Man has been somewhere described as a “bundle of sensations;” and
certainly if ever sensations were capable of being packed together, they
would make a bundle, and a good large one too. I am not a physiologist,
or even a doctor, so cannot pretend to speak very learnedly on this
subject: but as we all in common have “our sensations,” he must be rather
a dull fellow, I should think, who would have nothing to say when they
were laid upon the table for discussion. Even if he were a Jew, he might
repeat with Shylock, “Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions?” and so on.
When one considers the amazing number and variety of the feelings, or
perceptions arising out of impressions on the senses, of which we are
capable, we discover a new and interesting proof that we are indeed
“fearfully and wonderfully made.” I was struck by this fact the other
day, on hearing a young medical student say that he had been reading a
“descriptive catalogue” of “pains,” which had been made out with great
care for the use of the profession. People, when going to consult a
physician, are often at a loss to describe the manner in which they
are affected, and particularly the nature and character of the painful
sensation that afflicts them. To assist them in this respect, and the
physician in obtaining a correct idea of the case, this catalogue was
made out, and highly useful I think it must be for the proposed end.
The patient may thus readily meet with something answering to his own
case, and lay his finger on the classification that suits him. I am
sorry I have not the list by me, for I am sure it would be a curious
novelty to many. There are however in it the “dull, aching pain,” the
“sharp pricking pain,” the pendulum-like “going-and-returning pain,”
the “throbbing pain,” the “flying-to-the-head and sickening pain,” the
hot-scalding or burning pain, the pins and needles or nettle pain, pains
deep seated and pains superficial, and, in short, an infinite variety,
made out with nice discrimination, and all taken, I dare say, from life.
None indeed could have drawn it out but one who had studied in some
lazar-house, wherein, as Milton describes,
“were laid
Numbers of all diseased; all maladies
Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture; qualms
Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds;
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs--
Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs”--&c., &c.
There is a variety in _pain_, then, as well as in every thing else;
but it is a variety in which few, I believe, ever found a “charm”
experimentally. But there is a special wonder in the matter which forces
us to exclaim, “What a piece of workmanship is man!” We are here speaking
of sensations, or of perceptions arising from our bodily structure; and
to these perceptions it is plainly necessary that there should be a
chain of communication between the part of the body affected, and the
sensorium, or seat of perception in the brain. I remember being amused
with the surprise of an intelligent little girl, who complained of a sore
finger, and a pain “in the finger,” on hearing for the first time that
the pain was _not_ “in her finger,” but in _her own perception of it_. It
seemed a contradiction to her immediate experience; but on being shown
that the pain she felt ceased when the nervous communication between
the finger and the brain was interrupted, which could be easily done by
a ligature placed above the part affected, she readily understood the
distinction sought to be conveyed to her mind, namely, the difference
between a diseased action in any part of the body, and our painful
perception of its existence. There must be a “nerve” to “telegraph” the
fact to the mind, otherwise the fact would not be consciously known.
Well, then, this being the case, only consider what an infinite number
of these nerves there must be in the human body, merely for the purpose
of conveying _disagreeable_ impressions, or what I may call _bad_
news, to _head_-quarters! They are very useful, it is true; but like
other messengers of unpleasant intelligence, not much in favour. It is
dangerous, however, to do them any harm. My readers have heard perhaps
of the farrier who used to cure lame horses so rapidly, that he was
the astonishment of all who consulted him. A horse would be brought to
him scarce putting his toe to the ground, limping and shambling in a
miserable manner, and, as if by magic, this veterinary artist would send
him trotting off to all appearance quite cured. His secret consisted
in dividing the nerve, or, as I may say, slaying the messenger of evil:
the consequence of which was, that the poor horse, no longer conscious
of the malady in his hoof, leaned heavily upon it, and ultimately became
incurably lamed for life.
So much as to our sensations of _pain_. But fortunately for us there
is another class, and this comprising, according to some, a family
very nearly if not altogether as numerous--I mean our sensations of
the pleasurable kind. “Man,” saith the Scripture, “roasteth roast, and
is satisfied: yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, Aha, I am warm, I
have seen the fire.” This includes the comforts of a good dinner, and
a cheerful fire-side on a winter’s evening, and most people will agree
with me these are no bad things, especially with a group of happy smiling
faces about us. The inlets to our agreeable perceptions are certainly not
so numerous as those to the opposite kind, as we are approachable by pain
from every part of the body without exception, but it is otherwise with
our “notions of the agreeable.” However, they can reach us in tolerable
abundance through the eye, the ear, the taste (including the smell),
and the touch. It may be as well to record here, for the benefit of
posterity--as with the rapid increase of railroads, and other improved
modes of travelling and living in these days, it stands a chance of being
forgotten hereafter--that to one who has been up all night in a close
coach, “four inside,” or has dined at a Lord’s Mayor’s inauguration
dinner, partaking largely of the good things, the warm bath is a highly
agreeable and efficacious restorative, and that he is indebted in this
case to the entire envelope of his epidermis, and not to any one part
in particular, for the pleasing sensation he experiences. There are
other modes of exciting the pleasurable on this wholesale plan, such as
shampooing, as it is practised in the east, and suddenly plunging into
the snow after stewing in vapour, as they do in Russia, and so on; but
as I have never myself been “done” by any of these processes, I do not
take upon me to recommend them. I am not an advocate for tickling. The
laughter which it excites is one to which we give way with reluctance,
and its pleasure is equivocal. I have seen poor children tickled nearly
to death, and feel a great horror of that mode of making my exit from all
the consciousnesses that belong to this mortal coil.
As to the innumerable sensations of agreeableness which we may receive
through the eye, including all that may be seen--the ear encompassing
all the concords of sweet sounds--the warbling of birds--the voice of
the beloved, and all the melody of song--through the taste, with all its
varieties--what gives to the peach its melting richness?--to generous
wine its elevating gentlemanliness of flavour?--to meats, soups, and
sauces, all their delicious gusto?--to the rose its sweetness?--to the
cinnamon tree and the orange grove their spicy fragrance? Whence come
all the delightful visions of the opium-eater? He lives whilst under the
influence of the drug in a world of ecstacy: his soul teems with the most
pleasing fancies; all around him is soft and soothing; whatever he sees
or hears, ministers to delight.
If you have never lit your cigar as you sallied forth with dog and gun on
a fine December morning, let me tell you, gentle reader, that you have
missed a sensation worth getting up to enjoy. But not to lose ourselves
in a wilderness of sweets, or to forget our great argument, what is
the immediate cause of all these so agreeable effects? Why, a peculiar
organization of our bodies, fitted to receive every imaginable impression
from without, whether of the painful or the agreeable kind, and to
transmit that impression, when received, to the seat of perception within.
We call it the nervous system; and what I would beg my readers to
consider is, how wonderful, how curious, above all comprehension or
explanation, that apparatus in our construction must be, to which we owe
such an infinite variety of sensations, and those of the most opposite
kinds! It baffles the skill of the anatomist to unveil its mysteries: no
needle can trace its ligaments; yet it is a real, substantial thing, of
whose existence we have perfect assurance by the very palpable effects
which it produces.
Thus much for our different and various sensations arising from outward
impressions; but there is yet a third class, in which, by a sort of
reflection, our nerves perform an important function, and transmit the
action begun in the _mind_ to the _seat of emotion_, or the soul. Hence
the joy of the mathematician at the discovery of some important problem,
or of the poet at hitting upon some long-sought-for rhyme with answering
metre. In such cases the mind, or pure intellect, _originates_, and the
body “takes the signal” from it. There is a reciprocity between them,
and it is well when, like some loving couples, they dwell on good terms
together. When, happily, this is the case, there is much peace “at home:”
the senses do not seek for gratifications which the mind disapproves, and
the mind does not apply to them for pleasures which are forbidden.
However, I shall not enter upon this further disquisition--highly
interesting though it be--at present, but shall reserve it in order that
we may resume it with due deliberation, and do it that justice which it
so well deserves, at another opportunity.