--virtue.
S 14. --Mental pain undermines the Welfare of the Whole Organisms.
In the very same way, the opposite result is brought about by a
disagreeable affection of the mind. The ideas which rule so intensely
the angry or terrified man may, as rightly as Plato called the passions a
fever of the soul, be regarded as convulsions of the organ of thought.
These convulsions quickly extend through the nervous system, and so
disturb the vital powers that they lose their perfection, and all organic
actions lose their equilibrium. The heart beats violently and
irregularly; the blood is so confined to the lungs that the failing pulse
has barely enough to sustain it. The internal chemical processes are at
cross-purposes; beneficent juices lose their way and work harm in other
provinces, while what is malignant may attack the very core of our
organism. In a word, the condition of the greatest mental distress
becomes the condition of the greatest bodily sickness.
The soul is informed of the threatened ruin of the organs that should
have been her good and willing servants by a thousand obscure sensations,
and is filled with an entire sensation of pain, associating itself to the
primary mental suffering, and giving to this a sharper sting.
S 15. --Examples.
Deep, chronic pains of the soul, especially if accompanied by a strong
exertion of thought--among which I would give a prominent place to that
lingering anger which men call indignation--gnaw the very foundations of
physical life, and dry up the sap that nourish it. Sufferers of this
kind have a worn and pale appearance, and the inward grief betrays itself
by the hollow, sunken eyes. "Let me," says Caesar, "have men about me
that are fat":--
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights;
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much--such men are dangerous.
Fear, trouble, distress of conscience, despair, are little less powerful
in their effects than the most violent fevers. Richard, when in deepest
anxiety, finds his former cheerfulness is gone, and thinks to bring it
back with a glass of wine. But it is not mental sorrow only that has
banished comfort, it is a sensation of discomfort proceeding from the
very root of his physical organism, the very same sensation that
announces a malignant fever. The Moor, heavily burdened with crimes, and
once crafty enough in absolving all the sensations of humanity--by his
skeleton-process--into nothing, now rises from a dreadful dream, pale and
breathless, with a cold sweat upon his brow. All the images of a future
judgment which he had perhaps believed in as a boy, and blotted out from
his remembrance as a man, assail his dream-bewildered brain. The
sensations are far too confused for the slower march of reason to
overtake and unravel them. Reason is still struggling with fancy, the
spirit with the horrors of the corporeal frame. ["Life of Moor," tragedy
of Krake. Act. v. sc. 1. ]
MOOR. --No! I am not shaking. It was but a dream. The dead are not
beginning to rise. Who says I tremble and turn pale? I am quite well,
quite well.
BED. --You are pale as death; your voice is frightened and hesitating.
MOOR. --I am feverish. I will be bled to-morrow. Say only, when the
priest comes, that I have fever.
BED. --But you are very ill.
MOOR. --Yes truly; that is all. And sickness disturbs the brain and
breeds strange mad dreams. Dreams mean nothing. Fie on womanish
cowardice! Dreams mean nothing. I have just had a pleasant dream.
[He falls down in a faint.
Here we have the whole image of the dream suddenly forcing itself upon a
man, and setting in motion the entire system of obscure ideas, stirring
up from the foundation the organ of thought. From all these causes
arises an intense sensation of pain in its utmost concentration, which
shatters the soul from its depth, and lames per consensum the whole
structure of the nerves.
The cold horror that seizes on the man who is about to commit some crime,
or who has just committed one, is nothing else than the horror which
agitates the feverish man, and which is felt on taking nauseous
medicines. The nightly tossings of those who are troubled by remorse,
always accompanied by a high pulse, are veritable fevers, induced by the
connection between the physical organism with the soul; and Lady Macbeth,
walking in her sleep, is an instance of brain delirium. Even the
imitation of a passion makes the actor for the moment ill; and after
Garrick had played Lear or Othello he spent some hours in convulsions on
his bed. Even the illusion of the spectator, through sympathy with acted
passion, has brought on shivering, gout, and fits of fainting.
Is not he, then, who is plagued with an evil temper, and draws gall and
bitterness from every situation in life: is not the vicious man, who
lives in a chronic state of hatred and malevolence; is not the envious
man, who finds torture in every excellence of his neighbor,--are not
these, all of them, the greatest foes to their own health? Has vice not
enough of the horrible in it, when it destroys not only happiness but
health.
S 16. -Exceptions.
But a pleasant affection has sometimes been a fatal one, and an
unpleasant one has sometimes worked a marvellous cure. Both facts rest
upon experience: should they remove the limits of the law we have
expounded?
Joy is fatal when it rises into ecstacy: nature cannot support the strain
which in one moment is thrown upon the whole nervous system. The motion
of the brain is no longer harmony, but convulsion, an extremely sudden
and momentary force which soon changes into the ruin of the organism,
since it has transgressed the boundary line of health (for into the very
idea of health there enters and is essentially interwoven the idea of a
certain moderation of all natural motions). The joy as well as the grief
of finite beings is limited, and dare not pass beyond a certain point
without ruin.
As far as the second part is concerned, we have many examples of cure,
through a moderate fit of anger, of inveterate dyspepsia; and through
fright,--as in the case of a fire--of rheumatic pains and lameness
apparently incurable. But even dysentery has sometimes resolved an
internal stoppage, and the itch has been a cure for melancholy madness
and insanity: is the itch, for this, less a disease? --is dysentery
therefore health.
S 17. --Indolence of Mind brings about greater Indolence in the Organic
Movements.
As, according to the testimony of Herr von Haller, activity of mind
during the day tends to quicken the pulse towards evening, will not
indolence of mind make it more sluggish, and absolute inactivity
completely stop it? For, although the circulation of the blood does not
seem to be so very dependent on the mind, is it altogether unreasonable
to suppose that the heart, which, in any case, borrows from the brain the
larger portion of its strength, must necessarily, when the soul ceases to
maintain the action of the brain, suffer thereby a great loss of power?
A condition of phlegm is accompanied by a sluggish pulse, the blood is
thin and watery, and the circulation defective in the abdomen. The
idiots, whom Muzell has described for us [Muzell's "Medical and Surgical
Considerations.
"], breathed slowly and with difficulty, had no
inclination to eat and drink, nor to the natural functions; the pulse was
slow, all bodily movements slumberous and indicative of weariness. The
mental numbness which is the result of terror or wonder is sometimes
accompanied by a general suspension of all natural physical activity.
Was the mind the origin of this condition, or was it the body which
brought about this torpid state of mind? But these considerations lead
to subtleties and intricate questions, and, besides, must not be
discussed in this place.
S 18. --Second Law.
All that has been said of the transferrence of the mental sensations to
the animal holds true of the transferrence of animal affections to the
mental. Bodily sickness--for the most part the natural result of
intemperance--brings its punishment in the form of bodily pain; but the
mind also cannot escape a radical attack, in order that a twofold pain
may more powerfully impress upon it the necessity of restraint in the
desires. In like manner the feeling of bodily health is accompanied by a
more lively consciousness of mental improvement, and man is thus the more
spurred on to maintain his body in good condition. We arrive thus at a
second law of mixed natures--that, with the free action of the bodily
organism, the sensations and ideas gain a freer flow; and learn that,
with a corrupted organism, corruption of the thinking faculty and of the
sensations inevitably follows. Or, more shortly, that the general
sensation of a harmonious animal life is the fountain of mental pleasure,
and that animal pain and sickness is the fountain of mental pain.
In these different respects, or from their consideration, soul and body
may not unaptly be compared with two stringed instruments tuned by the
same hand, and placed alongside of one another. When a string of one of
them is touched and a certain tone goes forth, the corresponding string
of the other will sound of itself and give the same tone, only somewhat
weaker. And, using this comparison, we may say that the string of
gladness in the body wakes the glad string in the soul, and the sad
string the string of sadness. This is that wonderful and noteworthy
sympathy which unites the heterogeneous principles in man so as to form
one being. Man is not soul and body--but the most inward and essential
blending of the two.
S 19. --Moods of Mind result from Moods of Body.
Hence the heaviness, the incapacity of thought, the discontented temper;
which are the consequence of excess in physical indulgence; hence the
wonderful effects of wine upon those who always drink in moderation.
"When you have drunk wine," says Brother Martin, "you see everything
double, you think doubly easily, you are doubly ready for any
undertaking, and twice as quickly bring it to a conclusion. " Hence the
comfort and good-humor experienced in fine weather, proceeding partly
from association of ideas, but mostly from the increased feeling of
bodily health that goes along with it, extending over all the functions
of our organism. Then it is that people use such expressions as, "I feel
that I am well," and at such a season they are more disposed towards all
manner of mental labor, and have a heart more open to the humaner
feelings, and more prompt to the practice of moral duties. The same may
be seen in the national character of different peoples. Those who dwell
in gloomy regions mourn along with the dismal scenery: in wild and stormy
zones man grows wild: where his lot is cast in friendly climates he
laughs with the sky that is bright above him. Only under the clear
heaven of Greece lived a Homer, a Plato, a Phidias; there were born the
Muses and the Graces, while the Lapland mists can hardly bring forth men,
and never a genius. While our Germany was yet a wild forest or morass,
the German was a hunter as wild as the beast whose skin he slung about
his shoulders. As soon as industry had changed the aspect of his country
began the epoch of moral progress. I will not maintain that character
takes its rise in climate only, but it is certain that towards the
civilization of a people one main means is the improvement of their
skies.
The disorders of the body may disorder the whole range of our moral
perceptions, and prepare the way for an outburst of the most evil
passions. A man whose constitution is ruined by a course of dissipation
is more easily led to extremes than one who has kept his body as it
should be kept. This is, indeed, the horrible plan of those who destroy
our youths, and that father of robbers must have known man well, who
said, "We must destroy both body and soul. " Catiline was a profligate
before he became a conspirator, and Doria greatly erred when he thought
he had no cause to fear a voluptuary like Fiesco. On the whole, it is
very often remarked that an evil spirit dwells in a sick body.
In diseases this sympathy is still more striking. All severe illnesses,
especially those of malignant nature and arising from the economy of the
abdominal regions, announce themselves, more or less, by a strange
revolution in the character. Even while the disease is still silently
stealing through the hidden corners of our mechanism, and undermining the
strength of nerve, the mind begins to anticipate by dark forebodings the
fall of her companion. This is a main element in that condition which a
great physician described in a masterly manner under the name of
"Horrores. " Hence their moroseness of disposition, which none can
account for, their wavering fancies and inclinations, their disgust at
what used to give them pleasure. The amiable man grows quarrelsome, the
merry man cross, and he who used to lose himself, and gladly, in the
bustle of the world, flies the face of man and retires into a gloomy
melancholy. But underneath this treacherous repose the enemy is making
ready for a deadly onslaught. The universal disturbance of the entire
mechanism, when the disease once breaks forth, is the most speaking proof
of the wonderful dependence of the soul on the body. The feeling,
springing from a thousand painful sensations, of the utter ruin of the
organism, brings about a frightful mental confusion. The most horrible
ideas and fancies rise from their graves. The villain whom nothing could
move yields under the dominant power of mere animal terror. Winchester,
in dying, yells in the anguish of despair. The soul is under a terrible
necessity, it would seem, of snatching at whatever will drag it deeper
into darkness, and rejects with obstinate madness every ray of comfort.
The string, the tone of pain is in the ascendant, and just as the
spiritual misery rose in the bodily disorder, so now it turns and renders
the disorder more universal and more intense.
S 20. --Limitations of the foregoing.
But there are daily examples of sufferers who courageously lift
themselves above bodily ills: of dying men who, amidst the distressful
struggles of the frame, ask, "Where is thy sting, O death? " Should not
wisdom, one might urge, avail to combat the blind terrors of the organic
nature? Nay, much more than wisdom, should religion have so little power
to protect her friends against the assaults springing from the dust? Or,
what is the same thing, does it not depend upon the preceding condition
of the soul, as to how she accepts the alterations of the processes of
life?
Now, this is an irrefragable truth. Philosophy, and still more a mind
courageous and elevated by religion, are capable of completely weakening
the influence of the animal sensations which assault the soul of one in
pain, and able, as it were, to withdraw it from all coherence with the
material. The thought of God, which is interwoven with death, as with
all the universe, the harmony of past life, the anticipation of an
ever-happy future, spread a bright light over all its ideas; while night
is drawn round the soul of him who departs in folly and in unbelief. If
even involuntary pangs force themselves upon the Christian and wise man
(for is he less a human being? ), yet will he resolve the sensations of
his dissolving frame into happiness:--
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
It is precisely this unwonted cheerfulness on the part of those who
are mortally sick which has often a physical reason at the basis, and
which has the most express significance for the practical physician.
It is often found in conjunction with the most fatal symptoms of
Hippocrates, and without being attributable to any bygone crisis. Such
a cheerfulness is of bad import. The nerves, which during the height of
the fever have been most sharply assailed, have now lost sensation; the
inflamed members, it is well known, cease to smart as soon as they are
destroyed; but it would be a hapless thought to rejoice that the time of
burning pain were passed and gone. Stimulus fails before the dead
nerves, and a deathly indolence belies future healing. The soul finds
herself under the illusion of a pleasant sensation, because she is free
from a long-enduring painful one. She is free from pain, not because the
tone of her instrument is restored, but because she no more experiences
the discord. Sympathy ceases as soon as the connection is lost.
S 21. --Further Aspects of the Connection.
If I might now begin to go deeper--if I might speak of delirium, of
slumber, of stupor, of epilepsy and catalepsy, and such like, wherein the
free and rational spirit is subjected to the despotism of the body--if I
might enlarge especially on the wide field of hysteria and hypochondria--
if it were allowed me to speak of temperaments, idiosyncrasies, and
constitutions, which for physicians and philosophers are an abyss--in one
word, should I attempt to demonstrate truth of the foregoing from the bed
of sickness, which is ever a chief school of psychology--my matter would
be extended to an endless length. We have, it seems to me, enough to
prove that the animal nature is throughout mingled with the spiritual,
and that this combination is perfection.
PHYSICAL PHENOMENA EXPRESS THE EMOTIONS OF THE MIND.
S 22. --Physiognomy of Sensations.
It is just this close correspondence between the two natures which is the
basis of the whole science of physiognomy. By means of this nervous
connection (which, as we have seen, lies at the bottom of the
communication of feelings) the most secret movements of the soul are
revealed on the exterior of the body, and passion penetrates even through
the veil of the hypocrite. Each passion has its specific expressions,
its peculiar dialect, so to speak, by which one knows it. And, indeed,
it is an admirable law of Supreme Wisdom, that every passion which is
noble and generous beautifies the body, while those that are mean and
hateful distort it into animal forms. The more the mind departs from the
likeness of the Deity, the nearer does the outward form seem to approach
the animal, and always that animal which has a kindred proclivity. Thus,
the mild expression of the philanthropist attracts the needy, whom the
insolent look of the angry man repels. This is an indispensable guide in
social life. It is astonishing what an accordance bodily appearance has
with the passions; heroism and fearlessness pour life and strength
through the veins and muscles, the eyes sparkle, the breast heaves, all
the limbs arm themselves alike for combat--the man has the appearance of
a war-horse. Fright and fear extinguish the fire in the eyes, the limbs
sink powerless and heavy, the marrow in the bones seems frozen, the blood
falls back on the heart like a stone, a general weakness cripples the
powers of life.
A great, bold, lofty thought compels us to stand on tiptoe, to hold up
the head, to expand the mouth and nose. The feeling of eternity, the
outlook on a wide open horizon, the sea, etc. , make us stretch out our
arms--we would merge ourselves into the eternal: with the mountains, we
would grow towards the heavens, rush thither on storms and waves: yawning
abysses throw us down in giddiness. In like manner, hate is expressed in
the body by a repelling force; while, on the contrary, in every pressure
of the hand, in every embrace, our body will merge into that of our
friend, in the same manner as the souls are in harmonious combination.
Pride makes the body erect as the soul rises; pettiness bends the head,
the limbs hang down; servile fear is expressed in the cringing walk; the
thought of pain distorts our face, if pleasurable aspects spread a grace
over the whole body; anger, on the other hand, will break through every
strong opposing cord, and need will almost overcome the impossible. I
would now ask through what mechanism it happens that exactly these
movements result from these feelings, that just these organs are affected
by these passions? Might I not just as well want to know why a certain
wounding of the ligament should stiffen the lower jaw?
If the passion which sympathetically awakened these movements of the
frame be often renewed, if this sensation of soul become habitual, then
these movements of the body will become so also. If this matured passion
be of a lasting character, then these constitutional features of the
frame become deeply engraved: they become, if I may borrow the
pathologist's word, "deuteropathetic," and are at last organic. Thus, at
last, the firm perennial physiognomy of man is formed, so that it is
almost easier afterwards to change the soul than the form. In this
sense, one may also say, without being a "Stahlian," that the soul forms
the body; and perhaps the earliest years of youth decide the features of
a man for life, as they certainly are the foundation of his moral
character. An inert and weak soul, which never overflows in passions,
has no physiognomy at all; and want of expression is the leading
characteristic of the countenance of the imbecile. The original features
which nature gave him continue unaltered; the face is smooth, for no soul
has played upon it; the eyebrows retain a perfect arch, for no wild
passion has distorted them; the whole form retains its roundness, for the
fat reposes in its cells; the face is regular, perhaps even beautiful,
but I pity the soul of it!
A physiognomy of (perfect) organic parts, e. g. , as to the form and size
of the nose, eyes, mouth, ears, etc. , the color of the hair, the height
of the neck, and such like, may perhaps possibly be found, but certainly
not very easily, however much Lavater should continue to rave about it
through ten quarto volumes. He who would reduce to order the capricious
play of nature, and classify the forms which she has punished like a
stepmother, or endowed as a mother, would venture more than Linnaeus, and
should be very careful lest he become one with the original presented to
him, through its monstrous sportive variety.
Yet one more kind of sympathy deserves to be noticed, since it is of
great importance in physiology. I mean the sympathy of certain
sensations for the organs from which they sprang. A certain cramp in the
stomach causes a feeling of disgust; the reproduction of this sensation
brings back the cramp. How is this?
S 23. --The Remains of the Animal Nature is also a Source of Perfection.
Although the animal part of man preserves for him the many great
advantages of which we have already spoken, still, one may say that, in
another aspect, it remains always despicable; viz. , the soul thus
depends, slave-like, on the activity of its tools; the periodical
relaxation of these prescribes to the soul an inactive pause and
annihilation at periods. I mean sleep, which, one cannot deny, robs us
at least of the third part of our life. Further, our mind is completely
dependent on the laws of the body, so that the cessation of the latter
puts a sudden stop to the continuance of thoughts, even though we be on
the straight, open path towards truth. If the reason have ever so little
fixed upon an idea, when the lazy matter refuses to carry it out, the
strings of the thinking organs grow weary, if they have been but slightly
strained; the body fails us where we need it most. What astonishing
steps, one may infer, would man make in the use of his powers if he could
continue to think in a state of unbroken intensity! How he would unravel
every idea to its final elements; how he would trace every appearance to
its most hidden sources, if he could keep them uninterruptedly before his
mind! But, alas! it is not thus. Why is it not so?
S 24. --Necessity for Relaxation.
The following will lead us on the track of truth:--
1. Pleasant sensation was necessary to lead man to perfection, and he can
only be perfect when he feels comfortable.
2. The nature of a mortal being makes unpleasant feeling unavoidable.
Evil does not shut man out from the best world, and the worldly-wise find
their perfection therein.
3. Thus pain and pleasure are necessary. It seems harder, but it is no
less true.
4. Every pain, as every pleasure, grows according to its nature, and
would continue to do so.
5. Every pain and every pleasure of a mixed being tend to their own
dissolution.
S 25. --Explanation.
It is a well-known law of the connection between ideas that every
sensation, of whatever kind, immediately seizes another of its kind, and
enlarges itself through this addition. The larger and more manifold it
becomes, so much the more does it awaken similar sensations in all
directions through the organs of thought, until, by degrees, it becomes
universally predominant, and occupies the whole soul. Consequently,
every sensation grows through itself; every present condition of the
feeling power contains the root of a feeling to follow, similar, but more
intense. This is evident. Now, every mental sensation is, as we know,
allied to a similar animal one; in other words, each one is connected
with more or less movement of the nerves, which take a direction
according to the measure of their strength and extension. Thus, as
mental sensations grow, must the movements in the nervous system increase
also. This is no less clear. Now, pathology teaches us that a nerve
never suffers alone: and to say, "Here is a superfluity of strength," is
as much as to say, "There is want of strength. " Thus, every nervous
movement grows through itself. Now, we have remarked that the movements
of the nervous system react upon the mind, and strengthen the mental
sensations;
[Why, how one weeps when one's too weary!
Tears, tears! why we weep,
'Tis worth inquiry:--that we've shamed a life,
Or lost a love, or missed a world, perhaps?
By no means. Simply, that we've walked too far,
Or talked too much, or felt the wind in the east, etc.
--Aurora Leigh. ]
vice versa, the strengthened sensation of the mind increase and
strengthen the motions of the nerves. Thus we have a circle, in which
sensation must always increase, and nervous movements every moment become
more powerful and universal.
Now, we know that the movements of the bodily frame which cause the
feeling of pain run counter to the harmony by which it would exist in
well-being; that is, that they are diseased. But disease cannot grow
unceasingly, therefore they end in the total destruction of the frame.
In relation to pain, it is thus proved that it aims at the death of the
subject.
But, the motions of the nerves under pleasant sensations being so
harmonious to the continuance of the machinery that the condition of mind
which constitutes pleasure is that of the greatest bodily well-being,
should not rather, then, pleasant sensation prolong the bloom of the body
eternally? This inference is too hasty. In a certain stage of
moderation, these nervous motions are wholesome, and really a sign of
health. But if they outgrow this stage, they may be the highest
activity, the highest momentary perfection; but, thus, they are excess of
health, no longer health itself.
We only call that condition of the natural motions health in which the
root of similar ones for the future lies, viz. , those which confirm the
perfection of succeeding motions; thus, the destiny of continuance is
essentially contained in the idea of health. Thus, for example, the body
of the most debilitated profligate attains to its greatest harmony at the
moment of excess; but it is only momentarily, and a so much deeper
abatement shows sufficiently that overstraining was not health.
Therefore one may justly accept that an overstrained vigor of physical
action hastens death as much as the greatest disorder or the worst
illness. Both pain and pleasure draw us towards an unavoidable death,
unless something be present which limits their advance.
S 26. --Excellence of this Abatement.
It is just this (the limit to their growth) which the abatement of the
animal nature causes. It must be no other than this limitation of our
fragile frame (that appeared to have lent to our opponents so strong a
proof against its perfection) which ameliorates all the evil consequences
that the mechanism otherwise makes unavoidable. It is exactly this
sinking, this lassitude of the organs, over which tinkers complain so
much, that prevents our own strength destroying us in a short time; that
does not permit our positions to be always increasing towards our
destruction. This limitation shows each passion the period of its
growth, its height and decline (if indeed the passion does not die out in
a total relaxation of the body), which leaves the excited spirits time to
resume their harmony, and the organs to recover. Hence, the highest
pitch of rapture, of fear, and of anger, are the same as weariness,
weakness, or fainting. But sleep vouchsafes more, for as Shakspeare
says:--
Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's sweet restorer.
--Macbeth.
During sleep, the vital forces restore themselves to that healthy
balance which the continuance of our being so much requires; all the
cramped ideas and feelings, the overstrained actions which have
troubled us through the day, are solved in the entire relaxation of the
sensorium; the harmony of the motions of the mind are resumed, and the
newly-awakened man greets the coming day more calmly.
In relation to the arrangement of the whole, also, we cannot sufficiently
admire the worth and importance of this limitation. The arrangement
necessarily causes many, who should be no less happy, to be sacrificed to
the general order and to bear the lot of oppression. Likewise, many,
whom we perhaps unjustly envy, must expend their mental and bodily
strength in restless exertion, so that the repose of the whole be
preserved. The same with sick persons, the same with unreasoning
animals. Sleep seals the eye of care, takes from the prince and
statesman the heavy weight of governing; pours new force into the veins
of the sick man, and rest into his harassed soul; the daylaborer no
longer hears the voice of the oppressor, and the ill-used beast escapes
from the tyranny of man. Sleep buries all cares and troubles, balances
everything, equips every one with new-born powers to bear the joys and
sorrows of the next day.
S 27. --Severing of the Connection.
At length arrived at the point in the circle where the mind has fulfilled
the aim of its being, an internal, unaccountable mechanism has, at the
same time, made the body incapable of being any longer its instrument.
All care for the well-being of the bodily state seems to reach but to
this epoch. It appears to me that, in the formation of our physical
nature, wisdom has shown such parsimony, that notwithstanding constant
compensations, decline must always keep in the ascendancy, so that
freedom misuses the mechanism, and death is germinated in life as out of
its seed. Matter dissolves again into its last elements, which travel
through the kingdom of nature in other forms and relations, to serve
other purposes. The mind continues to practise its thinking powers in
other circles, and to observe the universe from other sides.
We may truly say that it has not by any means exhausted this actual
sphere, that it might have left this sphere itself more perfect; but do
we know that this sphere is lost to it? We lay many a book aside which
we do not understand, but perhaps in a few years we shall understand it
better.
