which we call instinct in the brute, differs from that which we call
intelligence in man. Is it a difference in _kind_, or only in _degree_?
A glance at the history of the doctrine may aid us here.
_Early Views._--From Aristotle to Descartes, philosophers took
the latter view. They ascribed to the brute a degree of reason,
such as would be requisite in man, were he to do the same things,
and proceeding on this principle, they attributed to animals
an intelligence proportioned to the wants of their nature and
organization. This principle, it need hardly be said, is an assumption.
It is not certain that the same action proceeds from the same principle
in man, and in the brute; that whatever indicates and involves
intelligence and reason, in the one case, as its source, involves the
same in the other. This is a virtual _petitio principii_. It assumes
the very point in question. It may be that what man does by virtue of
an intelligent, reflecting, rational soul, looking before and after,
the brute does by virtue of entirely a different principle, a mere
unintelligent impulse of his nature, a blind sensation, prompting him
to a given course. This is the question to be settled, the thing to be
proved or disproved. And if the view already given of the character of
brute instinct, is correct, the position now stated as possible, may be
regarded as virtually established.
_View of Descartes._--Descartes, perceiving the error of previous
philosophers, went to the opposite extreme, and resolved the instinct
and action of the brute into mere mechanism, a principle little
different from that by which the weight moves the hands of the clock.
The brute performs the functions of his nature and organization, just
as the puppet moves hither and thither by springs hidden within, of
which itself knows nothing. The bird, the bee, the ant, the spider,
are so organized, such is the hidden mechanism of their curious
nature, that at the proper times, and under the requisite conditions,
they shall build, each its own proper structure; and perform, each,
its own proper work and office. So doing, each moves automatically,
mechanically.
_Locke and his Disciples._--Differing, again, from this view, which
certainly ascribes too little, as the opposite theory ascribes too
much to the brute, Locke, Condillac, and their disciples in France
and England, took the ground that the actions of the brute which seem
to indicate intelligence, are to be ascribed to the power of habit,
and to the law of association. The faculties of the brute, as indeed
of man, resolve themselves ultimately into impressions from without.
Nothing is innate. The dog scents his prey, and the beaver builds his
dam, and the bird migrates to a warmer clime, from the mere force of
habit, unreflecting, unintelligent. But how, it may occur to some one
to ask, happens such a habit to be formed in the first place? How
happens the poor insect, just emerging from the egg, to find in himself
all requisite appliances and instruments for capturing his prey? How
happens the bee always, throughout all its generations, to hit upon the
same contrivance for storing its honey, and not only so, but to select
out of a thousand different forms, and different possible angles,
always the same one? And so of the ant, the spider, etc. And if this is
a matter of education, as it certainly is not, then how came the first
bee, the first ant, spider, or other insect, to hit upon so admirable
an expedient?
_The Scotch Philosophers._--On the other hand, Reid, Stewart, and
the Scotch philosophers generally, departing widely from the merely
mechanical view, have ascribed to instinct some actions which are
properly automatic and involuntary, as the shutting of the eyelid on
the approach of a foreign body, the action of the infant in obtaining
its food from the mother's breast, and certain other like movements
of the animal organization, which, according to recent discoveries in
physiology, are to be attributed, rather to the simple reflex action of
the nerves and muscles. This is not properly instinct.
_Question returns._--Among these several views, where then, lies
the truth? Unable to coincide with the merely mechanical theory of
Descartes, or with the view which resolves all into mere habit and
association, with Locke and Condillac, shall we fall back upon the
ancient, and for a long time universally prevalent, view which
makes instinct only a lower degree of that intelligence which, in
man becomes reason and reflection? This we are hardly prepared to
do. The well-known phenomena and laws of instinct, its essential
characteristics as developed in the preceding pages, seem to point to a
difference in kind and not merely in degree.
_Reasons for this Opinion._--_1. The Brute incapable of high
Cultivation._--To recapitulate briefly the points of difference: If
instinct in the brute were of the same nature with intelligence in
man, if it were, properly speaking, _intelligence_, the same in kind,
differing only in degree, then, it ought, as in man, to be capable of
cultivation to an indefinite extent, capable of being elevated, by due
process of training, to a degree very much superior to that in which it
first presents itself. Now, with certain insignificant exceptions, such
is certainly not the case. No amount of training or culture ever brings
the animal essentially above the ordinary range of brute capacity, or
approximates him to the level of the human species.
_2. Brute does not improve by Practice._--On this theory the brute
ought, moreover, to improve by practice, which, for the most part,
certainly he does not. The spider lays out its lines as accurately and
constructs its web as well, and the bee her comb, and the bird her
nest, on the first attempt, as after the twentieth or the fiftieth
trial. There is no progress, no improvement. Its skill, if such it may
be called, is a fixture. There is nothing of the nature of _science_
about it, for it is of the essential nature of all intelligent action
to improve.
_3. Does not adapt itself to Circumstances._--If it were of the nature
of intelligence, it ought uniformly and invariably to adapt itself to
changing circumstances, and not to keep on working blindly in the old
way, when such procedure is no longer of use. It is not intelligence,
but mere blind impulse, in the beaver, that leads him to build his dam
on a dry floor or the pavement of a court-yard.
_4. Opposite View proves too much._--It is furthermore to be noticed,
that the theory under consideration, while it ascribes to the brute
only a lower degree of intelligence, in reality places him, in some
respects, far beyond man in point of intellect. If the instinct of
the brute be intelligence at all, it is intelligence which leaves his
prouder rival, man, in many cases, quite in the shade. No science of
man can vie with the mathematical precision of the spider or the bee
in the practical construction of lines and planes that shall enclose
a given angle. The engineer must take lessons of the ant in the art
of running lines and parallels. To the same humble insect belongs
the invention of the arch and of the dome in architecture. Many of
the profoundest questions and problems of science are in like manner
virtually solved by those creatures that possess, it is claimed, only
a _lower degree_ of intelligence than man. The facts are inconsistent
with the theory. The theory either goes too far, or not far enough. If
instinct is intelligence at all, it is intelligence, in some respects
at least, _superior_ to man's.
For reasons now stated, we must conclude that the intelligence of the
brute differs in _kind_, and not in _degree_ merely, from that of man.
_Faculties wanting in the Brute._--If now the inquiry be raised,
what are the specific faculties which are wanting in the brute, but
possessed by man, in other words, where runs the dividing line which
marks off the domain of instinct from that of intellect, we reply,
beginning with the differences which are most obvious, the brute is,
in the first place, not a _moral_ and _religious_ being. He has no
moral nature, no ideas of right and justice, none of accountability,
and of a higher power. He is, moreover, not an _æsthetic_ being. He has
no taste for beauty, nor appreciation of it. The horse, with all his
apparent intelligence, looks out upon the most enchanting landscape as
unmoved by its beauty as the carriage which he draws. He has no idea,
no cognizance of the beautiful. The faculty of original conception,
which furnishes man with ideas of this nature, seems to be wanting
in the brute. He is, furthermore, not a _scientific_ being. He does
not understand the principles by which he himself works. He makes no
progress or improvement, accordingly, in the application of those
principles, but works as well first as last. He learns nothing by
experience. Certain grand rules and principles do indeed lie at the
foundation of his work, but they have no _subjective_ existence in the
brute himself. Now the faculties which constitute man a scientific
being are those which, in the present treatise, we have grouped
together under the title of _reflective_. These seem to be wanting in
the brute. He never classifies, nor analyzes, never forms abstract
conceptions, never generalizes, judges, nor reasons, never reflects
on what is passing around him; never, in the true sense of the word,
_thinks_.
_Further Deficiency._--Here many, perhaps most, who have reflected
upon the matter at all, would place the dividing line between man and
the brute, denying him the possession of reason and reflection, the
higher intellectual powers, but allowing him the other faculties which
man enjoys. We must go further, however, and exclude imagination from
the list of brute faculties. Having no idea of the beautiful, nor any
power of forming abstract conceptions, the _ideals_, according to which
imagination shapes its creations, are wholly wanting, and imagination
itself, the faculty of the ideal, must also be wanting.
_The Power to perceive and remember._--But has the brute the power
of perception and memory, the only two distinct remaining faculties
of the human mind? If we distinguish, as we must, the physical from
the strictly intellectual element, in perception by the senses,
the capacity to receive impressions of sense, from the capacity to
_understand_ and _know_ the object, as such, from which the impressions
proceed, while we must admit the former, we should question the
existence of the latter in the brute. To know or understand the objects
of sense, to distinguish them as such, from each other, and from self
as the perceiving subject, is an attribute of intelligence in its
strict and proper sense, an attribute of mind. If the brute possesses
it, he possesses as really a mind, though not of so high an order, as
man.
_The dividing Line._--Now it is just here that we are compelled to
place the line of division between the brute and man, between instinct
and intellect. The brute has senses, as man; in some respects, indeed,
more perfect than his. Objects external make impressions upon his
senses; his eye, his ear, his various organs of sense, respond to these
impressions. In a word, he has sensations, and those sensations are
accompanied, as all sensations in their nature are, and must be, with
consciousness, that is, they are felt. But this does not necessarily
involve what we understand by consciousness in its higher sense, or
_self-consciousness_. The brute has, we believe, no knowledge of
himself as such, no _self-consciousness_, properly speaking; does not
distinguish between self as perceiving, and the object as perceived,
has no conception of self as a separate existence distinct from the
objects around him, has, strictly speaking, no ideas, no thoughts,
no intelligent comprehension of objects about him; has _sensations_,
but no _perceptions_ in the true sense of the word, since perception
involves the distinction of subject and object, or self-consciousness.
These distinctions are lost to the brute, blindly merged in the one
simple consciousness of physical sensation. He feels, but does not
think, does not understand. Sensation takes the place of understanding
and reason with him. It is his guide. To the impressions thus received,
his nature blindly responds, he knows not how or why. He is so
constituted by his wise and benevolent Maker, that sensation being
awakened, the impulses of his nature at once spring into play, and
prompt irresistibly to action, and to such action as shall meet the
wants of the being. There is no need for intelligence to supervene, as
with man. The brute feels and _acts_. Man feels, _thinks_, and acts.
The Creator has provided, for, the former, a substitute which takes
the place of intellect, and secures by blind, yet unerring impulse,
the simple ends which correspond to his simpler necessities, and his
humbler sphere.
_Man's Superiority._--Herein lies man's mastership and dominion over
the brute. He has what the brute has not, intellect, mind, the power of
thought, the power to understand and know. Just so far as he fails to
grasp this high prerogative, just so far as he is governed by sensation
and its corresponding impulses, rather than by intelligence and reason,
just in such degree he lays aside his superiority, and sinks to the
sphere of the brute. Thus, in infancy and early life, there is little
difference. Thus, many savage and uneducated races never rise far above
the brute capacity, are mere creatures of sensation, impulse, instinct.
_In one Respect inferior._--In one respect, indeed, man, destitute
of intelligence or failing to govern himself by its precepts, sinks
_below_ the brute. He has not the substitute for intelligence which the
brute has, has not instinct to guide him, and teach him the true and
proper bounds of indulgence, but giving way to passion and inclination,
without restraint, presents that most melancholy spectacle on which the
sun, in all his course, ever looks down, a man under the dominion of
his own appetites, incapable of self-government, lost to all nobleness,
all virtue, all self-respect.
_Memory in the Brute._--It may still be asked, does not the brute
_remember_? It is the office of memory to replace or represent what
has been once felt or perceived. It simply reproduces, in thought,
what has once passed before the mind. It originates nothing. Whatever,
then, of intelligence was involved in the original act of perception
and sensation, so much and no more is involved in the replacing
those sensations and perceptions. If in the original act there was
nothing but simple sensation, without intellectual apprehension of
the object, without self-consciousness or distinction of subject from
object, then, of course, nothing more than this will be subsequently
reproduced. Mere images or phantasms of sensible objects may reappear,
as shadows flicker and dance upon the wall, or as such images flit
before us in our dreams. The memory of the brute is, probably, of this
nature, rather a sort of dream than a distinct conception of past
events. What was not clearly apprehended at first, will not be better
understood now. Failing, in the first instance, to distinguish self
from the object external, as the source of impressions, there can be no
_recognition_ of that distinction when the object reappears, if it ever
should, in conception. The essential element of memory, which connects
the object or event of former perception with _self_ as the percipient,
must, in such a case, be wanting.
_The Brute associates rather than remembers._--What is usually
called memory in the brute, is not, however, so much his capacity of
conceiving of an absent object of sense, as his recognition of the
object when again actually present to his senses. The dog manifests
pleasure at the appearance of his master, and the horse chooses the
road that leads to his former home. This is not so much memory as
association of ideas or rather of feelings. Certain feelings and
sensations are associated, confusedly blended, with certain objects.
The reappearance of the objects, of course, reawakens the former
feelings. Thus, the whip is associated with the sensation experienced
in connection with it. So, too, a horse which has once been frightened
by some object beside the road, will manifest fear on subsequently
approaching the same place, although the same object may no longer
be there. The surrounding objects which still remain, and which
were associated with the more immediate object of fear in the first
instance, are sufficient to awaken, on their reappearance, the former
unpleasant sensations.
A being endowed with intelligence and reason would connect the
recurring object, in such a case, with his own former experience as the
perceiving subject, would recall the time and the circumstances of the
event and its connection with his personal history. This would be,
properly, an act of memory.
But there is no reason to suppose that such a process takes place with
the brute. We have no evidence of any thing more, in his case, than the
recurrence of the associated conception or sensation, along with the
recurrence of the object which formerly produced it. Given, the object
_a_, accompanied with surrounding objects _b, c, d_, and there is
produced a given sensation, _y_. Given, again, at some subsequent time,
the same object _a_, or any one of the associate objects _b, c, d_, and
there is at once awakened a lively conception of the same sensation _y_.
_Summary of Results._--This is, I think, all we can, with any
certainty, attribute to the brute. He has sensations, and so far as
mere sense is concerned, perceptions of objects, as connected with
those sensations, but not perception in the true sense as involving
intellectual apprehension. These sensations and confused perceptions
recur, perhaps, as images or conceptions, in the absence of the
objects that gave rise to them, and as thus reappearing, constitute
what we may call the memory of the brute; but not, as with us, a
memory which connects the object or event with his own former history,
and the idea of a personal self as the percipient. Let the object,
however, reappear, and the previous sensation associated therewith, is
reawakened.
This, I am aware, is not the view most commonly entertained of brute
intelligence. We naturally conceive of the brute as possessing
faculties similar to our own. The brute, in turn, were he capable
of forming such a conception, would, probably, conceive of man, as
endowed with capacities like his own. In neither case is this the right
conception.
CHAPTER II.
MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN AND NERVOUS SYSTEM.
_Statement._--There are certain mental phenomena connected with the
relation which the mind sustains to the nervous organism, and depending
intimately on the state of that organism, which seem to require the
notice of the psychologist, though often overlooked by him; I refer
to the phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and insanity. So far
as the activity of the mind is involved in these states or phenomena,
they become proper objects of psychological inquiry. They present
many problems difficult of solution, yet not the less curious and
interesting, as phases of mental activity hitherto little understood.
_View sometimes taken by Physiologists._--It becomes the more important
for the psychologist to investigate these phenomena, inasmuch as
views and theories little accordant with the true philosophy of the
mind have sometimes been put forth by physiologists, in attempting
to explain the phenomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral
apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena of
thought, as _self-acting_, in the absence of the higher principle of
intelligence which usually governs its operations, carrying on by a
sort of automatic action, the processes usually ascribed to the mind
or spiritual principle, while consciousness and volition are entirely
suspended. Consciousness, in fact, is nothing but sensation, and
thought a mere function of the brain. This is downright materialism,
a doctrine utterly subversive of the very existence of that which we
call mind or soul in man. If the cerebral organization is competent
of itself during sleep to carry on those operations which in waking
moments are ascribed to the spiritual element of our being, if thought
is a function of the brain, as digestion is of the stomach, what need
and what evidence of any thing more than merely cerebral action at any
time? What, in fact, is the mind itself but cerebral activity, and what
is man, with all his higher powers, but a mere animated organism?
It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena under
consideration in some way more consistent with all just and true
notions of the nature and philosophy of mind.
_Distinction of normal and abnormal States._--Of these phenomena, while
all may be regarded as intimately connected with and dependent on the
state of the brain and nervous system, some seem to proceed from a
normal, others from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and
particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, are sleep and
dreams; of the latter, somnambulism, the mesmeric state, so called, and
the various forms of disordered mental action, or insanity.
§ I.--SLEEP.
_Meaning of the Term._--What is sleep? Will the name itself afford any
solution of this problem? Like most names of familiar things, we find
the word descriptive of some particular circumstance or phase, some
one prominent characteristic of the thing in question, rather than a
_definition_--much less an explanation--of the thing itself.
The word sleep, from _schlafen_, as the Latin _somnus_ from _supinus_,
refers to the supine condition and appearance of the body when in this
state; the relaxing of the muscles the falling back or sinking down of
the frame, if unsupported. This is the first and most obvious effect to
the eye of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards the body.
Further than this the word gives us no light.
1. _Sleep involves primarily Loss of Consciousness._--What then,
further than this, is sleep? If we observe somewhat closely, and with a
view to scientific arrangement, the different aspects or phenomena that
present themselves as constituting that state of body and mind which we
call sleep, the primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, is _loss of
consciousness_, of _the me_. Not perhaps of all consciousness, for we
seem still to exist, but of self-consciousness, of the me as related to
time, and place, and external circumstance We _lose ourselves_, as a
common but most exact expression describes it.
_We are not at the Time aware of this Loss._--Of course, sleep
consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are not conscious
of the fact that we sleep, for this would be a _consciousness_ that
we were unconscious. Illustrations of this fact are of frequent
occurrence. You are of an evening getting weary over your book. You are
vaguely conscious of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness; you
find it difficult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep the
line, but have no idea that you are at length actually asleep for the
moment, till the sudden fall of the book awakens you. Nay, one who has
been vigorously nodding for five minutes will, on recovering himself,
stoutly deny that he has really been asleep at all; the truth is, he
was not _conscious_ of it; we never are, directly.
_This results from what?_--This loss of consciousness results from the
inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these that afford us the data
for a knowledge of self in relation to external things. In sleep these
avenues of communication with the external world are shut up, and we
silently drop off, and, as it were, float away from all _conscious_
connection with it. We no longer recognize our relations to time and
space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as material, come under those
relations; for it is by the senses alone that we get these ideas. So
far as consciousness of these relations is concerned, we exist in
sleep as in death, out of the laws and limits of time and space, and
irrespective of the body and of all material existence. Mental action,
however, doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of thought and of the
feeling of the moment, but of nothing further. All self-consciousness
is gone.
_An Affection primarily of the nervous System._--Sleep, then, would
seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous system; not of the
reproductive--that goes on as usual, and even with increased vigor; nor
yet of the muscular--that is still capable of action; but only of the
nervous. That gets weary; by continued use, its vital active force is
exhausted, it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off, and so
there results this loss of consciousness, of which I have spoken. It is
strictly, then, the nervous system, and not the whole body that sleeps.
_Different Senses fall Asleep successively._--The different senses
become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but successively.
First, sight goes. The eye-lids droop, and close. Taste and smell
probably next. Touch, and hearing, are among the last to give way.
Hence, noises so easily disturb us, when falling asleep. Hence, too, we
are most easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by some one
touching us. These senses are also the first to waken. One sense may be
asleep and another awake. You may still hear what one is saying that
sits near you, when already the eye is asleep. So in death, one _hears_
when no longer able to see or to speak.
2. _Loss of personal Control._--Accompanying this loss of
self-consciousness is the loss of _personal control_, _i. e._, the
control of the will over the bodily organization. This follows from
the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous system, for it is only
through that, and not by direct agency of the will, that we, at any
time, exert voluntary power over the body. When that system becomes
exhausted, and its force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the
motive power, nor execute the commands of the higher intelligence the
will no longer maintains its empire over the physical organization, its
little realm of matter, its control is suspended, its sceptre falls,
and it realizes for the time the story of the enchanted palace on which
a magic spell had fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life,
and sealing up, on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and
attendants, in the unbroken sleep of ages.
_Indications of approaching Sleep._--One of the first indications,
accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the relaxing of the muscles,
the drooping of the eye-lid, the dropping of the head and of the arm,
the sinking down of the body from an erect to a supine position. If
in church, the head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front,
fortunate if it can secure itself there from the still further demands
of gravitation.
_Analogous Cases._--In respect to the point now under consideration,
the loss of control over the physical frame, the phenomena of sleep
closely resemble those of intoxication, and of fainting; and for the
same reason, in either case, _i. e._, the inactivity of the nervous
system, which is the medium of voluntary power over the body. That
inactivity of the nervous system is produced in the one case by
natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct effect is the
same as regards the loss of voluntary power. The same effects are also
produced in certain diseases, and eventually by death.
3. _Loss of Control over the Mind._--Analogous to this is the loss of
voluntary control over the mental operations, which is in fact, so far
as the mind is concerned, the essential feature and characteristic
of sleep. Mental action still goes on, there is reason to suppose;
in many cases we know that it does; but the thoughts come and go at
their own pleasure, without regulation or control. It is not in our
power to arrest a certain thought, and fix our minds upon it for the
time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the waking moments,
and which constitutes, in fact, the chief control and power we have
over our thoughts, nor can we dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant
train of thought, a disagreeable impression, however much we may
desire to be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our own thoughts and
casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, spontaneous play of the
mind's own inherent energy, and guided only by its own native laws,
produce the wildest and strangest phantasmagoria, having to us all the
semblance of reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators
of the scene.
_Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep._--It has been supposed by
some that the faculties of the mind are, in part or wholly, suspended
in sleep, especially the higher faculties more immediately dependent
on the will. So long as mental activity goes on, however,--and there
is no evidence that it ever entirely ceases in sleep--so long there is
thought, and so long must that thought and activity be exerted in some
particular direction, and on some particular object. We cannot conceive
of the mind as acting or thinking, and not exercising any of its
faculties, for what is a faculty of the mind but its capacity of acting
in this or that way or mode, and on this or that class of subjects.
It may be perception, or conception, or memory, or imagination, or
judgment, or reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the moment
active; it _must_ be some one of the known faculties of the mind,
unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to be then developed, of
whose existence we are at other times unconscious.
_Mental Action modified by certain Causes in Sleep._--The faculties
will, however, be materially modified in their action during sleep,
by the causes already named; chiefly these two: 1st. the entire
suspension of voluntary control over the train of thought; 2d. the
loss of personal consciousness as regards especially the bodily
organization, and its present relations to time, and space, and all
sensible objects. In consequence of the _former_ our thoughts will come
and go all unregulated and disconnected; there will be no coherence;
the slightest analysis will suffice for the associating principle; we
shall be hurried on and borne away on the rushing tide of thought, as
a frail passive leaf swept on the bosom of the rapids; we shall whirl
hither and thither as in the dance of the witches; we shall waken in
confusion, and seek to recover the reins of self-control, only to lose
them again and be swept on in the fearful dance.
_Want of Congruity owing to what._--In consequence of the _latter_
cause--the loss of sensational consciousness and of our relations to
sensible objects--there will be an entire want of fitness and congruity
in our mental operations. The laws of time, and space, and personal
identity, will be altogether disregarded, and we shall not be conscious
of the incongruity, nor wonder at the strangest and most contradictory
combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this and now that. The scene
is in the valley of the Connecticut, and anon on the Ural mountains,
or the desert of Arabia, and we do not notice the change as any thing
at all remarkable. Now we are walking up the aisle of the church, in
garments all too scanty for the proprieties of the occasion, and now
it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and the transition from
one to the other is instantaneous. Why should it not be, for it is by
the senses alone that we are brought into conscious relation to the
external world, and so made cognizant of the laws of time and space,
and those senses being now locked in oblivion, what are time and space
to us?
_The Causes now named a sufficient Explanation of the Phenomena._--The
causes already named will sufficiently account for the strange and
distorted action of the various mental faculties as exercised in sleep.
Memory, _e. g._, will give us the past with _variations_ ad libitum;
things will appear to us, and events will seem to transpire, and forms
and faces familiar will look out upon us, not as they really are, or
ever were. We talk with a former friend, without the thought once
occurring to us that he has been dead these many years. Impression
there is, feeling, idea, fancy, association of all these, but hardly
memory, or even imagination, much less judgment or reasoning. So it
would seem at first. A closer inspection, however, will show us that
there is in reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the exercise
of all these faculties, only so modified by causes now named as to
present strange and uncouth results.
_Mental Faculties not immediately dependent on the Will._--If any of
the mental faculties can be shown to be entirely dependent on the will
for their activity and operation, so as to have no power to act except
by its order or permission, then it would follow that when the will is
no longer in possession of the throne, when its sway is for the time
suspended as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must lie
inactive. But with regard to most if not all mental operations, we know
the reverse to be true. They are capable of _spontaneous_, as well as
voluntary action. Nay, some of them, it would seem, are not subject, in
any case, directly to its control. It is not at our option whether to
remember or forget, whether to perceive surrounding objects, whether
such or such a thought shall, by the laws of association, follow next
in the train of ideas and impressions. Some mental operations are more
closely connected with and admit of a more direct interference on the
part of the will than others, but it cannot be shown, I think, that any
faculty is so far dependent on the will as not to be capable of action,
irrespective of its demands. Indeed, facts seem to show that where once
a train of mental action has been set in operation by the will, that
action goes on, for a time, even when the will is withdrawn, or held in
abeyance, as in sleep, or profound reverie.
_Whence this Suspension of Power of the Will._--The question may occur,
whence arises this suspension of the power of the will over the mental
operations in sleep? What produces it? Does it, like the loss of
voluntary power over the physical frame, result from the inactivity of
the nervous apparatus? The fact that it always accompanies this, and is
found in connection with it, that whatever produces the latter seems
to be the occasion, also, of the former, as in the case of disease,
delirium, mesmeric influence, stupefying drugs, inebriation, etc.,
and that the degree of the one, whether partial or complete, is in
proportion to the degree of the other--these facts seem to me to favor
the idea now suggested.
_Summary of Results._--These, then, seem to be the principal phenomena
of sleep: loss of sensational consciousness, loss of voluntary power
over the body, loss of voluntary power over the operations of the mind.
_Exhaustion of the nervous System._--Sleep, then, appears to be
primarily an affection of the nervous system, the result of its
exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot continue always active;
repose must succeed to effort. Hence, the more rapid the exhaustion of
the nervous system, from any cause, the more sleep is demanded. This we
know to be the fact. The more sensitive the system, as in childhood,
or with the gentler sex, as in men of great sensibility also, poets,
artists, and others, the more sleep. On the other hand, those sluggish
natures which allow nothing to excite or call into action the nervous
system, sleep from precisely the opposite cause; not the exhaustion of
nervous activity, but its absolute non-existence. If both our systems,
the animal and the vegetative or nutritive, should sleep at once,
says Rauch, there would be nothing to awaken us. That would be death.
"In sleep, every man has a world of his own," says Heraclitus; "when
awake, all men have one in common." Sleeping and waking, it has been
beautifully said by another, are the ebb and flood of mind and matter
on the ocean of our life.
§ II.--DREAMS.
_Resumè of previous Investigation._--It has been shown in the preceding
section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly an affection of the
nervous system, in which, through exhaustion, the senses become
inactive, and, as it were, dead, while, at the same, the nutritive
system and the functions essential to life go on; that in consequence
of this inactivity of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of
consciousness, so far, at least, as regards all connection with, and
relation to, external things; 2. Loss of voluntary power over the
physical and muscular frame; 3. Loss of voluntary control over the
operations of the mind; the mind still remaining active, however, and
its operations going on, uncontrolled by the will.
We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that specific form
of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming; a state which admits of
easy explanation on principles already laid down.
_A Dream, what._--What, then, is a _dream_? I reply, it is any
mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are afterward
_conscious_. This is not the case with all, perhaps, with most mental
action during sleep. Senses and the will are inactive, then, for the
most part, and whatever thoughts and impressions may be wrought out
in the laboratory of the mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous
alchemy may there be going on, when the controlling principle that
presides over and directs its operations is withdrawn, are, for
the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the sensitivity be
partially aroused, however, let some disturbing cause come in to
prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let the conceptions of the
mind present themselves with more than usual vividness and force of
impression, and what we then think may afterward be remembered. This
is the philosophy of dreams. What is thus remembered of our thoughts
in sleep, we call a dream, more especially applying the term to such
of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, as have some degree of
coherence and connection between themselves, so as to constitute a sort
of unity.
_Sources of our Dreams._--Our dreams take shape and character from
a variety of circumstances. They are not altogether accidental nor
unaccountable; and even when we cannot trace the connection, there
is reason to suppose that such connection exists between the dream,
and the state of the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known,
would account for the shape and complexion of the dream. The principal
sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say, modifying influences
of our dreams are, 1, Our present bodily sensations, and especially
the internal state of the physical system, and, 2, Our previous waking
thoughts, dispositions, and prevalent states of mind.
_Illustrations of the first._--As to the first of these modifying
causes, instances of its operation will probably occur to every one
from his own experience. You find yourself on a hard bed, or, it may
be, have thrown yourself into some uncomfortable position, and you
dream of broken bones or of the rack. The band of your robe buttons
tightly about the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a late
supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in your dreams a
black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats himself on your chest,
or, as a military officer once dreamed, under similar circumstances,
the prince of darkness sits cross-legged over your stomach, with the
Bunker Hill monument in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart,
of the gentleman, who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his feet,
dreamed that he was walking along the burning crater of Mount Ætna, is
in point here. Here the bodily sensation of heat upon the soles of the
feet suggests the idea of a situation in which such a sensation would
be likely to occur, and this idea blending with the sensation which
is permanent and real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and
the dream shapes itself accordingly. So when a window falls, or some
sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken you so far as to
make known the real cause, you hear the sound, the sensorium partially
aroused, mistakes it, perhaps, for the sound of a gun, and instantly
you are in the midst of a battle at sea, or a fight with robbers. To
such an extent are our dreams modified by sensible impressions of
this sort, that it is possible, by skillful management, to shape and
direct, to some extent, at least, the dreams of another as you will.
An instance is related of an officer who was made, in this way, in his
sleep, to go through with all the minutia of a duel, even to the firing
of the pistol which was placed in his hand, at the proper moment, the
noise of which awoke him. This was simply an _acted_ dream.
_Latent Disease._--Not unfrequently, some physical disorder, incipient
or latent, of which we may not be aware in our waking moments, makes
itself felt in the state of sleep, when the system is more susceptible
of internal impressions, and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases,
the dreams may serve as a sort of _index_ of the state of the physical
system, and somewhat, doubtless, of the apparently prophetic character
of certain dreams may be accounted for in this way.
_The second Source._--A second source, if not of our dreams themselves,
at least of the peculiar shape and character which they assume, is to
be found in our previous thoughts, and prevalent mental occupations
and dispositions. We fall asleep, and mental action goes on much as
before, in whatever direction and channel it had already received an
impulse. Whatever has made the deepest impression on us through the
day, has longest or most intently occupied us, _repeats_ itself the
moment we lose our consciousness of surrounding objects. The mind
goes on with the new and strange spectacle, or with the unfinished
problem, and unsolved intricate study of the day or of the night
hour; and not seldom is the train of thought resumed and pursued to
some purpose. On waking in the morning, we find little difficulty in
completing a demonstration or solving a difficulty which had appeared
insurmountable when we left it the previous night. Now the truth is, we
did not leave it the previous night. It occupied us in our sleep. The
brain was busy with it, it may be, all the night. It is solved in the
morning, not because the mind is fresher then, but because it has been
at work upon it through the night. Sometimes we are conscious of this
on waking, and can dimly recall the severe continuous mental toil which
went on while we slept. Usually, I suppose, we have no consciousness
of it, and our only evidence of it is the well-known law and habit of
the mind, to run in its worn and latest channels, together with the
often observed fact that the difficulty previously felt is, somehow,
strangely solved.
_Further Illustration of the same Principle._--Condorcet is not the
only mathematician who has received, in sleep, suggestions which
led to the right solution of a problem that he had been obliged to
leave unfinished on retiring for the night; nor is Franklin the only
statesman who has, in dreams, reached a satisfactory conclusion
respecting some intricate political movement. However this may be,
there can be no reasonable doubt that our previous mental occupation,
our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our habits of thought and
habits of feeling, determine and shape the complexion of our dreams.
They have a _subjective_ connection, are by no means so disconnected
with us and our real history, so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one
may suppose. It was not without reason that President Edwards took
notice of his dreams as affording an index of the state of his heart,
and his real native propensities. They are the vane that shows which
way the mind is set. Who will say that the dreams of Lady Macbeth,
those dreams of a guilty conscience, are not among the most truthful of
the portraitures of the great master dramatist?
_Native Talent then shows itself._--Not only our native disposition
and prevalent cast of thought betray themselves in dreams, but,
as a certain writer has remarked, our native talents show out in
those moments of spontaneous mental action. Talents which have had
no opportunity to develop themselves, owing to our education and
professional pursuits, take their chance and their time when we sleep,
and we are poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, whatever
the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to be in our waking
moments.
_Incoherency of Dreams._--The _incoherency_ of our dreams has been
sufficiently accounted for in what I have previously said. It is not,
I think, owing chiefly, as Upham supposes, to our loss of voluntary
power and control over our thoughts during sleep, though it is quite
true that we have no such control. The truth is, we are not at the time
_aware_ of any such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be owing then
to our loss of voluntary power, since no increase of such power would
enable us to repair a defect which we are unconscious of, but is owing
entirely to another cause already mentioned, viz., that in sleep we
lose our _relation_ to things around us, lose our place, and our time,
and hence, retain no standard of judging as to what is, and what is
not, consentaneous and fit, self-consistent and coherent.
_Apparent Reality._--Nothing is more remarkable in dreams than their
apparent _reality_. The scenes, actions, and incidents, all stand out
with peculiar distinctness, are projected as images into the air before
us, and have not at all the semblance of any thing merely subjective.
This has been, by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to
distract or call off the attention from the conceptions of the mind
in dreams; we are wholly in them, and hence they appear as realities.
I do not find, however, that in proportion as my attention in waking
moments is wholly absorbed in any train of thought, those conceptions
manifest any such tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into
objective reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid.
I am inclined, therefore, to attribute the seeming reality of dreams
to another source. We are accustomed to regard every thing as
_objective_, which is out of the reach and control of our will, which
comes and goes irrespective of us and our volition. Now, such we find
to be the prime law of cerebral action in sleep. Of course, then, we
are deceived into the belief that these conceptions over which we have
no control, are not conceptions, but _perceptions_, realities.
_Estimate of Time._--Nothing has seemed to some writers more mysterious
than the entire disproportion between the _real_ and _apparent_ time
of a dream. I refer to the fact that our dreams occupy frequently such
very minute portions of time, while they seem to us to stretch over
such long continued periods. An instance is related of an officer
confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who was awakened by
the call of the sentry changing guard, fell asleep again, witnessed,
as he supposed, a very long and very horrible procession of armed and
bloody warriors, defiling on horseback down a certain street of Paris,
occupying some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in season
to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the challenge given
before the dream began. The mind in such cases, say some, operates more
rapidly than at other times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart
has suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams seem to
us real, and we have no means of estimating time otherwise than by the
apparent succession of events, the conceptions of the brain, that is,
our dreams, seem to us to take up just so much time in passing as the
_events themselves_ would occupy were they real. This is perfectly
a natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent anomaly in
question.
_Prophetic Aspect._--Are dreams sometimes _prophetic_, and how are such
to be accounted for? Cicero narrates a remarkable instance of what
would seem to be a prophetic dream. I refer to the account of the two
Arcadians who came to Megara and occupied different lodgings. The one
imploring help, then murdered, and informing his comrade that his body
would be taken out of the city early in the morning, by a certain gate,
in a covered wagon. Agitated by the dream, the other repairs at the
designed time to the appointed place, meets the wagon, discovers the
body, arrests the murderer, and delivers him to justice.
_Other Instances of the like Nature._--Another instance, perhaps
equally striking, is narrated in the London _Times_. A Mr. Williams,
residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in the same night that he saw the
Chancellor of England killed, in the vestibule of the House of Commons.
The dream so deeply impressed him that he narrated it to several of his
acquaintance. It was subsequently ascertained that on the evening of
that day the Chancellor, Mr. Perceval, was assassinated according to
the dream. Now, this was certainly a remarkable coincidence. Was it any
thing more? Was it merely an accidental thing--a matter of chance--that
the dream should occur as it did, and should tally so closely with the
facts? But these are not singular instances. Many such are on record.
_Case related by Dr. Moore._--Dr. Moore, author of an interesting work
on the use of the body in relation to the mind, narrates the following,
as coming under his own observation. A friend of his dreamed that he
was amusing himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading the
epitaphs in a country church-yard, when a newly made grave attracted
his attention. He was surprised to find on the stone the name, and date
of death, of an intimate friend of his, with whom he had passed that
very evening in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream,
however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to mind, had he not
received intelligence, some months afterward, of the death of this
friend, which took place at the very date he had, in his dream, seen
recorded on the tombstone.
_Case related by Dr. Abercrombie._--The case mentioned by Dr.
Abercrombie is another of these remarkable coincidences. Two sisters
sleeping in the same room adjoining that of a sick brother, the one
awakens in affright, having dreamed that the watch had stopped, and
that on mentioning it to her sister, the latter replied, "Worse than
that has happened, for ----'s breath has stopped also." On examination
the watch was found going and the brother in a sound sleep. The next
night the dream was repeated precisely as before with the same result.
The next morning as one of the sisters had occasion to take the watch
from the writing-desk she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at
the same moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the
chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired.
_Additional Cases._--Another instance of a similar nature is related,
but I know not on how good authority. The sister of Major Andrè, it
is said, dreamed of her absent brother, one night, as arrested and
on trial before a court martial. The appearance of the officers,
their dress, etc., was distinctly impressed on her mind; the room,
the relative position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed;
the general nature of the trial, and its result, the condemnation
of her brother. She woke deeply impressed. Her fears were shortly
afterward confirmed by the sad intelligence of her brother's arrest,
trial, and execution, and, what is remarkable, the facts corresponded
to her dream, both as respects the time of occurrence, the place,
the appearance of the room, position, and dress of the judges, etc.
Washington and Knox were particularly designated, though she had never
seen them.
Another instance is related of a man who dreamed that the vessel in
which his brother was an officer, and, in part, owner of the cargo,
was wrecked on a certain island, and the vessel lost, but the hands
saved. He was so impressed that he went directly and procured an extra
insurance of five thousand dollars on his brother's portion of the
property. By the next arrival news came that the vessel was wrecked,
at the time and place of which the man had dreamed, and the mariners
saved.
_Coincidences._--Now it is perfectly easy to call all these things
_coincidences_. They certainly are. But is it certain, or it is
probable, that they are _mere_ coincidences? To call them coincidences,
and pass them off as if they were easily and fully accounted for in
that way, is but a shallow concealment of our ignorance under a certain
show of philosophy. It is but a conjecture at the best; a conjecture,
moreover, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery just as great
as before; a conjecture which is by no means the most probable of all
that might be made, but, on the contrary, one of the most improbable
of all, as it seems to me. Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do
not come under any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise
or modification to our dreams. They are not suggested, so far as it
appears, by any present bodily sensation on the part of the dreamer,
nor was there any reason in the nature of the case why any such event,
much less conjunction of events, should be apprehended by the dreamer
in his waking moments. It was not the simple carrying out of his waking
thoughts. Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, may be explained
on these principles. They are the result of our present sensations or
impressions, or of the excited and anxious state of mind and train of
thought during the day. But not so in the cases now cited.
_Not necessary to suppose them Supernatural._--Shall we believe, then,
that dreams are sometimes prophetic? We have no reason to doubt that
they _may_ be so. Are they, in that case, _supernatural_ events? No
doubt the future may be supernaturally communicated in dreams. No doubt
it has been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the
sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary supposition.
A dream may be prophetic, yet not supernatural. Some law, not fully
known to us, may exist, by virtue of which the nervous system, when
in a highly excited state, becomes susceptible of impressions not
ordinarily received, and is put in communication, in some way to us
mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so as to
become strangely cognizant of the coming future. Can any one show that
this is impossible? Is it more improbable than that the cases recorded
are mere chance coincidences? Is it not quite as likely to be so, as
that the event should correspond, in so many cases and so striking a
manner, with the previous dream, and yet there be _no cause, whatever_,
for the correspondence? Is it not as reasonable, even, as to suppose
direct divine interposition to reveal the future, the possibility of
which interposition I by no means deny, but the reason for which does
not become apparent? Is it not possible that there may be some natural
law or agent of the sort now intimated, some as yet unexplained, but
partially known, condition of the physical system, when in a peculiarly
sensitive state, of which the _modus operandi_ is not yet understood,
but the existence of which is indicated in cases like those now
described? That this is the true explanation, I by no means affirm; I
make the suggestion merely to indicate what, it seems to me, may be a
_possible_ solution of the problem.
_Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts._--Evidently there are
only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny the facts themselves,
_i. e._, that any such dreams occurred, or at least, that they were
verified in actual result. 2. To call them accidental coincidences.
3. To admit a supernatural agency. 4. To explain them in the way
suggested. Our choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and
the last of these suppositions.
§ III.--SOMNAMBULISM.
_Relation to the magnetic State._--Somnambulism or sleep-walking, is
called, by some writers, _natural magnetic sleep_. They suppose it to
differ from the state ordinarily called mesmeric, chiefly in this,
that the former is a natural, and the latter an artificial process.
_Resemblance of this to other cognate Phenomena._--We shall have
occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close resemblance between
dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism, and insanity, all, in fact, closely
related to each other, characterized each and all by one and the
same great law, and passing into each other by almost imperceptible
gradations.
_Method proposed._--It will be to the purpose, first to describe
the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire whether they can be
accounted for.
_Description._--The principal phenomena of somnambulism are the
following: The subject, while in a state of sound sleep, and perfectly
unconscious of what he does, rises, walks about, finds his way over
dangerous, and, at other times, inaccessible places, speaks and acts
as if awake, performs in the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even
bandaged, operations which require the closest attention and the
best vision, perceives, indeed, things not visible to the eye in its
ordinary waking state, perhaps even things absent and future, and
when awakened from this state, is perfectly unconscious of what has
happened, and astonished to find himself in some strange and unnatural
position.
_An Instance narrated._--A case which fell under the observation of the
Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in the seminary, is narrated
in the French Encyclopedia. A young minister, resident there, was a
somnambulist, and to satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange
disease, the Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young
man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink, and proceed
to the composition of sermons. Having written a page in a clear legible
hand, he would read it aloud from top to bottom, with a clear voice and
proper emphasis. If a passage did not please him, he would erase it,
and write the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased
line or word. All this was done without any assistance from the eye,
which was evidently asleep; a piece of pasteboard interposed between
the eye and the paper produced no interruption or inconvenience. When
his paper was exchanged for another of the same size, he was not aware
of the change, but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he
at once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of tact or
feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense.
_Other Cases of a similar Nature._--Similar cases, almost without
number, are on record, in which much the same phenomena are observed.
In some instances it is remarked that the subject, having written a
sentence on a page, returns, and carefully dots the i's, and crosses
the t's. These phenomena are not confined to the night. Persons have
fallen into the magnetic state, while in church, during divine service,
have gone home with their eyes closed, carefully avoiding obstacles in
their way, as persons or carriages passing; and have been sent, in this
state, of errands to places several miles distant, going and returning
in safety.
An amusing incident is on record of a gentleman who found that his
hen-roost was the scene of nightly and alarming depredations, which
threatened the entire devastation of the premises, and what was
strange, a large and faithful watch-dog gave no alarm. Determined to
ascertain the true state of the case, he employed his servants to
watch. During the night the thief made his appearance, was caught,
after much resistance, and proved to be the _gentleman himself_, in a
state of sound sleep, the author of all the mischief.
_A remarkable Instance._--Another case is also related, which presents
some features quite remarkable. In a certain school for young ladies,
I think in France, prizes had been offered for the best paintings.
Among the competitors was a young and timid girl who was conscious
of her inferiority in the art, yet strongly desirous of success. For
a time she was quite dissatisfied with the progress of her work, but
by and by began to notice, as she resumed her pencil in the morning,
that something had been added to the work since she last touched it.
This was noticed for some time, and quite excited her curiosity. The
additions were evidently by a superior hand, far excelling her own in
skill and workmanship. Her companions denied, each, and severally, all
knowledge of the matter. She placed articles of furniture against her
door in such a way that any one entering would be sure to awaken her.
They were undisturbed, but still the mysterious additions continued to
be made. At last, her companions concluded to watch without, and make
sure that no one entered her apartment during the night, but still the
work went on. At length it occurred to them to watch her movements, and
now the mystery was explained. They saw her, evidently in sound sleep,
rise, dress, take her place at the table, and commence her work. It
was her own hand that, unconsciously to herself, had executed the work
in a style which, in her waking moments, she could not approach, and
which quite surpassed all competition. The picture, notwithstanding her
protestations that it was not her painting, took the prize.
_The Question._--How is it now, that in a state of sleep, with the eye,
probably, fast closed, and the room in darkness, this girl can use the
pencil in a manner so superior to any thing that she can do in the day
time, with her eyes open, and in the full possession and employment of
her senses and her will?
_Several Things to be accounted for._--Here are, in fact, several
things to be accounted for. How is it that the somnambulist rises and
moves about in a state of apparently sound sleep? How is it that she
performs actions requiring often a high degree of intelligence, and yet
without apparent consciousness? How is it that she moves fearlessly and
safely, as is often the case, over places where she could not stand
for a moment, in her waking state, without the greatest danger? How
is it that she can see without the eye, and perform actions in utter
darkness, requiring the nicest attention, and the best vision, and
not only do them, but in such a manner as even to surpass what can be
done by the same person in any other state, under the most favorable
circumstances?
_First, the Movement._--As to the first thing--the movement and
locomotion in sleep--it may be accounted for in two ways. We may
suppose it to be wholly automatic. This is the view of some eminent
physiologists. The conscious soul, they say, has nothing to do with
it, no knowledge of it. The will has nothing more to do with it, than
it has with the contraction of a muscle, or irritation in an amputated
limb.
_Objection to this View._--For reasons intimated already, we cannot
adopt the automatic theory. It seems to us subversive of all true
science of the mind. The body is self-moved in obedience to the active
energy of the nervous organism, and this organism again, acts only as
it is acted upon by the mind that animates, pervades, and controls that
organism. In the waking state, this mental action, and the consequent
nervous and muscular activity, are under the control of the will. In
sleep, this control is, for the time, suspended, and the thoughts come
and go as it may chance, subject to no law but that of the associative
principle. The mind, however, is still active, and the thoughts are
busy in their own spontaneous movement. To this movement, the brain
and nervous system respond. That the brain itself thinks, that the
nerves and muscles act, and the limbs move automatically, without the
energizing activity of the mind, is a supposition purely gratuitous,
inconsistent with all the known facts and evident indications of the
case, and at war with all just notions of the relation of body and mind.
_Another Theory._--Another, and much more reasonable supposition is,
that the will, which ordinarily in sleep loses control both over the
mind and the body, in the state of somnambulism regains, in some
way, and to some extent, its power over the latter, so that the body
rises and moves about in accordance with the thought and feeling
that happen, at the moment, to be predominant in the mind. There is
no control of the will over those thoughts and suggestions: they are
spontaneous, undirected, casual, subject only to the ordinary laws of
association; but for the time, whether owing to the greater vividness
and force of these suggestions and impressions, or to the disturbed and
partially aroused state of the sensorial organism, the will, acting in
accordance with these suggestions of the mind, so far regains its power
over the bodily organism, that locomotion ensues. The dream is then
simply acted out. The body rises, the hand resumes the pen, and the
appropriate movements and actions corresponding to the conceptions of
the mind in its dream, are duly performed.
_The second Point of Inquiry._--This virtually answers the second
question, how the somnambulist can perform actions requiring
intelligence, yet without apparent consciousness.
There is, doubtless, consciousness at the time--there must be; the
thought and feeling of the moment are known to us at the moment. Not to
be conscious of thought and feeling, is, not to think and feel. That
the acts thus performed are not subsequently remembered, is no evidence
that they were not objects of consciousness at the time of their
occurrence. This is absence of memory, and not of consciousness.
_Not remembered._--Why they are not subsequently remembered, we may,
or may not, be able to explain. Not improbably, it may be owing to
the partial inactivity of the senses, and the consequent failure to
perceive the actual relations of the person to surrounding objects. But
to whatever it may be owing, it does not prove that the mind is, for
the time, unconscious of its own activity, for that is impossible.
_Third Question._--As to the third question, how the somnambulist
can safely move where the waking person cannot, as along the edge of
precipices, and on the roofs of houses, the explanation is simple and
easy. The eye is closed. The sense of touch is the only guide. Now
the foot requires but a space of a few inches for its support, that,
given it knows nothing further, asks nothing beyond. It is the eye that
informs us at other times of the danger beyond, and so creates, in
fact, the present danger. You walk safely on a two-inch plank one foot
from the ground. The same effort of the muscles will enable you to walk
the same plank one hundred feet from the ground, if you do not know the
difference. This the somnambulist, with closed eye, and trusting to the
sense of feeling alone, does not recognize.
_A Question still to be answered._--But the most difficult question
remains. How is it that the sleep-walker in utter darkness, reads,
writes, paints, runs, etc., better even than others can do, or even
than he himself can do at other times and with open eyes. How can he
do these things without seeing? and how see in the dark and with the
organs of vision fast locked in sleep. The facts are manifest. Not
so ready the explanation. I can see how the body can move and with
comparative safety, and even how the cerebral action may go on in
sleep, without subsequent remembrance. But to read, to write, to paint,
to run swiftly when pursued through a dark cellar, without coming in
contact with surrounding objects, are operations requiring the nicest
power of vision, and how there can be vision without the use of the
proper organ of vision, is not to me apparent. It does not answer this
question to say that the action is automatic. That would account for
one's seeing, but not _without eyes_. The movement from place to place,
according to the same theory, is also automatic; that accounts for a
person's walking in sleep, but not for his walking _without legs_. Nor
does it solve the difficulty to say that in sleep the life of the soul
is merged in that of the body; doubtless, but how can the body see
without the eye, or the eye without light?
_Theory of a general Sense._--The only theory that seems to offer even
a plausible solution is that advanced by some German psychologists, and
by Rauch in this country, of a _general sense_. The several special
senses, they say, are all resolvable into one general sense as their
source, viz., that of feeling. They refer us in illustration to the
ear of the crab, to the eye of the fly and the snail, to the scent of
flies, in which cases, respectively, we find no _organ_ of hearing,
or vision, or smell, but simply an expansion of the general nerve of
sensation, or some filament from it, connecting with a somewhat thinner
and more delicate membrane than the ordinary skin. This shows that our
ordinary way of perceiving things is not the only way; that special
organs of vision, etc., are not needed in order to all perception, much
less to sensation. It has been found by experiment that bats, after
their eyes have been entirely removed, will fly about as before, and
avoid all obstacles just as before. In these cases, it is contended,
perception is merely _feeling heightened_, the exercise of the general
sense into which the special senses are severally merged. And this, it
is said, may be the case with the somnambulist.
_Remarks on this Theory._--There is doubtless truth in the general
statement now advanced. I do not see, however, that it accounts for
all that requires explanation in the case. It explains, perhaps,
how, without the organ of vision, a certain dim, confused perception
of objects might be furnished by the general sense, but not for a
_clearer_ vision and a _nicer_ operation than the waking eye can give.
This, to me, remains yet unexplained. Is there an inner consciousness,
a hidden soul-life not dependent on the bodily organization, which at
times comes forth into development and manifests itself when the usual
relations of body and soul are disturbed and suspended? So some have
supposed, and so it may be for aught we know to the contrary, but this
is only to solve one mystery by supposing another yet greater.
_Must admit what._--Whatever theory we adopt, or even if we adopt
none, we must admit, I think, in view of the facts in the case, that
in certain disordered and highly excited states of the nervous system,
as, _e. g._, when weakened by disease, so that ordinary causes affect
it more powerfully than usual, _it can, and does sometimes, perceive
what, under ordinary circumstances, is not perceptible to the eye, or
to the ear; nay, even dispenses with the use of eye and ear, and the
several organs of special sense_. This occurs, as we have seen, in
somnambulism, or natural magnetic sleep. We meet with the same thing
also in even stranger forms, in the mesmeric state, and in some species
of insanity.
_The mental Process obvious._--So far as regards the purely mental part
of the phenomena, the operations of the mind in somnambulism, there
is nothing which is not easily explained. In somnambulism, as indeed
in all these states so closely connected--sleep, dreams, the mesmeric
process, and even insanity--_the will loses its controlling power over
the train of thought, and, consequently, the thought or feeling that
happens to be dominant gives rise to, and entirely shapes, the actions
that may in that state be performed_. This dominant thought or feeling,
in the case of the somnambulist, is, for the most part, probably, the
result of previous causes; a continuation of the former mental action,
which, when the influence of the will is suspended and the senses
closed, by a sort of inherent activity keeps on in the same channel as
before. Of such action, the soul is itself probably conscious at the
moment, but afterward no recollection of it lingers in the mind.
§ IV.--DISORDERED MENTAL ACTION.
_Relation to other mental Phenomena._--Closely allied to somnambulism,
dreaming, etc., are certain forms of disordered mental condition
commonly termed insanity; having this one element in common with the
former, the loss or suspension of all voluntary control over the train
of thought. This must be regarded as the characteristic feature and
essential ground-work of the various phenomena in all these various
states.
_Classification._--The forms of disordered mental action are various,
and admit of some classification. Some are transient, others
permanent, arising from some settled disorder of the intellect, or the
sensibilities.
I. _Transient Forms._--Of these, some are artificially produced, as
by exciting drugs, stimulants, intoxicating drinks, etc., others by
physical and natural causes, as disease, etc.
_Delirium, artificial._--The most common of these forms of disordered
mental action is that transient and artificial state produced by
intoxicating drugs and drinks. This is properly called delirium, and
takes place whenever total or even partial inebriation occurs, whether
from alcoholic or narcotic stimulants, as the opium of the Chinese,
and the Indian hemp or _hachish_ of the Hindoos. The same effects,
substantially, are produced, also, by certain plants, as the deadly
night-shade and others, and also by aconite. In all these cases the
effect is wrought primarily, it would seem, upon the blood, which is
brought into a poisonous state, and thus deranges the action of the
nerves and the brain. The _hachish_ or Indian hemp, which, in the
East, is used for purposes of intoxication more generally, perhaps,
than even opium, or alcoholic drinks, may serve as an illustration of
the manner in which these various stimulants affect the senses. At
first the subject perceives an increased activity of mind; thoughts
come and go in swift succession and pleasing variety; the imagination
is active--memory, fancy, reason, all awake. Gradually this mental
activity increases and _frees itself from voluntary control_; attention
to any special subject becomes difficult or even impossible; ideas,
strange and wonderful, come and go at random with no apparent cause
and by no known law of suggestion; these absorb the attention until
the mind is at last given up to them, and there is no further
consciousness of the external things, while, at the same time, the
patient is susceptible, as in the magnetic state, of influence and
impression from without. How closely, in many respects, this resembles
the state of the mind in somnambulism, mesmerism, and ordinary
dreaming, I need not point out. The mental excitement produced by opium
is perhaps greater, and the images that throng the brain, and assume
the semblance of reality, are more numerous and real. The subsequent
exhaustion and reaction in either case are fearful. For illustration of
this the reader is referred to the Confessions of an Opium Eater, by
the accomplished De Quincey.
_Delirium of Disease._--The ordinary _delirium of disease_ is
essentially of the same nature with that now described, differing
rather in its origin, or producing cause, than in its effects. It
comes on often in much the same way; increased mental activity shows
itself; attention is fixed with difficulty; strange images, and trains
of thought at once singular and uncontrolled by the will, come and go;
the mind at last is possessed by them and loses all control over its
own movements. Every thing now, which the mind conceives, assumes the
form of reality. It has no longer conceptions but perceptions. Figures
move along the walls and occupy the room. They are as really _seen_,
that is, the _sensation_ is the same, as in any case of healthy and
actual vision; only the effect is wrought from within outward, from the
sensorium to the optic nerve and retina, instead of the reverse, as in
actual vision. Voices are heard also, and various sounds, in the same
manner; the producing cause acting from within outward, and not from
without inward.
_Differs from Dreaming._--This state differs from dreaming in that
the subject is not necessarily asleep, and that it involves a greater
and more serious disorder of the faculties, as well as of longer
continuance. The illusions are perhaps also more decided, and more
vividly conceived as external and real entities. Like dreams, and
unlike the conceptions of the magnetic state, these ideas and
illusions may be subsequently recalled, and in many cases are so; the
mind, however, finding it difficult still to believe that they were
_fictions_, and not actual occurrences.
In dreaming, the things which we seem to see and hear are changes
produced in the sensorium by cerebral or other influences. In delirium,
the sensorium itself is disordered and produces false appearances,
spectres, etc.
_Mania._--That form of disordered mental action termed _mania_, differs
from that already described in that, along with the derangement of
the intellect, there is more or less emotional disorder. The patient
is strongly excited on any thing that at all rouses the feelings.
There may be much or little intellectual derangement accompanying this
excitement. The two forms, in fact, pass into each by a succession of
almost indefinable links. The main element is the same in each, _i.
e._, loss of voluntary control over the thoughts and feelings. Each is
produced by physical causes, and is of transient duration.
_Power of Suggestion._--In all these forms of delirium now described,
whether artificial or natural, the mind is open to suggestions from
without, and these become often controlling ideas. Hence it is of
imperative necessity that the attendant should be on his guard as to
what he says or does in the presence of the patient. An instance in
point is related by Dr. Carpenter, in which a certain eminent physician
lost a number of his patients in fever by their jumping from the
window, a fact accounted for at once, when we come to hear that he
was stupid enough to caution the attendants, _in the hearing of his
patients_, against the possibility of such an event.
II. _Permanent Forms._--I proceed next to notice those more permanent
forms of mental disorder, commonly termed _insanity_, a term properly
applied to designate those cases of abnormal mental activity in which
there seems to be either some settled disorder of the intellect, as,
_e. g._, when the brain has been weakened by successive attacks of
mania, epilepsy, etc., or else some permanent tendency to disordered
emotional excitement.
_Disorder of the Intellect._--Where the intellectual faculties are
disordered, the chief elementary feature of the case is the same as in
those already noticed, viz., _Loss of voluntary control over the mental
operations_--the psychological ground-work, as we have seen, of all the
various forms of abnormal mental action which have as yet come under
our notice.
_Memory affected._--In the cases now under consideration, the memory
is the faculty that in most cases gives the first signs of failure,
particularly that form of memory which is strictly voluntary, viz.,
recollection. In consequence of this, past experience is placed out of
reach, cannot be made available, and therefore reasoning and judgment
are deficient. The thoughts lose their coherency and connection, as
they are thus cut loose from the fixtures of the past, to which the
laws of association no longer bind them; they come and go with a
strange automatic sort of movement, over which the mind feels that it
has little power. Gradually this little fades away; the will no longer
exercises its former and rightful control over the mental activities;
its sway is broken, its authority gone; the mind loses control of
itself, and, like a vessel broken from her moorings, swings sadly and
hopelessly away into the swift stream of settled insanity. The mind
still retains its full measure of activity, perhaps greatly increased;
but it acts as in a _dream_. All its conceptions are realities to it,
and the actually real world, as it mingles with the dream and shapes
it, is but vaguely and imperfectly apprehended through the confused
media of the mind's own conceptions. All this may be, and often is,
realized, where there is entire absence of all emotional excitement.
_Not easily cured._--The condition now described is much less open to
medical treatment than the mental states previously mentioned. Indeed,
where there is insanity resulting from settled cerebral disorder, there
is very little hope of cure. Nature may in time recover herself; she
may not. This depends on age, constitution, predisposing causes, and a
variety of circumstances not altogether under human control.
_Disordered Action of the Sensibilities._--Another form of insanity is
that which consists in, or arises from, not any primary disorder of
the intellectual faculties, but a tendency to disordered _emotional_
excitement. Sometimes this is general, extending to all the emotions.
These cases require careful treatment. The patient is like a child, and
must be governed mildly and wisely, is open to argument and motives
of self-control. In other cases, some one emotion is particularly the
seat and centre of the disturbance, while the others are comparatively
tranquil. In such cases the exaggerated emotion may prompt to some
specific action, as suicide, or murder, etc. This is termed _impulsive_
insanity. The predominant idea or impulse tyrannizes over the mind,
and, by a sort of irresistible fatality, drives it on to the commission
of crime. The patient may be conscious of this impulse, and revolt from
it with horror; there may be no pleasure or desire associated with the
deed, but he is unable to resist. He is like a boat in the rapids of
Niagara. So fearful the condition of man when reason is dethroned, and
the will no longer master.
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
DIVISION SECOND
THE SENSIBILITIES.
PRELIMINARY TOPICS.
CHAPTER I.
NATURE, DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTANCE OF THIS DEPARTMENT OF THE SCIENCE.
_Previous Analysis._--In entering upon the investigation of a new
department of our science, it may be well to recur, for a moment,
to the analysis and classification of the powers of the mind which
has been already given in the introduction to the present volume.
The faculties of the mind were divided in that analysis, it will
be remembered, into three grand departments, the Intellect, the
Sensibilities, and the Will; the first comprising the various powers
of _thinking_ and _knowing_, the second of _feeling_, the third of
_willing_. The first of these main divisions has been already discussed
in the preceding pages. Upon the second we now enter.
_Difference of the two Departments._--This department of mental
activity differs from the former, as feeling differs from thinking. The
distinction is broad and obvious. No one can mistake it who knows any
thing of his own mental operations. Every one knows the difference,
though not every one may be able to explain it, or tell precisely in
what it consists. But whether able to define our meaning or not, we
are perfectly conscious that to think and to feel are different acts,
and involve entirely different states of mind. The common language of
life recognizes the distinction, alike that of the educated and of the
uneducated, the peasant and the man of science. The literature of the
world recognizes it.
_Relation of the two._--As regards the relation of the two departments
to each other, the intellect properly precedes the sensibility.
The latter implies the former, and depends upon it. There can be
no feeling--I speak, of course, of mental feeling, and not of mere
physical sensation--without previous cognizance of some object, in
view of which the feeling is awakened. Affection always implies an
object of affection, desire, an object of desire; and the object is
first apprehended by the intellect before the emotion is awakened in
the mind. When we love, we love something, when we desire, we desire
something, when we fear, or hope, or hate, there is always some
object, more or less clearly defined, that awakens these feelings,
and in proportion to the clearness and vividness of the intellectual
conception or perception of the object, will be the strength of the
feeling.
_Strength of Feelings as related to Strength of Intellect._--The range
and power of the sensibilities, then, in other words, the mind's
capacity of feeling, depends essentially upon the range and vigor of
the intellectual powers. Within certain limits, the one varies as the
other. The man of strong and vigorous mind is capable of stronger
emotion than the man of dwarfed and puny intellect. Milton, Cromwell,
Napoleon, Webster, surpassed other men, not more in clearness and
strength of intellectual perception, than in energy of feeling. In
this, indeed, lay, in no small degree, the secret of their superior
power. In the most eloquent passages of the great orators of ancient
or modern times, it is not so much the irresistible cogency and
unrelenting grasp of the terrible logic, that holds our attention, and
casts its spell over us, as it is the burning indignation that exposes
the sophistries, and tears to shreds the fallacies of an opponent, and
sweeps all argument and all opposition before it like a devouring
fire. The orations of Demosthenes, of Burke, of Webster, furnish
numerous examples of this.
_Influence of the Feelings on the Intellect._--On the other hand, it
is equally true that the state of the intellect in any case depends
not a little on the nature and strength of the mind's capacities of
feeling. A quick and lively sensibility is more likely to be attended
with quickness and strength of intellectual conception; imagination,
perception, fancy, and even reasoning, are quickened, and set in active
play, by its electric touch.
A man with sluggish and torpid sensibilities, is almost of necessity a
man of dull and sluggish intellect. A man without feeling, if we can
conceive so strange a phenomenon, would be a man, the measure of whose
intellectual capacity would be little above that of the brutes.
_Importance of this Department of the mental Faculties._--Such being
the nature of the sensibilities, the _importance_ of this department
of mental activity becomes obvious at a glance. The springs of human
action lie here. We find here a clue to the study of human nature
and of ourselves. To understand the complicated and curious problem
of human life and action, to understand history, society, nations,
ourselves, we must understand well the nature and philosophy of the
sensibilities. Here we find the motives which set the busy world in
action, the causes which go to make men what they are in the busy and
ever changing scene of life's great drama. It is the emotions and
passions of men which give, at once, the impulse, and the direction,
to their energies, constitute their character, shape their history and
their destiny. A knowledge of man and of the world is emphatically a
knowledge of the human heart.
_Extract from Brown._--The importance of this part of our nature is
well set forth in the following passage from Dr. Thomas Brown:
"We might, perhaps, have been so constituted, with respect to our
intellectual states of mind, as to have had all the varieties of
these, our remembrances, judgments, and creations of fancy, without
our emotions. But without the emotions which accompany them, of how
little value would the mere intellectual functions have been! It is to
our vivid feelings of this class we must look for those tender regards
which make our remembrances sacred, for that love of truth and glory,
and mankind, without which to animate and reward us in our discovery
and diffusion of knowledge, the continued exercise of judgment would
be a fatigue rather than a satisfaction, and for all that delightful
wonder which we feel when we contemplate the admirable creations of
fancy, or the still more admirable beauties of the unfading model, that
model which is ever before us, and the imitation of which, as has been
truly said, is the only _imitation_ that is itself _originality_. By
our other mental functions, we are mere spectators of the machinery of
the universe, living and inanimate; by our _emotions_, we are admirers
of nature, lovers of man, adorers of God....
_Less attractive Aspects._--"In this picture of our emotions, however,
I have presented them in their fairest aspects; there are aspects
which they assume, as terrible as these are attractive; but even
terrible as they are, they are not the less interesting objects of our
contemplation. They are the enemies with which our mortal combat, in
the warfare of life, is to be carried on; and of these enemies that are
to assail us, it is good for us to know all the arms and all the arts
with which we are to be assailed; as it is good for us to know all the
misery which would await our defeat, as well as all the happiness which
would crown our success, that our conflict may be the stronger, and our
victory, therefore, the more sure.
"In the list of our emotions of this formidable class, is to be found
every passion which can render life guilty and miserable; a single hour
of which, if that hour be an hour of uncontrolled dominion, may destroy
happiness forever, and leave little more of virtue than is necessary
for giving all its horror to remorse. There are feelings as blasting
to every desire of good that may still linger in the heart of the frail
victim who is not yet wholly corrupted, as those poisonous gales of the
desert, which not merely lift in whirlwinds the sands that have often
been tossed before, but wither even the few fresh leaves, which on some
spot of scanty verdure, have still been flourishing amid the general
sterility."
_Difficulty of the Study._--With regard to the difficulty attending
the study of this part of our nature, a word seems necessary in
passing. It has been supposed to constitute a peculiar difficulty in
the way of the successful investigation of this department of mental
activity, that the sensibilities are, in their very nature, of such an
exciting character, as to preclude the calm, dispassionate observation
and reflection so necessary to correct judgment. At the moment of
exercising any lively emotion, as hope, fear, anger, etc., the mind
is in too great perturbation to be in any condition for accurate
self-observation, and when the excitement has subsided, the important
moment has already passed. Mr. Stewart has particularly noticed this
difficulty in his Introduction to the Active and Moral Powers, and
quotes Hume to the same effect.
_Not peculiar to this Department of the Science._--The difficulty in
question, however, is one which, in reality, pertains to all mental
science, and not to this department of it alone; and so Hume, in the
passage cited by Mr. Stewart, seems to intend. It is true that while
we are under the influence of any exciting emotion, we are in no mood,
and in no suitable state to observe, with critical eye, the workings of
our own minds; neither are we in any condition to do so when engaged in
the less exciting, but not less absorbing _intellectual_ occupation of
reasoning, or imagining, or remembering. The moment we begin to observe
ourselves as thus engaged, the mind is no longer employed as before,
the experiment which we wish to observe is interrupted, and instead of
reasoning, imagining, or remembering, we are only observing ourselves.
Our only resource, in either case, is to turn back and gather up, as
well as we can from _memory_, the data of our mental activity and
condition while thus and thus employed. And this we can do with regard
to the action of the sensibilities, as well as of the intellect,
provided only the degree of emotion and excitement is not so great as
to interfere with the present consciousness, and so with the subsequent
recollection of what was passing in our own minds.
_Sources of Information._--Nor are we dependent entirely on
self-observation. Our sources of information are twofold, the
observation of our own minds, and of others. From the latter source
we may learn much of the nature of this department of mental action.
The sensibilities of others are more open to our inspection, and less
readily mistaken, than their intellectual states. Nor do we meet, in
this case, with the same difficulty; for however excited and incapable
of self-inspection, at the moment, the subject of any strong emotion or
passion may be, the spectator, at least, is able to observe the effect
of that passion, and note its phenomena, with calm and careful eye.
CHAPTER II.
ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE SENSIBILITIES.
_Certain Distinctions may be noticed._--Including, under the term
sensibility, according to the definition already given, whatever is of
the nature of _feeling_, in distinction from thought or cognition, and
limiting the term also to feelings strictly _mental_, in distinction
from merely physical sensation, it is obvious that there are certain
leading distinctions still to be observed in this class of our mental
states, certain great and strongly marked divisions or differences,
by which we shall do well to be guided in our arrangement and
classification of them. Our feelings are many and various; it is
impossible to enumerate or classify them with perfect precision; yet
there are certain points of resemblance and difference among them,
certain groups or classes into which they naturally divide themselves.
_A general Distinction indicated._--One general distinction lies at
the outset, patent and obvious, running through all forms and modes of
sensibility, namely, the difference of _agreeable_ and _disagreeable_.
Every feeling is, in its very nature, and of necessity, one or the
other, either pleasing or painful. In some cases the distinction is
much more strongly marked than in others; sometimes it may be hardly
perceptible, and it may be difficult to determine, so slight is the
degree of either, whether the feeling under consideration partakes of
the character of pleasure or pain; sometimes there is a blending of the
two elements, and the same emotion is at once pleasing and painful to
the mind that experiences it. But I cannot conceive of a feeling that
is neither agreeable or disagreeable, but positively indifferent. The
state of indifference is not an exercise of sensibility, but a simple
_want_ of it, as the very name denotes by which we most appropriately
express this state of mind, _i. e._, _apathy_ ([Greek: a pathos]).
_Simple Emotions._--Passing this general and obvious distinction, we
find among our sensibilities a large class which we may denominate
_simple emotions_. These comprise the joys and sorrows of life in all
their varieties of modification and degree, according as the objects
which awaken them differ. Under this class fall those general states of
the mind which, without assuming a definite and obvious form, impart a
tinge and coloring of joyousness or sadness to all our activity. Under
this class, also, must be included the more specific forms of feeling,
such as the grief or sorrow we feel at the loss of friends, sympathy
with the happiness or sorrow of others, the enjoyment arising from the
contemplation or persuasion of our own superiority, and the chagrin of
the reverse, the enjoyment of the ludicrous, of the new and wonderful,
of the beautiful, to which must be added the satisfaction resulting
from the consciousness of right action, and those vivid feelings of
regret in view of the wrong, which, in their higher degree, assume
the name of remorse, and fall like a chill and fearful shadow over
the troubled path of earthly life. These all are simple emotions, and
all, moreover, are but so many forms of joy and sorrow, varying as the
objects vary which give rise to them.
_Further Difference of instinctive and rational Emotion._--It will
be observed, however, that of these several specific forms of simple
emotion, some are of a higher order than the others. Such are those
last named in the series, the feelings awakened in view of the
ludicrous, in view of the new and wonderful, in view of the beautiful,
and in view of the right, or, in general, the æsthetic and moral
emotions. These, as seeming to possess a higher dignity, and to involve
a higher degree of intellectual development, we may denominate the
_rational_, in distinction from the other simple emotions, which, to
mark the difference, we may term _instinctive_.
_Emotions of a complex Character._--Passing on in our analysis, we come
next to a class of emotions differing from that already considered,
in being of a complex character. It is no longer a simple feeling of
delight and satisfaction in the object, or the reverse, but along with
this is blended the wish, more or less definite and intense, of good
or ill, to the object which awakens the emotion. The feeling assumes
an active form, becomes objective, and travels out from itself and
the bosom that cherishes it, to the object which calls it forth. In
this desire of good or ill to the object, the simple element of joy or
sorrow, the subjective feeling, is often merged and lost sight of; yet
it ever exists as an essential element of the complex emotion.
_Further Subdivision of this Class._--Of this class are the feelings
usually denominated _affections_, which may be further subdivided into
_benevolent_ and _malevolent_, according as they seek the good or the
ill of their respective objects. As the _simple emotions_ are all but
so many modes and forms of the feeling of _joy_, and its opposite,
_sorrow_, so the _affections_ are but so many different modifications
of the one comprehensive principle of _love_, and its opposite, _hate_.
_Various Objects of Affection._--The affections vary as the objects
vary on which they rest. Of the benevolent class, the more prominent
are, love of kindred, of friends, of benefactors, of home and country.
Of the malevolent affections, so called, the more important are the
feeling of resentment in view of personal injury, of indignation at the
wrongs of others, the feeling of jealousy, and the like.
_The Passions._--These various affections, both malevolent and
benevolent, when they rise above the ordinary degree, and become
impatient of restraint, imperious, no longer under the control of
reason and sober reflection, but themselves assuming the command of
the whole man, and impelling him toward the desired end, regardless of
other and higher interests, become the _passions_ of our nature, with
which no small part of the self-conflict and self-discipline of this
our mortal life is to be maintained.
_The Desires._--There is still another class of emotions, differing
essentially in their nature from each of the two leading divisions
already mentioned, that is, our _desires_. These are of two sorts.
Those which are founded in the physical nature and constitution of
man--as the desire of food, of muscular exertion, of repose, of
whatever is adapted to the animal nature and wants--are usually
denominated _appetites_: those, on the other hand, which take their
rise from the nature and wants of the mind, rather than of the body,
may be termed _rational_, in distinction from _animal_ desires or
appetites. Of these the more important are the desire of happiness, of
knowledge, of power, of society, of the esteem of others.
As joy has its opposite, sorrow, and love its opposite, hate, so also
desire has its opposite, aversion; and the objects of aversion are
as numerous as the objects of desire. The desire of wealth has its
counterpart, the aversion to poverty and want; the desire of life and
happiness stands over against the aversion to suffering and death. The
two are so to speak, the positive and negative poles of feeling.
_Hope and Fear._--There is yet another and important class of our
emotions, having not a little to do with the happiness or misery of
life, casting its lights and shadows over no small part of our little
path from the cradle to the grave, our _hopes_ and our _fears_. These,
however important in themselves, are, nevertheless, but modifications
of the principles of desire and aversion, and are, therefore, to be
referred to the same general division of the sensibilities. Hope is the
desire of some expected good, fear the aversion to some anticipated
evil.
_Summary of Classes._--To the three comprehensive classes now named,
_Simple Emotions_, _Affections_, and _Desires_ may be referred, if
I mistake not, the various sensibilities of our nature; or, if the
analysis and classification be not complete and exhaustive, it is at
least sufficiently minute for our present purpose.
HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE LEADING DIVISIONS OF THE SENSIBILITIES ADOPTED
BY DIFFERENT WRITERS.
_Important to know the Principles of Division adopted by others._--The
discussion of the present topic would be incomplete without a glance
at the _history_ of the same. It is of service, having obtained some
definite results and conclusions of our own, to know also what have
been the views and conclusions of others upon the same matter. As
with regard to the intellectual powers, so also with respect to the
sensibilities, different principles of division and classification have
been adopted by different writers. Our limits will allow us to glance
only at the more important of these.
_General Principles of Classification._--Of those who have written upon
the sensibilities, some have placed them in contrast to each other,
as hope and fear, love and hate, etc., making this the principle of
division; others have classed them as personal, social, etc.; others
as relating to time, the past, the present, and the future; others as
instinctive and rational; while most who have had occasion to treat of
this part of our mental constitution, have considered it with reference
solely or mainly to the science of ethics or morals, and have adopted
such a division and arrangement as best suited that end, without
special regard to the psychology of the matter.
_Of the Greek Schools._--Among the Greeks, the Academicians included
the various emotions under the four principal ones, fear, desire, joy,
and grief, classing despair and aversion under grief, while hope,
courage, and anger were comprised under desire.
To denote the _passivity_ of the mind, as acted upon, and under the
influence of emotion, the Greeks named the passions in general, [Greek:
pathos], suffering, whence our terms pathos, pathetic, etc., whence
also the Latin _passio_ and _patior_, from which our word _passion_.
The Stoics, in particular, designated all emotions as [Greek: pathê],
diseases, regarding them as disorders of the mind.
_Hartley's Division._--Among the moderns, _Hartley_ divides the
sensibilities into the two leading classes of _grateful_ and
_ungrateful_ ones; under the former, including love, desire, hope, joy,
and pleasing recollection; under the latter, the opposites of these
emotions, hatred, aversion, fear, grief displeasing recollection.
_Distinction of primitive and derivative._--Certain other English
writers, as _Watts_ and _Grove_, derive all the emotions ultimately
from the three principal ones, admiration, love, and hatred, which they
term the _primitive_ passions, all others being _derivative_.
_Division of Cogan._--_Cogan_, whose treatise on the passions is a
work of much interest, divides the sensibilities into _passions_,
_emotions_, and _affections_; by the first of these terms designating
the first impression which the mind receives from some impulsive cause;
by the second, the more permanent feeling which succeeds, and which
betrays itself by visible signs in the expressions of the countenance
and the motions of the body; while by affections, he denotes the less
intense and more durable influence exerted upon the mind by the objects
of its regard. The passions and affections are, by this author, further
divided into those which spring from _self-love_ and those which are
derived from the _social principle_.
_Classification of Dr. Reid._--_Dr. Reid_ divides the active
principles, as he terms them, into three classes, the _mechanical_, the
_animal_, and the _rational_, including, under the first, our instincts
and habits, under the second, our appetites, under the third, our
higher principles of action.
_Of Stewart._--_Dugald Stewart_ makes two classes, the _instinctive_
or _implanted_, and the _rational_ or _governing_ principles, under
the former including _appetites_, _desires_, and _affections_, under
the latter, _self-love_ and the _moral faculty_. The desires are
distinguished from the appetites, in that they do not, like the former,
take their rise from the body, nor do they operate, periodically, after
certain intervals, and cease after the attainment of their object.
Under the title of affections, are comprehended all those principles of
our nature that have for their object the communication of good or of
ill to others.
_Of Brown._--_Dr. Brown_ divides the sensibilities, to which he gives
the general name of _emotions_, with reference to their relation
to _time_, as _immediate_, _retrospective_, and _prospective_.
Under the former, he includes, as involving no moral feeling,
cheerfulness and melancholy, wonder and its opposite, feelings of
beauty and the opposite, feelings of sublimity and of the ludicrous;
as involving moral feeling, the emotions distinctive of vice and
virtue, emotions of love and hate, of sympathy, of pride and humility.
Under _retrospective_ emotion he includes anger, gratitude, regret,
satisfaction; under _prospective_ emotion, all our desires and fears.
_Of Upham._--Prof. Upham divides the sensibilities into the two leading
departments, the _natural_ and the _moral_, the former comprehending
the _emotions_ and the _desires_, the latter, the _moral sentiments_ or
_conscience_. Under the class of desires, he includes our instincts,
appetites, propensities, and affections.
_Of Hickok._--Dr. Hickok classes the sensibilities under the
departments of _animal_, _rational_, and _spiritual_ susceptibility;
the former comprehending instincts, appetites, natural affections,
self-interested feelings, and disinterested feelings; the second,
æsthetic, scientific, ethic, and theistic emotions; while the latter
or spiritual susceptibility differs from each of the others, in not
being, like them, constitutional, but arising rather from the personal
disposition and character.
_Remarks on the foregoing Divisions._--Our limits forbid, nor does the
object of the present work require, a critical discussion of these
several plans of arrangement.
It is but justice to say, however, that no one of these several
methods of arrangement is altogether satisfactory. They are not
strictly scientific. The method of Cogan, for example, derives all
our sensibilities ultimately from the two principles of self-love, or
desire for our own happiness, and the social principle, or regard for
the condition and character of others; which again resolve themselves,
according to this author, into the two cardinal and primitive
affections of _love_ and _hate_. This division strikes us at once as
arbitrary, and, therefore, questionable; and, also, as _ethical_ rather
than _psychological_. There are many simple emotions which cannot
properly be resolved into either of these two principles. On the other
hand, the psychological distinction between the emotions and desires is
overlooked in this arrangement. The same remarks apply substantially to
several of the other methods noticed.
_Objection to Stewart's Division._--The arrangement of Mr. Stewart
is liable to this objection, that the principle of self-love, and
also the moral faculty, which he classes by themselves as _rational_
principles, in distinction from the other emotions as _implanted_ or
_instinctive_ principles, are as really implanted in our nature, as
really constitutional or instinctive, as any other. Appetite, moreover,
is but one form or class of desires; self-love is but another, _i. e._,
the desire of our own happiness.
_To Upham's Division._--The division of Mr. Upham is still more
objectionable on the same ground. The _natural_ and the _moral_
sentiments, into which two great classes he divides the sensibilities,
are distinct neither in fact nor in name; the moral sentiments, so
called, are as really and truly _natural_, founded in our constitution,
as are our desires and affections; nor is the term natural properly
opposed to the term moral as designating distinct and opposite things.
The terms instinctive and rational, which Mr. Stewart employs, though
not free from objection, much more accurately express the distinction
in view, could such a distinction be shown to exist.
_Difference of ethical and psychological Inquiry._--In a work, the
main object of which is to unfold the principles of ethical science,
it may be desirable to single out from the other emotions, and place
by themselves, the principle of self-love, together with the social
principle and the moral sentiments, as having more direct reference to
the moral character and conduct. In a strictly psychological treatise,
however, in which the aim is simply to unfold, and arrange in their
natural order, the phenomena of the human mind, such a principle of
classification is evidently inadmissible. The different operations
and emotions of the mind must be studied and arranged, not with
reference to their _logical_ or _ethical_ distinctions, but solely
their _psychological_ differences. Viewed in this light, the moral
sentiments, so far as they are of the nature of feeling or sensibility
at all, and not rather of intellectual perception, are simple emotions,
and do not inherently differ from any other feelings of the same
class. The satisfaction we feel in view of right, and the pain in view
of wrong past conduct, differ from the pain and pleasure we derive
from other sources, only as the _objects_ differ which call forth the
feelings. They are essentially of the same class, the difference is
specific rather than generic. They are modifications of the one generic
principle of joy and sorrow, and differ from each other not so much as
each differs from a _desire_, or an affection of love or hate.
_Objection to Brown's Arrangement._--The classification of Dr. Brown,
if not ethical, is, perhaps, equally far from being psychological. The
relation of the different emotions to _time_ is an accidental, and not
an essential difference, and it is, moreover, a distinction wholly
inapplicable to far the larger portion of the sensibilities, viz.,
those which he calls immediate emotions, or "those which arise without
involving necessarily _any notion_ of time." This is surely _lucus a
non lucendo_.
SENSIBILITIES.
PART FIRST.
SIMPLE EMOTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS.
_Previous Analysis._--It will be recollected that in the analysis which
has been given of the sensibilities, they were arranged under three
generic classes, viz., Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, all,
however, having this in common, that they are in themselves agreeable
or disagreeable, as states of mind, according as the object which
awakens them is viewed as either good or evil.
_Nature of simple Emotions._--Of these, the _simple emotions_, which
are first to be considered, comprise, it will be remembered, that large
class of feelings which, in their various modifications and degrees,
constitute the joys and sorrows of life. They may be comprised, with
some latitude of meaning, under the general terms joy and sorrow,
as modifications of that comprehensive principle or phase of human
experience. They are awakened in view of an object regarded as good
or as evil; an object, moreover, of present possession and present
enjoyment or suffering; in which last respect they differ from
_desires_, which have respect always to some good, or apparent good,
_not_ in present possession, but viewed as attainable.
_Division of simple Emotions._--Of these simple emotions, again, some
may be called _instinctive_, as belonging to the _animal_ nature, and,
to some extent, common to man with the brutes, in distinction from
others of a higher order, involving or presupposing the exercise of
reason and the reflective powers.
It is of the former class that we are to treat in the present chapter.
§ I.--OF THAT GENERAL STATE OF THE MIND KNOWN AS CHEERFULNESS; AND ITS
OPPOSITE, MELANCHOLY.
_Nature of this Feeling._--There is a state of mind, of which every
one is at times conscious, in which, without any immediately exciting
cause, a general liveliness and joyousness of spirit, seldom rising
to the definiteness of a distinct emotion, a subdued under-current of
gladness, seems to fill the soul, and flow on through all its channels.
It is not so much itself joy, as a disposition to be joyful; not so
much itself a visible sun in the heavens, as a mild, gently-diffused
light filling the sky, and bathing all objects in its serene loveliness
and beauty. It has been well termed "a sort of perpetual gladness."
_Prevalence at different Periods of Life._--There are those, of
fortunate temperament, with whom this seems to be the prevailing
disposition, to whom every thing wears a cheerful and sunny aspect. Of
others, the reverse is true. In early life this habitual joyousness
of spirit is more commonly prevalent; in advanced years, more rarely
met with. Whether it be that age has chilled the blood, or that the
sober experience of life has saddened the heart, and corrected the
more romantic visions of earlier years, as life passes on we are less
habitually under the influence of this disposition. It is no longer the
prevailing frame of the mind. In the beautiful language of another,
"We are not happy, without knowing why we are happy, and though we may
still be susceptible of joy, perhaps as intense, or even more intense,
than in our years of unreflecting merriment, our joy must arise from
a cause of corresponding importance; yet even down to the close of
extreme old age there still recur occasionally some gleams of this
almost instinctive happiness, like a vision of other years, or like
those brilliant and unexpected corruscations which sometimes flash
along the midnight of a wintry sky, and of which we are too ignorant
of the circumstances that produce them, to know when to predict their
return."
_The opposite Feeling._--Corresponding to this general state of mind
now described, is one of quite the opposite character--that habitual
disposition to sadness which is usually called melancholy. Like its
opposite, cheerfulness, it is rather a frame of mind than a positive
emotion, and, like its opposite, it exists, often, without any marked
and definite cause to which we can attribute it. It is that state in
which subsiding grief, or the pressure of any severe calamity now
passing away, leaves the mind, the grey and solemn twilight that
succeeds a partial or total eclipse. It is, with many persons, the
habitual state of mind, through long periods, perhaps even the greater
part, of life. Not unfrequently it occurs that minds, of the rarest
genius and most delicate sensibility, are subject to that extreme
and habitual depression of spirits which casts a deep gloom over the
brightest objects, and renders life itself a burden. This state of
habitual gloom and despondency, itself usually a form of disease, the
result of some physical derangement, deepens sometimes into a fixed
and permanent disorder of the mind, and constitutes one of the most
pitiable and hopeless forms of insanity. Such was the case with the
melancholy, but most amiable and gentle Cowper.
_Element of poetic Sensibility._--In its milder forms, the state of
mind which I describe, constitutes, not unfrequently, an element of
what is termed poetic genius, a melancholy arising from some sad
experience of the troubles and conflicts of life, and from sympathy
with the suffering and sorrowing world, the great sad heart of
humanity--a melancholy that, like the plaint of the Æolian harp, lends
sweetness and richness to the music of its strain. Such are many
of the strains of Tennyson; such the deep under-current of Milton's
poetry; such, preëminently, the spirit and tone of John Foster, one
of the truest and noblest specimens of poetic genius, although a
writer of prose. A quick and lively sensibility, itself an inseparable
concomitant of true genius, is not unfrequently accompanied with this
gentler form of melancholy. The truly great soul that communes with
itself, with nature, and with eternal truth, is no stranger to this
subdued yet pleasing sadness. It is this to which Milton pays beautiful
tribute in the _Il Penseroso_, and which he thus invokes:
"But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes."
_Not inconsistent with Wit._--It should be remarked that the
disposition of which we speak is not inconsistent with the occasional
and even frequent prevalence of feelings of directly the opposite
nature. A prevailing tendency to sadness is not unfrequently
associated with an almost equally prevailing tendency to emotions
of the ludicrous. The same liveliness of sensibility which prepares
the soul to feel keenly whatever in life is adapted to awaken sad
and sober reflections, also disposes it to notice quickly the little
incongruities of character, the foibles and follies of mankind, in
which a duller eye would detect nothing absurd or comical. It is,
moreover, the natural tendency of the mind to spring back, like the
bow unstrung, from one extreme of feeling to its opposite, and seek
relief from its sadness in the lighter sallies of wit. And so we have
the melancholy Cowper singing John Gilpin, and the author of the Night
Thoughts, in conversation, a jovial and witty man.
§ II.--SORROW AT LOSS OF FRIENDS.
_Differs from Melancholy._--Beside the general states of mind already
described, and which can hardly be called distinct emotions, there are
certain specific forms of joy and sorrow which claim our attention.
Prominent among these is the grief we feel at any great and sudden
bereavement or calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This is
a state of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy of which I
have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs from a more obvious
and immediate cause, and is at once more definite and more intense.
After a time, when the first bitterness of anguish is past, and the
mind recovers itself in a measure from the violence of the shock it
has received, and which, for the time, like a sudden blow, seemed to
stagger all its energies, when other causes begin to operate, and other
scenes and cares demand its attention, its sorrow, at first violent and
irrepressible, gradually subsides into that calmer but more permanent
form which we have already described as melancholy.
_Effects of Grief upon the Mind in the first Shock of any
Calamity._--When the loss is very great, especially if it comes
suddenly to us--and what bereavement, however long anticipated and
feared, does not at last overtake us suddenly?--the mind is at first,
in a manner, stupefied and amazed, unable to realize its loss, and
looks helplessly about it for relief. To this succeeds a state of
mental anguish, more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness
of the sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment. In
many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief in tears, or
in those more violent expressions of anguish in which the burdened
heart of man in all ages has been wont to indicate its grief, as the
rending of the garments, the beating of the breast, the tearing of
the hair, and other like demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow.
The mind in such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of
its emotion, and is swept on by the rushing current that overflows
its banks. It is Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing to
be comforted. It is David going to the chamber over the gate, and
exclaiming, as he goes, "O Absalom, my son! my son!"
_Subsequent State of Mind._--When the first violence of grief has
subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the mind begins to recall
the circumstances of its loss, and sets itself to comprehend the
greatness and reality of the calamity that has befallen it. It dwells
with interest and satisfaction on all the worth and virtues of the
departed, magnifies all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that
was faulty, recalls the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the
slightest memento of the former history, with the same sacred regard
and reverence with which it treasures in the funeral urn the ashes of
the dead. A sacredness and dignity invest the character, and the life,
when once the angel death has set his seal upon them.
_Silence of deep Grief._--The deepest sorrow is not always, perhaps
not usually, the most violent and demonstrative. It is when the first
sudden passion of grief is passed and the soul retires within herself
to meditate upon her loss, calmly gathering her mantle about her to
hide from the observation of others those tears and that sorrow which
are sacred, it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest
darkness gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest grief
is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It finds no words
for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled and silent goddess, whose
rites and altars are hidden from the eye of day. It is the nature of
joy to communicate itself. It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may be
the occasion whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its
chamber that it may weep there.
_Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow._--The effect of time in softening
and allaying the violence of grief, is known to every one. The manner
in which this effect is produced is worthy of attention. A recurrence
to the laws of suggestion may explain this. It will be recollected that
among the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the suggestion
of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed since the
occurrence of any event holds an important place. That which has
taken place but recently is more likely to recur again to mind than
events of remoter date. On the first occurrence of any calamity, or
bereavement, every thing tends to remind us of our loss, and this
constant suggestion of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our
sorrow. As time passes on, however, the objects which once suggested
only that which we had lost, become associated with, and so suggest
other objects and occurrences; or, if they still remind us of our loss,
the remembrance is mingled with that of other scenes and events which
have since transpired, and other feelings which have since agitated our
hearts. Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the cup
of our grief. The law of _the most recent_ still holds in suggestion,
and thus the very principle that formerly reminded us continually of
our loss, now shuts it out, by interposing between it and us what has
since transpired. The thought of the past comes up less frequently, and
when it recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, and
experiences, that it no longer awakens emotions of unmitigated grief.
Gradually other objects interest us, other plans and duties engage us,
other emotions agitate the heart, as successive waves beat on the same
troubled shore, and render fainter, at each return, the traces which
former billows had impressed upon its sands.