H. Martineau relates that a congenital idiot, who had lost his mother
when he was less than two years old, when dying, 'suddenly turned
his head, looked bright and sensible, and exclaimed, in a tone never
heard from him before, "Oh my mother! how beautiful!" and sank down
again--dead.' Dr. Carpenter cites this as a case of abnormal memory,
illustrating his thesis that the basis of recollection 'may be laid at
a very early period of life.' But the story seems to contain a deeper
meaning. The poor idiot not only recalled a long-past time, a face
that he had not seen for years except in dreams, but he gained for a
moment a degree of intelligence which he had not possessed when in
health. The quality of his brain was such, it appears, that with the
ordinary activity of the circulation, the ordinary vitality of the
organ, mental action was uncertain and feeble; but when the circulation
had all but ceased, when the nervous powers were all but prostrate, the
feeble brain, though it may have become no stronger actually, became
relatively stronger, in such sort that for the time specified, a mere
moment before dissolution, the idiot became an intelligent being.
A somewhat similar case is on record in which an insane person, during
that stage of typhus fever in which sane persons are apt to become
delirious, became perfectly sane and reasonable, his insanity returning
with returning health. Persons of strongest mind in health are often
delirious for a short time before death. Since, then, the idiot in the
same stage of approaching dissolution may become intelligent, while
the insane may become sane under the conditions which make the sane
become delirious, we recognise a relationship between the mental and
bodily states which might be of considerable use in the treatment of
mental diseases. It may well be that conditions of the nervous system
which are to be avoided by persons of normal mental qualities may be
advantageously superinduced in the case of those of abnormally weak or
abnormally violent mind. It is noteworthy that different conditions
would seem to be necessary for the idiotic and for the insane, if
the cases cited sufficed to afford basis for generalisation. For the
idiot of Miss Martineau's story became intelligent during the intense
depression of the bodily powers immediately preceding dissolution,
whereas the insane person became sane during that height of fever when
delirium commonly makes its appearance.
Sir H. Holland mentions a case which shows that great bodily depression
may affect a person of ordinary clear and powerful mind. 'I descended
on one and the same day,' he says, 'two very deep mines in the Hartz
Mountains, remaining some hours under ground in each. While in the
second mine, and exhausted both from fatigue and inanition, I felt the
utter impossibility of talking longer with the German Inspector who
accompanied me. Every German word and phrase deserted my recollection;
and it was not until I had taken food and wine, and been some time at
rest, that I regained them again.'
A change in the mental condition is sometimes a sign of approaching
serious illness, and is felt to be so by the person experiencing it.
An American writer, Mr. Butterworth, quotes the following description
given by a near relative of his who was suffering from extreme nervous
debility. 'I am in constant fear of insanity,' she said, 'and I wish
I could be moved to some retreat for the insane. I understand my
condition perfectly; my reason does not seem to be impaired; but I can
think of _two things at the same time_. This is an indication of mental
unsoundness, and is a terror to me. I do not seem to have slept at all
for the last six months. If I sleep, it must be in a succession of
vivid dreams that destroy all impression of somnolence. Since I have
been in this condition I seem to have a very vivid impression of what
happens to my children who are away from home, and I am often startled
to hear that these impressions are correct. I seem to have also a
certain power of anticipating what one is about to say, and to read
the motives of others. I take no pleasure in this strange increase of
mental power; it is all unnatural. I cannot live in this state long,
and I often wish I were dead.'
It must, however, be remembered that persons who are in a state of
extreme nervous debility, not only possess at times abnormal mental
qualities, but are also affected morally. As Huxley has well remarked
of some stories bearing on spiritualism, they come from persons
who can hardly be trusted even according to their own account of
themselves. Mr. Butterworth's relation described a mental condition
which, even if quite correctly pictured as she understood it, may yet
be explained without believing that any very marvellous increase had
taken place in her mental powers. Among the vivid impressions which
she constantly had of what might be happening to her children away
from home, it would have been strange if some had not been correct.
The power of anticipating what others were about to say is one which
many imagine they have, mistaking the occasional coincidence between
their guesses and what has been next said, for indications of a power
which in reality they do not possess. And so also with regard to the
motives of others. Many are apt, especially when out of health, to
guess at others' motives, sometimes rightly, but oftener very wrongly,
yet always rightly in their own belief, no matter what evidence may
presently appear to the contrary.
The case cited by Mr. Butterworth affords evidence rather of the
unhealthy condition of the patient's mind than of abnormal powers,
except as regards the power of thinking of two things at the same
time, which we may fairly assume was not ordinarily possessed by its
relative. It is rather difficult to define such a power, however.
Several persons have apparently possessed the power, showing it by
doing two things at the same time which both appear to require thought,
and even close attention. Julius Cæsar, for example, could write on one
subject and dictate on another simultaneously. But in reality, even in
cases such as these, the mind does not think of two things at once. It
simply takes them in turn, doing enough with each, in a short time, a
mere instant, perhaps, to give work to the pen or to the voice, as the
case may be, for a longer time. When Cæsar was writing a sentence, he
was not necessarily thinking of what he was writing. He had done the
thinking part of the work before; and was free, while continuing the
mere mechanical process of writing, to think of matter for dictation
to his secretary. So also while he was speaking he was free to think
of matter for writing. If, indeed, the thought for each sentence of
either kind had occupied an appreciable time, there would have been
interruptions of his writing, if not of his dictation (dictation is
not commonly a continuous process under any circumstances, even when
shorthand writers take down the words). But a practised writer or
speaker can in a moment form a sentence which shall occupy a minute in
writing and several seconds in speaking.
I certainly do not myself claim the power of thinking of two things
at once,--nay, I believe that no one ever had or could have such a
power: yet I find it perfectly easy, when lecturing, to arrange the
plan for the next ten minutes' exposition of a scientific subject, and
to adopt the words themselves for the next twenty seconds or so, while
continuing to speak without the least interruption. I can also work out
a calculation on the black-board while continuing to speak of matters
outside the subject of the calculation. It is more a matter of habit
than an indication of any mental power, natural or acquired, to speak
or write sentences; even of considerable length, after the mind has
passed on to other matters. In a similar way some persons can write
different words with the right and left hands, and this, too, while
speaking of other matters. (I have seen this done by Professor Morse,
the American naturalist, whose two hands added words to the diagrams he
had drawn while his voice dealt with other parts of the drawing: to add
to the wonder, too, he wrote the words indifferently from right to left
or from left to right.) In reality the person who thus does two things
at once is no more thinking of two things at once than a clock is, when
the striking and the working machinery are both in action at the same
time.[20]
As an illustration of special mental power shown in health, by a person
whose mental condition in illness we shall consider afterwards, Sir
Walter Scott may be mentioned. The account given by his amanuensis
has seemed surprising to many, unfamiliar with the nature of literary
composition (at least after long practice), but is in reality such as
anyone who writes much can quite readily understand, or might even have
known must necessarily be correct. 'His thoughts,' says the secretary
to whom Scott dictated his _Life of Napoleon Buonaparte_, 'flowed
easily and felicitously, without any difficulty to lay hold of them
or to find appropriate language' (which, by the way, is more than all
would say who had read Scott's _Life of Buonaparte_, and certainly more
than can be said of his secretary, unless it really was a familiar
experience with him to be unable to lay hold of his thoughts). 'This
was evident by the absence of all solicitude (_miseria cogitandi_)
from his countenance. He sat in his chair, from which he rose now and
then, took a volume from the book-case, consulted it, and restored it
to the shelf--all without intermission in the current of ideas, which
continued to be delivered with no less readiness than if his mind had
been wholly occupied with the words he was uttering. It soon became
apparent to me, however, that he was carrying on two distinct trains
of thought, one of which was already arranged and in the act of being
spoken, while at the same time he was in advance, considering what
was afterwards to be said. This I discovered' (he should rather have
said, 'this I was led to infer') 'by his sometimes introducing a word
which was wholly out of place--_entertained_ instead of _denied_, for
example--but which I presently found to belong to the next sentence,
perhaps four or five lines further on, which he had been preparing at
the very moment when he gave me the words of the one that preceded
it.' In the same way I have often unconsciously substituted one word
for another in lecturing, the word used always belonging to a later
sentence than the word intended to be used. I have noticed also this
peculiarity, that when a substitution of this kind has been once made,
an effort is required to avoid repeating the mistake, even if it be
not repeated quite unconsciously to the end of the discourse. In this
way, for example, I once throughout an entire lecture used the word
'heavens' for the word 'screen' (the screen on which lantern pictures
were shown). A similar peculiarity may be noticed with written errors.
Thus in my treatise on a scientific subject, in which the utmost care
had been given to minute points of detail, I once wrote 'seconds' for
'minutes' throughout several pages--in fact, from the place where
first the error was made, to the end of the chapter. (See the _first_
edition of my _Transits of Venus_, pp. 131-136, noting as an additional
peculiarity that the whole object of the chapter in which this mistake
was made was to show how many minutes of difference existed between the
occurrence of certain events.)
An even more curious instance of a mistake arising from doing one
thing while thinking of another occurred to me fourteen years ago. I
was correcting the proof-sheets of an astronomical treatise in which
occurred these words: 'Calling the mean distance of the earth 1,
Saturn's mean distance is 9·539; again, calling the earth's period
1, Saturn's mean period is 29·457:--now what relation exists between
these numbers 9·539 and 29·457 and their powers? The first is less
than the second, but the square of the first is plainly greater than
the second; we must therefore try higher powers, &c. &c.' The passage
was quite correct as it stood, and if the two processes by which I was
correcting verbal errors and following the sense of the passage had
been really continuous processes of thought, unquestionably the passage
would have been left alone. If the passage had been erroneous and had
been simply left in that condition the case would have been one only
too familiar to those who have had occasion to correct proofs. But
what I actually did was deliberately to make nonsense of the passage
while improving the sound of the second sentence. I made it run,
'the first is less than the second, but the square of the first is
plainly greater than the square of the second,' the absurdity of which
statement a child would detect. If the first proof in its correct form,
with the incorrect correction carefully written down in the margin,
had not existed when, several months later, the error was pointed out
in the _Quarterly Journal of Science_, I should have felt sure that
I had written the words wrongly at the outset. For blunders such as
this are common enough. But that I should deliberately have taken a
correctly worded sentence and altered it into utter absurdity I could
not, but for the evidence, have believed to be possible. The case
plainly shows that not only may two things be done at once when the
mind, nevertheless, is thinking only of one, but that something may be
done which suggests deliberate reflection when in reality the mind is
elsewhere or not occupied at all. For in this case both the processes
on which I was engaged were manifestly carried on without thought,
one being purely mechanical and the other, though requiring thought if
properly attended to, being so imperfectly effected as to show that no
thought was given to it.
To return to Sir Walter Scott. It is known but too well that during
the later years of his life there came with bodily prostration a great
but not constant failure of his mental powers. Some of the phenomena
presented during this part of his career are strikingly illustrative of
abnormal mental action occurring even at times when the mental power
is on the whole much weakened. _The Bride of Lammermoor_, though not
one of the best of Scott's novels, is certainly far above such works
as _Count Robert of Paris_, _The Betrothed_, and _Castle Dangerous_.
Its popularity may perhaps be attributed chiefly to the deep interest
of the 'ower true tale' on which it is founded: but some of the
characters are painted with exceeding skill. Lucy herself is almost
a nonentity, and Edgar is little more than a gloomy, unpleasant man,
made interesting only by the troubles which fall on him. But Caleb
Balderstone and Ailsie Gourlay stand out from the canvas as if alive;
they are as lifelike and natural, yet as thoroughly individualised
as Edie Ochiltree and Meg Merrilies. The novel neither suggested
when it first appeared, nor has been regarded even after the facts
became known, as suggesting that Scott, when he wrote it, was in bad
health. Yet it was produced under pressure of severe illness, and when
Scott was at least in this sense unconscious, that nothing of what
he said and did in connection with the work was remembered when he
recovered. 'The book,' says James Ballantyne, 'was not only written,
but published, before Mr. Scott was able to rise from his bed; and he
assured me that when it was first put into his hands in a complete
shape, _he did not recollect one single incident, character, or
conversation it contained_! He did not desire me to understand, nor did
I understand, that his illness had erased from his memory the original
incidents of the story, with which he had been acquainted from his
boyhood. These remained rooted where they had ever been; or, to speak
more explicitly, he remembered the general facts of the existence of
the father and mother, of the son and daughter, of the rival lovers,
of the compulsory marriage, and the attack made by the bride upon the
hapless bridegroom, with the general catastrophe of the whole. _All
these things he recollected_, just as he did before he took to his bed;
_but he literally recollected nothing else_--not a single character
woven by the romancer, not one of the many scenes and points of humour,
not _anything with which he was himself connected_, as the writer of
the work.
Later, when Scott was breaking down under severe and long-continued
labour, and first felt the approach of the illness which ultimately
ended in death, he experienced strange mental phenomena. In his diary
for February 17, 1829, he notes that on the preceding day, at dinner,
though in company with two or three old friends, he was haunted by 'a
sense of pre-existence,' a confused idea that nothing that passed was
said for the first time; that the same topics had been discussed, and
that the same persons had expressed the same opinions before. 'There
was a vile sense of a want of reality in all that I did or said.'
Dr. Reynolds related to Dr. Carpenter a case in which a Dissenting
minister, who was in apparently sound health, was rendered apprehensive
of brain-disease--though, as it seemed, without occasion--by a lapse
of memory similar to that experienced by Sir Walter Scott. He 'went
through an entire pulpit service on a certain Sunday morning with the
most perfect consistency--his choice of hymns and lessons, and his
_extempore_ prayer being all related to the subject of his sermon. On
the following Sunday morning he went through the introductory part of
the service in precisely the same manner--giving out the same hymns,
reading the same lessons, and directing the _extempore_ prayer in the
same channel. He then gave out the same text and preached the very same
sermon as he had done on the previous Sunday. When he came down from
the pulpit, it was found that he had not the smallest remembrance of
having gone through precisely the same service on the previous Sunday;
and when he was assured of it, he felt considerable uneasiness lest
his lapse of memory should indicate some impending attack of illness.
None such, however, supervened; and no _rationale_ can be given of
this curious occurrence, the subject of it not being liable to fits
of "absence of mind" and not having had his thoughts engrossed at the
time by any other special pre-occupation.' It is possible that the
explanation here is the simple one of mere coincidence. Whether this
explanation is available or not would depend entirely on the question
whether the preacher's memory was ordinarily trustworthy or not,
whether in fact he would remember the arrangements, prayers, sermon,
&c., he had given on any occasion. These matters becoming, after long
habit, almost automatic, it might very well happen that the person
going through such duties would remember them no longer and no better
than one who had been present when they were performed, and who had
not paid special attention to them. That if he had thus unconsciously
carried out his duties on one Sunday he should (being to this degree
forgetful) conduct them in precisely the same way on the next Sunday,
would rather tend to show that his mental faculties were in excellent
working order than the reverse. Wendell Holmes tells a story which
effectively illustrates my meaning; and he tells it so pleasantly (as
usual) that I shall quote it unaltered. 'Sometimes, but rarely,' he
says, 'one may be caught making the same speech twice over, and yet be
held blameless. Thus a certain lecturer' (Holmes himself, doubtless),
'after performing in an inland city, where dwells a _littératrice_
of note, was invited to meet her and others over the social tea-cup.
She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his new occupation.
"Yes," he replied, "I am like the huma, the bird that never lights,
being always in the cars, as he is always on the wing." Years elapsed.
The lecturer visited the same place once more for the same purpose.
Another social cup after the lecture, and a second meeting with the
distinguished lady. "You are constantly going from place to place,"
she said. "Yes," he answered, "I am like the huma," and finished the
sentence as before. What horror when it flashed over him that he had
made this fine speech, word for word, twice over! Yet it was not true,
as the lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished
his conversation with the huma daily during that whole interval of
years. On the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious fowl
until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought up
precisely the same idea.' He was not in the slightest degree afraid
of brain-disease. On the contrary, he considered the circumstance
indicative of good order in the mental mechanism. 'He ought to have
been proud,' says Holmes, speaking for him, and meaning no doubt that
he _was_ proud, 'of the accuracy of his mental adjustments. _Given
certain factors, and a sound brain should always evolve the same fixed
product with the certainty of Babbage's calculating machine._'
Somewhat akin to the unconscious recurrence of mental processes
after considerable intervals of time is the tendency to imitate the
actions of others as though sharing in their thoughts, and according
to many _because_ mind acts upon mind. This tendency, though not
always associated with disease, is usually a sign of bodily illness.
Dr. Carpenter mentions the following singular case, but rather as
illustrating generally the influence of suggestions derived from
external sources in determining the current of thought, than as showing
how prone the thoughts are to run in undesirable currents when the
body is out of health:--'During an epidemic of fever, in which an
active delirium had been a common symptom, it was observed that many
of the patients of one particular physician were possessed by a strong
tendency to throw themselves out of the window, whilst no such tendency
presented itself in unusual frequency in the practice of others. The
author's informant, Dr. C., himself a distinguished professor in the
university, explained the tendency of what had occurred within his own
knowledge; he having been himself attacked by the fever, and having
been under the care of this physician, his friend and colleague, Dr.
A. Another of Dr. A.'s patients whom we shall call Mr. B., seems to
have been the first to make the attempt in question; and impressed
with the necessity of taking due precautions, Dr. A. then visited Dr.
C., _in whose hearing_ he gave directions to have the windows properly
secured, as Mr. B. had attempted to throw himself out. Now Dr. C.
distinctly remembers, that although he had not previously experienced
any such desire, it came upon him with great urgency as soon as ever
the idea was thus suggested to him; his mind being just in that state
of incipient delirium which is marked by the temporary dominance of
some one idea, and by the want of volitional power to withdraw the
attention from it. And he deemed it probable that, as Dr. A. went on to
Mr. D., Mr. E., &c., and gave similar directions, a like desire would
be excited in the minds of all those who might happen to be in the same
impressible condition.' The case is not only interesting as showing
how the mind in disease receives certain impressions more strongly
than in health, and in a sense may thus be said to possess for the
time an abnormal power, but it affords a useful hint to doctors and
nurses, who do not always (the latter indeed scarcely ever) consider
the necessity of extreme caution when speaking about their patients and
in their presence. It is probable that a considerable proportion of the
accidents, fatal and otherwise, which have befallen delirious patients
might be traced to incautious remarks made in their hearing by foolish
nurses or forgetful doctors.
In some cases doctors have had to excite a strong antagonistic feeling
against tendencies of this kind. Thus Zerffi relates that an English
physician was once consulted by the mistress of a ladies' school where
many girls had become liable to fits of hysterics. He tried several
remedies, but in vain. At last, justly regarding the epidemic as
arising from the influence of imagination on the weaker girls (one
hysterical girl having infected the others), he determined to exert
a stronger antagonistic influence on the weak minds of his patients.
He therefore remarked casually to the mistress of the school, in the
hearing of the girls, that he had now tried all methods but one, which
he would try, as a last resource, when next he called--'the application
of a red-hot iron to the spine of the patients so as to quiet their
nervously-excited systems.' 'Strange to say,' remarks Zerffi--meaning,
no doubt, 'it is hardly necessary to say that'--'the red-hot iron was
never applied, for the hysterical attacks ceased as if by magic.'