The resuscitation of dying persons is founded on a knowledge of the
subjects which have engaged our attention; for where the failure of the
circulation or respiration depends on causes which are not necessarily
permanent, temporary assistance may restore life. The use of stimulants
and opiates, in cases of loss of blood, are the means of renewing the
action of the heart when it has already nearly ceased to beat.
The transfusion of blood is also sometimes resorted to. The late Mr.
Ingleby, of Birmingham, in his work on Hæmorrhage[25], mentions an
instance in which he employed it with advantage in the case of a woman
who had just been confined. All the usual means had been tried, and
the patient did not rally. She was “in a constant state of jactitation,
with a dewy sweat and pinched features.” The respiration was difficult,
“with the sound of air passing through the mucus.”
The patient became cold and insensible. With the assistance of two
other medical gentlemen, with whom he advised, Mr. Ingleby proceeded
to inject some blood into her veins which he had obtained from the arm
of her husband. In less than five minutes, a perceptible improvement
arose, which was confirmed in about an hour. This operation is not,
however, always so fortunate, and is liable to some serious objections.
We require, no doubt, more experience on the subject; but, in the mean
time, it is one of considerable interest. Mr. Ingleby remarks, at the
conclusion of his case, that the scriptural expression applied by Adam
to Eve--“bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh,”--seems in this case,
to have been literally applicable.
It is, however, in cases where the respiration is suspended by the
narcotic poisons that the most marked advantages may be seen from
artificial aid. I shall relate a case with which I was much interested
and surprised, and though a considerable time has now elapsed since it
occurred, I feel no diminution of the astonishment I first experienced.
A young woman of the name of Caroline Mercy was brought into the
Infirmary at Manchester, on the 16th of June, 1849, at half past
three, P.M. She had taken opium with a view to destroy herself, and
was in a complete state of insensibility. It was impossible, by
pulling the hair or pinching the skin, to excite any wincing or signs
of uneasiness; nor was any effect produced by the sudden affusion of
cold water. The pupils were contracted in an extreme degree; and the
countenance presented that peculiar vacancy, or want of expression,
which is so characteristic of the influence of opium. The breathing
was very considerably embarrassed, the inspirations and expirations
being separated by an unusually long interval, and accompanied by a
slight rattle. The extremities were warm. As soon as she was put to
bed, Mr. Gaskell, the resident medical officer, introduced the stomach
pump, with which he injected and withdrew about a gallon of cold
water; but towards the end of the operation, as the breathing became
laborious, the rattle louder, and the surface assumed a more livid
appearance, he thought it prudent to desist. He accordingly introduced
into the stomach a solution of ammonia, afterwards removing with the
pump as much as could be conveniently withdrawn. Large sinapisms were
then placed down the back, but she appeared, notwithstanding, to get
gradually worse; the respiration became more difficult, the lividity
greater, and the pulse less full, and slightly irregular.
Boiling water was now applied to the feet and legs, which had the
effect for a time of increasing both the power and frequency of the
respirations; but the benefit was only of a very transitory kind. At
about a quarter past five, Mr. Gaskell thought it desirable to assist
the respiration by artificial means, and he accordingly proceeded to
adopt the following expedient. He placed a large pitch plaster on
the abdomen, and, by this means maintaining his hold, endeavoured to
solicit the usual respiratory movements. This did not, however, give
him so much assistance as he had expected, and he was, therefore,
induced to abandon it after a short trial. He then placed a similar
plaster on each side of the chest, by which he was able to command
a more decisive effect: he thus, with the assistance of the man
nurse, alternately raised and depressed the ribs in imitation of the
breathing. This plan was productive of some amendment; the lividity
diminished, and the natural muscular efforts were more frequent and
apparent; the assistance was adapted as carefully as possible to the
indications of nature.
In addition to these means, boiling water was occasionally applied
to the arms and legs. At about five o’clock I came to Mr. Gaskell’s
assistance. At this period the temperature of the body had become
considerably reduced; and I remember the patient’s appearance was
exactly that of a dying woman; and I believe it was the impression both
of Mr. Gaskell and myself that our patient could not survive long.
The lips were of a livid colour, the expression of the countenance
altogether cadaverous, and the rattle in the throat had become
exceedingly loud. Boiling water poured on the legs did not now excite
the slightest movement, so that we were almost disposed to regard the
case as hopeless. The circumstance, however, that whilst the exertions
lasted, they had evidently been productive of advantage, did not suffer
us to abandon further trial. We now laid aside the plasters, and taking
hold of the margins of the ribs, endeavoured to support the respiration
with our hands alone. Standing on each side of the bed, with our
faces towards the feet of the patient, and our fingers curved round
the cartilages of the ribs, we could easily enlarge the capacity of
the chest, by approximating the ribs at the same time that they were
elevated; while, in expiration, the reverse movement could as easily
be accomplished. By a steady continuance of these efforts, we had the
pleasure of seeing a gradual improvement in our patient; and towards
six o’clock, the pulse had acquired the hard jerk which is commonly
felt when the system is under the influence of opium. Shortly after
six, indications of returning sensation were evinced by occasional
spasmodic quiverings of the muscles of the chest and abdomen. These
spasmodic movements resembled the actions which usually denote
approaching dissolution, with this essential difference, however, that
they became more frequent and prolonged at each time that they were
renewed. A little before seven o’clock she raised her eyelids, and at
the same time her left arm was slightly elevated. By persisting in
artificial respiration, and using means to rouse sensibility, such as
forcibly striking the face and chest with a wet towel, and applying
ammonia to the nostrils, in about half an hour from this period the
state of stupor had in a great measure disappeared. Instead of lying
prostrate on the back, she now lay on her side, and was enabled to
breathe without assistance. We then caused her clothes to be put on,
and the vesicated parts being dressed, she was taken out of bed, and
compelled to walk about the room.
It is worthy of remark, that whenever from fatigue we had been led to
suspend our efforts to maintain the respiration, a degree of relapse
followed; the lips became more intensely livid, the pulsations of
the heart more feeble and irregular, and the respirations fewer, and
accompanied with a louder rattle. On again resuming operations, the
converse was also noticed. When the amendment became decided, and the
sensibility returned, the rattle disappeared altogether; and this
took place without any expectoration, notwithstanding it was natural
to suppose that a considerable quantity of mucus was contained in the
air passages. The woman was fortunately a favourable subject for our
manipulations, as the abdominal parietes were sufficiently lax to admit
the easy prehension of the chest. As far as it could be done, we always
waited for the natural indications of the act of respiration, and paid
great attention to regulate our movements in correspondence with each
other. At the conclusion, the cartilages of the ribs were slightly
everted, and the cuticle removed in places by the unavoidable chafing
of the hands.
_June 17._--It was found that she had been kept out of bed all night,
which scarcely appeared necessary, and was, indeed, contrary to
instructions. She had vomited through the night, and complained of
shooting pains in the head. The pupils were less contracted; the pulse
was not ascertained, owing to the vesicated condition of the arms.
For several nights after this period she was troubled with a
starting in her sleep, which, however, was gradually removed by the
administration of twenty drops of laudanum every night at bed time. She
also suffered a good deal from the condition of her legs, which were
severely scalded, especially on the posterior part, where they had been
in contact with the hot water which had fallen on the bed. On the 27th
of August she left the hospital, cured.
After this account, which I have purposely given at length, as it
illustrates the subject in a remarkable manner, it is natural to wish
to know the previous circumstances of her case. The woman’s husband,
who was a master plumber, failed about four years before her admission.
Since that time he had lived irregularly, a circumstance which caused
her to be much distressed and dejected in spirits.
Two years after this failure she left her husband to reside with her
mother, but was persuaded again to live with her husband, who had
promised an amendment, which, it seems, he did not keep; she again
became low spirited, pawned her clothes, and was ashamed to return to
her mother.
On Sunday, the 16th of June, she sat down to dinner at one o’clock,
when, after a quarrel, she left the house, and purchased sixpennyworth
of laudanum at four different shops: she said she obtained about a
dessert spoonful for a penny, and drank it as she purchased it. She
then went to a neighbour’s house, and can only recollect feeling heavy,
and that she had brandy given her.[26]
When death is anticipated, there is a common curiosity to know the
period at which it will take place. But from what has been just said,
it will be evident that it is not always possible to predict the
precise time, nor are the symptoms which indicate its approach always
to be relied on. When the evidences of dissolution, however, begin
to manifest themselves, a general failure of the temperature, with a
cold dew on the skin, may generally be considered as indicative that
the scene is about to close. In many cases it is easy to recognise the
fatal turn which diseases take by the alterations which the symptoms
undergo. Where internal inflammations are about to issue in death,
there is mostly a striking change in the expression of the face, and
sometimes a curious shrinking of the body.
I shall never forget one instance in which these signs were
particularly manifest. A young woman, who had formerly been a servant
in Manchester, became ill, was unable to continue in service, and was
eventually removed to the Infirmary. One day, as I went to visit her as
usual, I observed a complete alteration in her countenance. It seemed
_shrunk and diminutive_, with a ghastly paleness. She put out her hand
and said, “You seem as if you did not know me.”--She spoke in a changed
voice.
She complained of no pain, but I remarked a trembling in her hands,
like that of the shaking palsy. The mind was perfectly collected, but
her usual features seemed only mimicked by their pale shrunk copy. She
said she knew that she was going to die,--and so it proved.
The nose and lips are very characteristic in the dying. The lips
become pale, the nostrils dilated and dark looking, and the hairs about
the lips seem more than usually apparent; the teeth look like pieces of
ordinary bone, and the eyes seem to shadow through the eyelids, or are
partially turned under the lids; the nails look dark, and the ends of
the fingers sodden.
Finally, convulsive twitchings often show themselves in the face, with
singular elevations of the eyebrows, and staring of the eyes. A gaping
attempt to breathe terminates the struggle.
When coma is present, a mucous rattle is generally of fatal import;
and, _è contrario_, when the lungs are affected, the supervention of
coma is equally to be dreaded.
When fluids taken by the patient flow back from his mouth, or fall
heavily down his throat as if poured into an ordinary tube, death is
soon to be expected.
In young children, a curious playing with the bed-clothes often attends
fatal affections of the brain. I remember a little child, who had
her handkerchief in her hand, which she spread out repeatedly with
apparent care, and in a fantastic manner, that would have been amusing
but for its fatal import. The picking of bed-clothes and catching of
the hands, as if at imaginary objects, are well known as terrible
indications.
Chomel remarks, as of serious presage, the automatic manner in which
a patient will unceasingly draw his hand to his side, in spite of the
efforts of the physician to ascertain his pulse. I might enlarge much
on such points, but it would, perhaps, be “to consider too curiously to
consider so.”
The signs of death are not, however, always very marked; for when
death arises in advanced and feeble age, the vital powers are so
easily depressed, and the heart’s action brought to a stand in so
imperceptible a manner, that it is common to speak of it as a quiet
sleep. Madame D’Arblay, writing to her husband, graphically describes
the death of her revered father, Dr. Burney, the celebrated author of
the History of Music.
“An awful stillness pervaded his apartment; and so soft became his
breathing, that I dropped my head by the side of his pillow, to be sure
that he breathed at all. There, anxiously, I remained, and such was
my position, when his faithful man-servant, George, after watchfully
looking at him from the foot of his bed, suddenly burst out into an
audible sob, crying out, ‘My master! My dear master!’
“For a moment, however, only; an alarm from his outcry had been raised,
and the servants, full of sorrow, hurried into the chamber, which
none of the family, that could assemble, ever quitted, and a general
lamentation broke forth.
“Yet could I not believe that all had ceased thus suddenly, without a
movement, without even a sigh! and, conjuring that no one would speak
or interfere, I solemnly and steadily persisted in passing a full hour
or more in listening to catch again a breath I could so reluctantly
lose; but all of life, of earthly life, was gone for ever; and here,
_mon ami_, I drop the curtain.”[27]
So frequently as medical men are called upon to contemplate the last
hours of human existence, it is to be regretted that they have not more
often given to their fellow men the reflections into which they must
naturally have been led. It cannot but be, that many accomplished minds
are to be found in a profession which is so enlightened; and it is not
then easy to assign any sufficient reason for this silence. Possibly
a kind of false delicacy may have operated on some minds, and others
may have been diverted from such thoughts by the pressure of active
occupation. It is common to suppose that medical men are blunted in
their feelings by the nature of their avocations. It may be that there
is some foundation for such an opinion; but I think the apparent want
of sympathy sometimes found, is more frequently the effect of a strong
temporary direction of the mind to the contemplation of curative means.
Yet it must be owned that habit does much to lessen that exquisite
sensibility with which we instinctively regard the chamber of death.
The anatomist, as he traces with curious scalpel the secret structure
of the frame, loses in professional technicalities the awful truth that
he contemplates his own likeness. The hoary-headed gravedigger, as he
turns up the mould to receive his fellow man, thinks not how soon the
sand will rattle on his own coffin, and his humble name “shine upon
the plate.” This indifference is, to some extent, good and necessary;
but it is sadly too common and too great. But yet to the medical man,
above all others, there is something of terrible reality in death.
The student pictures death in his own manner: he looks upon it as the
distant prospect which is to surround him at the remotest period of his
life, the haven and resting place of his toil, the slumber and quiet
repose which is to terminate the harvest of his day. The father tells
his children of a peaceful and a better country, and smooths the pillow
of his sick child as he whispers words of consolation and affection.
The medical man has fresh in his mind, with all its ghastly reality,
the cold image of his once dear friend; he yet hears the choking rattle
in his throat, and yet wipes in imagination the perspiration from his
corpse-like brow.
To what result then shall we come after the contemplation of death?--to
the greatest and the best: the daylight of life is still around us,
but the gloom of that night, in which no man can work, will soon be
foreshadowed by sickness, infirmity, and age. Before this night steals
upon us, and our ability for useful exertion ceases in the thickening
obscurity, let us remember the reality of these things,--and, as we
write our characters in the indelible language of deeds that can never
be changed, let us remember, also, how soon the story will be told, and
the book closed for ever.
It is, indeed, a mortifying thing to think what a laborious preparation
we make for a few years of existence. It is humiliating to look back to
the cares of infancy--the nights of maternal watching and anxiety--the
hopes of childhood--the dreary toils and frequent tasks of school
life--the ambition of riper years, with its unceasing efforts to
attain what we find at last to be vanity and vexation. For what do we
prepare,--if gold and silver at last tire the eye--if the applause
of the world is found empty and interested--if ambition estranges
friendship--if wealth cools our best affections, and separates man from
his fellow man? For what do we prepare whilst the grave is so near to
all of us, and the feet of those who are to carry us out are already
lingering at the threshold of our doors?
But who is there that timely thinks on these things? Who can imagine
his own death--anticipate the time when he shall be the object
of fearful regard in others--when he himself shall be the almost
unconscious being struggling with the thickening breath, and gasping
with the convulsive throes of death? Who can think of the world being
without himself; of the things which he has called his own being
entirely at the disposal of others? To realise such ideas is to catch
a glimpse of the true value of present interests. What then think we
of the approbation of the great--the vanity of fashion, the pride
of learning and the dignity of title;--the remembrance of one kind
feeling, one charitable action, one generous sentiment and loving
emotion, is more grateful to the heart, and more satisfying to the
understanding. We are all too ready to avoid the contemplation of
death. The subject is not an agreeable one, and can seldom find a
fitting place in our consideration. It is too soon, and we would put it
off “till a more convenient season.” But if we may not consider our own
end, have we no one dear and precious to us in whose life our interests
are intimately and affectionately entwined!--How shall we stand on
the grave-side of such precious one, and with what thoughts shall we
hereafter turn from the little circle of our mourning friends to the
fresh landscape which surrounds the tomb?
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Byron’s Vision of Judgment.
[2] Art. Inhumations precipitées: Dict. de Médecine et de Chirurgie.
[3] Medical Jurisprudence, p. 5.
[4] For the suggestion of these apt quotations, I am indebted to
Paris’s Med. Jurisprudence.
[5] Sommer observed, that, contrary to the statement of Nysten, the
body became rigid before it was completely cold.
[6] According to Sommer, seldom if ever later.
[7] See Guy’s Hospital Reports, p. 388. vol. vii. 1851, Remarks on
Strangulation.
[8] See Alison’s Pathology.
[9] Belloc, Cours de Médicine Légale, p. 318.
[10] Medical Jurisprudence, p. 492. Edit. for 1838.
[11] Traité des Signes de la Mort, et des Moyens de prévenir les
Enterrements prématurés. Par E. Bouchut, Paris, chez J. B. Baillière,
1849.
[12] See Sir H. Halford’s Essays.
[13] Influence of Disease on the Mind, Essays and Orations, p. 83.
[14] Hans Christian Andersen’s Story of My Life, translated by Mary
Howitt, p. 114.
[15] Arnold’s Life, vol. ii. p. 337.
[16] Latham’s Clinical Medicine, vol. ii. p. 388.
[17] Vide Watson’s Lectures.
[18] See Christison on Poisons.
[19] Knight’s London, vol. iv. p. 301.
[20] What is called _pressure_ on the brain is not necessary for the
production of _coma_.
[21] Vide Elliotson’s Lect. on the Practice of Physic.
[22] Vide O’Meara’s Residence at St. Helena, vol. i. p. 179.
[23] Op. Cit. vol. i. p. 192.
[24] Vide Cowper’s Life and Correspondence, by Southey, vol. i. p. 130.
[25] Ingleby on Uterine Hæmorrhage.
[26] See Lancet, for Oct. 1840. Case of recovery from the effects of
opium, by J. Bower Harrison.
[27] Memoirs of Dr. Burney, p. 432.
THE
HUMAN MIND
CONSIDERED IN SOME OF ITS MEDICAL
ASPECTS.
_Macbeth._ How does your patient, doctor?
_Doctor._ Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thickcoming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE HUMAN MIND, &c.[28]
There is nothing which is more common than to hear people speak of
possessing a knowledge of human nature. It is usual to signify by this
a mere acquaintance with the vices of mankind, which does, indeed,
form one part of such knowledge, but it is not all. What is called
a knowledge of human nature is said to be acquired only by mixing
with the world, which implies that a real intimacy with the workings,
tendencies, and capabilities of the human mind is industriously kept
back in our literature, and that by the general consent of mankind it
is deemed better that a great part of the world should be ignorant
of the true position of their fellow beings. Many of those who are
teachers of religion and morality, have certainly derived their ideas
on this subject from sources which show, in point of fact, a complete
ignorance of human nature, or, at least, the studious _disguisement_ of
such knowledge.
The reserve, which is common and proper in society, may screen from the
unreflecting, and those little conversant with life, much of the real
nature of the human mind.
The prescribed forms of living, of speaking and writing, and the
conventional usages of mankind, have given an artificial hue to our
actions and language, and thus the words of the great dramatist have
become literally true, that “all the world is a stage, and all the men
and women merely players.” The true character of the human mind in its
more intimate workings, is little confessed in our literature, and
little acknowledged in our laws. Unfortunately, the real appreciation
of the human mind (with regard to its actual state, and not its
abstract consideration) has scarcely appeared to fall within the
province either of the moralist or metaphysician, and has remained a
kind of neutral ground, uncultivated because unclaimed. That knowledge
which is sometimes designated a _knowledge of the world_, approaches,
perhaps, nearest to the subject in question, but is seldom possessed
by those who are either desirous or capable of systematizing their
information, and thus, much of what is really known of our common
nature is lost both to the philosopher and the philanthropist. In the
writings of some of our novelists, it is true, we find a considerable
amount of this species of information, but it is for the most part
rendered subservient only to the entertainment of the reader, and
not in every case calculated for his edification. The writings of
Fielding, Smollett, Cervantes, and Le Sage, with many others of more
modern date, amongst which I may mention those of Mr. Charles Dickens,
abound in judicious reflections on men and manners, and discover no
little penetration into character and mind. After all, however, there
is an evident deficiency in published or recognised information of this
kind; and hence the surprise or affected surprise with which it is
common to view what are called the _inconsistencies_ of human nature.
That certain infirmities of mind are not incompatible with genius, it
may be common to admit; but when we approach the subject closer, we
shall find the poetic temperament, more frequently than not, clouded
with insanity or touched with perversity. The same bright spirit which
rejoices in the sunshine of nature is not less sensitive of the gloom.
There is often a foreboding of evil, and often the imagination will
heighten the calamities which are really present, until a thousand
heart-rending associations grow up in the fertility of the mind.
The consideration of the human mind, then, in what may be called its
medical aspects, seems to me one which has not yet sufficiently engaged
the general attention of mankind; and I wish on the present occasion to
bring it before your notice, as a subject which is neither devoid of
interest, nor wanting in utility.
The effect of temperament may first claim our attention. I shall not,
however, confine myself to the divisions which strictly medical writers
have formed on this subject, reserving to myself the freedom of the
popular acceptation of the word.
The constitution of the body as to its bulk and general aspect, as
well seen in the countenance as in the conformation of other parts, is
known to be connected with accompanying peculiarities of mind which
are of every day observation. There is an asperity in the countenance
and figure of some people which immediately strikes us, and we feel a
sort of intuitive dislike. There are others whose open countenance and
portly bearing tell at once of generous feelings and easy dispositions.
Every one remembers the passage in the play of Julius Cæsar:--
“Would he were fatter; but I fear him not,--
Yet if my name were _liable_ to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that _spare_ Cassius.”
The Sanguine Temperament, as the very name implies, is characterised by
a constitution in which the blood-vessels are predominant; the face is
red, and easily flushed, the complexion often light; the temper hasty,
the actions quick. Those who have this temperament in a marked form,
often act by impulse; they are restless, and have difficulty in waiting
for the result of their undertakings. The mind is often too easily
excited to allow of a proper operation of its workings; the ideas flow
too quickly, and in a little while become confused. Such persons, when
called upon in exciting circumstances, become embarrassed,--are what
they call nervous, and lose self-possession--or act to disadvantage.
The character of Peter in the sacred writings gives us a good example
of this sanguine temper: we find him saying to his Lord, “Though all
men shall be offended because of thee, yet I will never be offended;
I will lay down my life for thy sake:” and again; “though I die with
thee, yet will I not deny thee.” But, as in many other sanguine people,
the feeling wanted the support of a steady equanimity. When Jesus was
betrayed, and Peter found himself accused of being in his company, he
denied any knowledge of him; and when he found that he was known by his
accent, (“surely thou also art one of them, for thy speech betrayeth
thee,”) “he began to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man.”
Such is often the fate of the warm protestations of sanguine people.
The emotion which attends the expression of their sentiments gives the
complexion to them whilst it exists, but it is not enduring, and is
succeeded by other emotions, which, for the time, overcome the better
feelings of the heart. This sanguine temperament gives what we call
the generous character; the warmth of temper which, in moderation,
we rather admire as heightening the affections, and giving joy and
gladness: but it has also its sorrows and its errors.--There is the
quick resentment and the passionate grief, and these are the dark
aspects which are full of tears and lamentation. Hamlet, you know, says
to Horatio:--
“Give me the man that is not passion’s slave,
And I will wear him in my heart’s core;
Aye, in my heart of hearts, as I do thee.”
In sanguine people, the train of thoughts appears to be much quicker
than in others. This is attended with certain advantages, but
corresponding disadvantages. Such minds are imaginative--what is called
ingenious. The associations are not too strong to forbid erratic
thoughts; relations are often readily perceived, but there is less
exactness. The memory is, perhaps, less retentive, and the speed of
the thoughts leads often to confusion. They crowd on one another until
indistinctness arises. This indistinctness is sometimes painful.
This kind of mind is what is called passionate; hence the term _hasty_,
which may be well used as indicative of a too rapid procession of
thoughts. The mind cannot well operate in this hurried state. The ideas
flash across, but they light up too fiercely a train of associations to
admit the suggestions of other minds.
The brain is, perhaps, over sensitive, and its powers too readily
exhausted, and too intense whilst in operation.
The Lymphatic Temperament is quite the reverse of the sanguine. Those
who have this temperament are not easily moved, or excited; the skin
is pale. Such persons are better calculated to undergo anxieties, or
meet the exigencies of sudden emergencies. The mind has not those
quick sympathies, or brilliant imaginings, which distinguish a warmer
temperament.
There is a steady, cool calculation, which is more adapted to worldly
prosperity; feelings less readily wounded, and less apt to betray
themselves in the excitement of life. Some possess this in a surprising
degree, and many assume it. Many cover a natural sensibility by the
forms and usages which polite life has invented, and studiously avoid
showing the natural burst of affection, or the bitter outpourings of
grief.
It is well, in some degree, that this should be done; but let not
nature be altogether destroyed, and all the fine sensibilities crushed,
under an artful and sophisticated mannerism.
There is a story told of a cockney, who visited the beautiful and
romantic scenery of the Alps, and being asked his impression of a
sublime prospect, which suddenly burst on his view, said, that he must
confess “_it was a well got up thing_.” This is the school of fashion,
which gives us two fingers to touch as a welcome, after the absence of
as many years.
In some, the operations of the mind are so slow that they seem
to stagnate, and pass into reverie. The extreme of this condition
lapses into a state of imbecility and fatuity; but a certain degree
of apathy has its advantages. The mind has time to act; there is no
overcrowding of ideas--no hurry of thought. There is more continuance
of application--less impatience of consideration. The _affections_
do not trouble the operations of the mind. There are not those quick
sympathies which have relations with every thing that passes.
There are some people, again, in whose constitution the nervous
system seems to have an unnatural preponderance; the mind seems to be
constantly in a restless state, and to wear out the body in a ceaseless
activity, or in the struggles of overweening ambition. Such characters
are ever pressing on in the competition of social life; often a prey
to cares and anxieties, which follow each other in a never-ending
succession. “_After life’s fitful fever_,” they indeed “_sleep well_.”
Hypochondriacal feelings are, no doubt, in a great measure, connected
with constitution or temperament. Melancholy is much more common than
is generally conceived, and may be, as I have already hinted, perhaps
in some degree inseparable from a mind which highly appreciates the
beautiful, has quick sympathies with all around, and a thoughtful
regard to the possibilities, and even probabilities of a changing
world. On this account it has always been considered by the poets as
a poetic feeling, and though this view may have attracted the sneers
of some, or the ridicule of others, there is a certain truth in the
opinion. Ben Jonson alludes to this notion, with respect to melancholy,
as an accompaniment of sensibility, in his “_Every Man in his Humour_.”
“_Stephen._ Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.
“_Matthew._ Oh! it’s your only fine humour, sir; your true
melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself
divers times, sir; and then do I no more but take pen and paper
presently, and overflow your half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a
sitting.”--Act III., Scene 1.
Again:--
“_Ed. Knowall_.... What think you of this, coz?
“_Stephen._ Why, I do think of it; and I will be more proud and
melancholy and gentlemanlike than I have been, I’ll insure you.”--Act
I., Scene 2.
In Scott’s “Diary” (May, 1827,) he says:--“Imagination renders us the
victim of occasional low spirits. All belonging to this gifted, as
it is called, but often unhappy class, must have felt, but for the
dictates of religion, or the natural recoil of the mind from the idea
of dissolution, there have been times when they would have been willing
to throw away life, as a child does a broken toy. I am sure I know one
who has often felt so.”
A disposition to melancholy is by no means, as might at first be
imagined, necessarily indicated by a grave and staid deportment.
In a large proportion of instances, it is even coupled with an
exuberance of spirits, which would seem to promise a perpetual sunshine
of cheerfulness.
The mind, however, which is alive to joy, is also, and perhaps
equally, alive to sorrow; and often passes by quick transitions from
the one to the other.
Our great dramatist, in mingling the ludicrous with the tragic, has
evidently shown his acquaintance with this tendency of the human mind.
Byron has happily blended in some of his most successful passages the
sublime and the ridiculous, thereby greatly heightening the effect of
both. In his “_Corsair_,” however, he has directly touched upon this
peculiarity of the mind, where he says--
“Strange though it seem, yet with extremest grief
Is linked a mirth,--it doth not bring relief.
That playfulness of sorrow ne’er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness,--but still it smiles.”
In Dr. Currie’s Life of Burns, allusion is made to the combination of
melancholy and gaiety in the character of that extraordinary poet.
Notwithstanding the gaiety of Burns’ writings, he was constitutionally
a melancholy man, and was subject “to those depressions of mind, which
are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, but
which, in him, arose to an uncommon degree.” ... “Such a disposition
is far from being at variance with social enjoyments. Those who
have studied the affinities of mind, know that a melancholy of this
description after a while seeks relief in the endearments of society,
and that it has no distant connexion with the flow of cheerfulness, or
even the extravagance of mirth.”[29]
In a letter from Sir Walter Scott to his daughter in-law, the following
mention is made of Matthews, the comedian. “I am glad you like my old
acquaintance, Matthews. Some day I will make him show his talent for
your amusement in private--for I know him well. It is very odd--he is
often subject to fits of deep melancholy.”[30]
From these cursory remarks on melancholy, I may proceed to speak of
some particular states of mind, which attend the same peculiarity of
temperament, and though not incompatible with mental sanity, are yet
to be considered as bordering upon derangement.
Some of the illustrations I shall bring forward are from works of
poetry, but may be considered, nevertheless, as expressive of actual
facts, because I have scrupulously avoided making use of them where the
subject had need of graver support; so that in effect they are rather
introduced to relieve and exemplify the matter, than to substantiate
it. The curious feelings to which I allude, exist in various degrees of
intensity in different people. They cannot be considered as common to
everybody, and are far more frequent or powerful in the imaginative and
eccentric, than in others. Yet I should conceive that they prevail to a
greater extent than is commonly supposed.
Amongst this class of feelings may be placed the disposition which is
sometimes manifested by those who stand on precipitous cliffs to cast
themselves down. This seems suggested by a kind of insane impulse,
which is dreaded by the very person who indulges it.
Scott beautifully alludes to such a feeling in “The Lady of the Lake.”
“There are, who have at midnight hour,
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower,
And on the verge that beetled o’er
The ocean tides incessant roar,
Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream,
Till wakened by the morning beam;
When dazzled by the eastern glow,
Such startler cast his glance below,
And saw unmeasured depths around,
And heard unintermitted sound,
And thought the battled fence so frail,
It waved like cobweb in the gale;
Amid his senses giddy wheel
Did he not desperate impulse feel
Headlong to plunge himself below,
And meet the worst his fears foreshow?”