_THE POSITION OF LIFE._
211. We have hitherto confined ourselves almost entirely to a
discussion of the laws of energy, as these affect inanimate matter,
and have taken little or no account of the position of life. We have
been content very much to remain spectators of the contest, apparently
forgetful that we are at all concerned in the issue. But the conflict
is not one which admits of on-lookers,--it is a universal conflict in
which we must all take our share. It may not, therefore, be amiss if we
endeavour to ascertain, as well as we can, our true position.
_Twofold nature of Equilibrium._
212. One of our earliest mechanical lessons is on the twofold nature
of equilibrium. We are told that this may be of two kinds, _stable_
and _unstable_, and a very good illustration of these two kinds is
furnished by an egg. Let us take a smooth level table, and place an egg
upon it; we all know in what manner the egg will lie on the table.
It will remain at rest, that is to say, it will be in equilibrium;
and not only so, but it will be in stable equilibrium. To prove
this, let us try to displace it with our finger, and we shall find
that when we remove the pressure the egg will speedily return to its
previous position, and will come to rest after one or two oscillations.
Furthermore, it has required a sensible expenditure of energy to
displace the egg. All this we express by saying that the egg is in
stable equilibrium.
_Mechanical Instability._
213. And now let us try to balance the egg upon its longer axis.
Probably, a sufficient amount of care will enable us to achieve this
also. But the operation is a difficult one, and requires great delicacy
of touch, and even after we have succeeded we do not know how long
our success may last. The slightest impulse from without, the merest
breath of air, may be sufficient to overturn the egg, which is now most
evidently in unstable equilibrium. If the egg be thus balanced at the
very edge of the table, it is quite probable that in a few minutes it
may topple over upon the floor; it is what we may call _an even chance_
whether it will do so, or merely fall upon the table. Not that mere
chance has anything to do with it, or that its movements are without
a cause, but we mean that its movements are decided by some external
impulse so exceedingly small as to be utterly beyond our powers of
observation. In fact, before making the trial we have carefully
removed everything like a current of air, or want of level, or external
impulse of any kind, so that when the egg falls we are completely
unable to assign the origin of the impulse that has caused it to do so.
214. Now, if the egg happens to fall over the table upon the floor,
there is a somewhat considerable transmutation of energy; for the
energy of position of the egg, due to the height which it occupied
on the table, has all at once been changed into energy of motion, in
the first place, and into heat in the second, when the egg comes into
contact with the floor.
If, however, the egg happens to fall upon the table, the transmutation
of energy is comparatively small.
It thus appears that it depends upon some external impulse, so
infinitesimally small as to elude our observation, whether the egg
shall fall upon the floor and give rise to a comparatively large
transmutation of energy, or whether it shall fall upon the table and
give rise to a transmutation comparatively small.
_Chemical Instability._
215. We thus see that a body, or system, in unstable equilibrium may
become subject to a very considerable transmutation of energy, arising
out of a very small cause, or antecedent. In the case now mentioned,
the force is that of gravitation, the arrangement being one of visible
mechanical instability. But we may have a substance, or system, in
which the force at work is not gravity, but chemical affinity, and the
substance, or system, may, under certain peculiar conditions, become
_chemically unstable_.
When a substance is chemically unstable, it means that the slightest
impulse of any kind may determine a chemical change, just as in the
case of the egg the slightest impulse from without occasioned a
mechanical displacement.
In fine, a substance, or system, chemically unstable bears a relation
to chemical affinity somewhat similar to that which a mechanically
unstable system bears to gravity. Gunpowder is a familiar instance
of a chemically unstable substance. Here the slightest spark may
prove the precursor of a sudden chemical change, accompanied by the
instantaneous and violent generation of a vast volume of heated gas.
The various explosive compounds, such as gun-cotton, nitro-glycerine,
the fulminates, and many more, are all instances of structures which
are chemically unstable.
_Machines are of two kinds._
216. When we speak of a structure, or a machine, or a system, we simply
mean a number of individual particles associated together in producing
some definite result. Thus, the solar system, a timepiece, a rifle,
are examples of inanimate machines; while an animal, a human being,
an army, are examples of animated structures or machines. Now, such
machines or structures are of two kinds, which differ from one another
not only in the object sought, but also in the means of attaining that
object.
217. In the first place, we have structures or machines in which
systematic action is the object aimed at, and in which all the
arrangements are of a conservative nature, the element of instability
being avoided as much as possible. The solar system, a timepiece,
a steam-engine at work, are examples of such machines, and the
characteristic of all such is their _calculability_. Thus the skilled
astronomer can tell, with the utmost precision, in what place the
moon or the planet Venus will be found this time next year. Or again,
the excellence of a timepiece consists in its various hands pointing
accurately in a certain direction after a certain interval of time. In
like manner we may safely count upon a steamship making so many knots
an hour, at least while the outward conditions remain the same. In all
these cases we make our calculations, and we are not deceived--the end
sought is regularity of action, and the means employed is a stable
arrangement of the forces of nature.
218. Now, the characteristics of the other class of machines are
precisely the reverse.
Here the object aimed at is not a regular, but a sudden and violent
transmutation of energy, while the means employed are unstable
arrangements of natural forces. A rifle at full cock, with a
delicate hair-trigger, is a very good instance of such a machine,
where the slightest touch from without may bring about the explosion
of the gunpowder, and the propulsion of the ball with a very great
velocity. Now, such machines are eminently characterized by their
_incalculability_.
219. To make our meaning clear, let us suppose that two sportsmen
go out hunting together, each with a good rifle and a good pocket
chronometer. After a hard day’s work, the one turns to his companion
and says:--“It is now six o’clock by my watch; we had better rest
ourselves,” upon which the other looks at his watch, and he would be
very much surprised and exceedingly indignant with the maker, if he did
not find it six o’clock also. Their chronometers are evidently in the
same state, and have been doing the same thing; but what about their
rifles? Given the condition of the one rifle, is it possible by any
refinement of calculation to deduce that of the other? We feel at once
that the bare supposition is ridiculous.
220. It is thus apparent that, as regards energy, structures are
of two kinds. In one of these, the object sought is regularity of
action, and the means employed, a stable arrangement of natural
forces: while in the other, the end sought is freedom of action, and a
sudden transmutation of energy, the means employed being an unstable
arrangement of natural forces.
The one set of machines are characterized by their calculability--the
other by their incalculability. The one set, when at work, are not
easily put wrong, while the other set are characterized by great
delicacy of construction.
_An Animal is a delicately-constructed Machine._
221. But perhaps the reader may object to our use of the rifle as an
illustration.
For although it is undoubtedly a delicately-constructed machine, yet
a rifle does not represent the same surpassing delicacy as that, for
instance, which characterizes an egg balanced on its longer axis. Even
if at full cock, and with a hair trigger, we may be perfectly certain
it will not go off of its own accord. Although its object is to produce
a sudden and violent transmutation of energy, yet this requires to be
preceded by the application of an amount of energy, however small, to
the trigger, and if this be not spent upon the rifle, it will not go
off. There is, no doubt, delicacy of construction, but this has not
risen to the height of incalculability, and it is only when in the
hands of the sportsman that it becomes a machine upon the condition of
which we cannot calculate.
Now, in making this remark, we define the position of the sportsman
himself in the Universe of Energy.
The rifle is delicately constructed, but not surpassingly so; but
sportsman and rifle, together, form a machine of surpassing delicacy,
_ergo_ the sportsman himself is such a machine. We thus begin to
perceive that a human being, or indeed an animal of any kind, is
in truth a machine of a delicacy that is practically infinite, the
condition or motions of which we are utterly unable to predict.
In truth, is there not a transparent absurdity in the very thought that
a man may become able to calculate his own movements, or even those of
his fellow?
_Life is like the Commander of an Army._
222. Let us now introduce another analogy--let us suppose that a war
is being carried on by a vast army, at the head of which there is a
very great commander. Now, this commander knows too well to expose
his person; in truth, he is never seen by any of his subordinates. He
remains at work in a well-guarded room, from which telegraphic wires
lead to the headquarters of the various divisions. He can thus, by
means of these wires, transmit his orders to the generals of these
divisions, and by the same means receive back information as to the
condition of each.
Thus his headquarters become a centre, into which all information is
poured, and out of which all commands are issued.
Now, that mysterious thing called life, about the nature of which we
know so little, is probably not unlike such a commander. Life is not
a bully, who swaggers out into the open universe, upsetting the laws
of energy in all directions, but rather a consummate strategist, who,
sitting in his secret chamber, before his wires, directs the movements
of a great army.[10]
223. Let us next suppose that our imaginary army is in rapid march, and
let us try to find out the cause of this movement. We find that, in the
first place, orders to march have been issued to the troops under them
by the commanders of each regiment. In the next place, we learn that
staff officers, attached to the generals of the various divisions, have
conveyed these orders to the regimental commanders; and, finally, we
learn that the order to march has been telegraphed from headquarters to
these various generals.
Descending now to ourselves, it is probably somewhere in the mysterious
and well-guarded brain-chamber that the delicate directive touch is
given which determines our movements. This chamber forms, as it were,
the headquarters of the general in command, who is so well withdrawn as
to be absolutely invisible to all his subordinates.
224. Joule, Carpenter, and Mayer were at an early period aware of the
restrictions under which animals are placed by the laws of energy,
and in virtue of which the power of an animal, as far as energy is
concerned, is not creative, but only directive. It was seen that, in
order to do work, an animal must be fed; and, even at a still earlier
period, Count Rumford remarked that a ton of hay will be administered
more economically by feeding a horse with it, and then getting work out
of the horse, than by burning it as fuel in an engine.
225. In this chapter, the same line of thought has been carried
out a little further. We have seen that life is associated with
delicately-constructed machines, so that whenever a transmutation of
energy is brought about by a living being, could we trace the event
back, we should find that the physical antecedent was probably a much
less transmutation, while again the antecedent of this would probably
be found still less, and so on, as far as we could trace it.
226. But with all this, we do not pretend to have discovered the true
nature of life itself, or even the true nature of its relation to the
material universe.
What we have ventured is the assertion that, as far as we can judge,
life is always associated with machinery of a certain kind, in virtue
of which an extremely delicate directive touch is ultimately magnified
into a very considerable transmutation of energy. Indeed, we can hardly
imagine the freedom of motion implied in life to exist apart from
machinery possessed of very great delicacy of construction.
In fine, we have not succeeded in solving the problem as to the true
nature of life, but have only driven the difficulty into a borderland
of thick darkness, into which the light of knowledge has not yet been
able to penetrate.
_Organized Tissues are subject to Decay._
227. We have thus learned two things, for, in the first place, we
have learned that life is associated with delicacy of construction,
and in the next (Art. 220), that delicacy of construction implies
an unstable arrangement of natural forces. We have now to remark
that the particular force which is thus used by living beings is
chemical affinity. Our bodies are, in truth, examples of an unstable
arrangement of chemical forces, and the materials which composed them,
if not liable to sudden explosion, like fulminating powder, are yet
preeminently the subjects of decay.
228. Now, this is more than a mere general statement; it is a truth
that admits of degrees, and in virtue of which those parts of our
bodies which have, during life, the noblest and most delicate office to
perform, are the very first to perish when life is extinct.
“Oh! o’er the eye death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light;
Sinks those blue orbs in their long last eclipse,
But spares us yet the charm around the lips.”
So speaks the poet, and we have here an aspect of things in which the
lament of the poet becomes the true interpretation of nature.
_Difference between Animals and Inanimate Machines._
229. We are now able to recognize the difference between the relations
to energy of a living being, such as man, and a machine, such as a
steam-engine.
There are many points in common between the two. Both require to be
fed, and in both there is the transmutation of the energy of chemical
separation implied in fuel and food into that of heat and visible
motion.
But while the one--the engine--requires for its maintenance only
carbon, or some other variety of chemical separation, the other--the
living being--demands to be supplied with organized tissue. In fact,
that delicacy of construction which is so essential to our well-being,
is not something which we can elaborate internally in our own
frames--all that we can do is to appropriate and assimilate that which
comes to us from without; it is already present in the food which we
eat.
_Ultimate Dependence of Life upon the Sun._
230. We have already (Art. 203) been led to recognize the sun as the
ultimate material source of all the energy which we possess, and we
must now regard him as the source likewise of all our delicacy of
construction. It requires the energy of his high temperature rays so to
wield and manipulate the powerful forces of chemical affinity; so to
balance these various forces against each other, as to produce in the
vegetable something which will afford our frames, not only energy, but
also delicacy of construction.
Low temperature heat would be utterly unable to accomplish this; it
consists of ethereal vibrations which are not sufficiently rapid, and
of waves that are not sufficiently short, for the purpose of shaking
asunder the constituents of compound molecules.
231. It thus appears that animals are, in more ways than one,
pensioners upon the sun’s bounty; and those instances, which at first
sight appear to be exceptions, will, if studied sufficiently, only
serve to confirm the rule.
Thus the recent researches of Dr. Carpenter and Professor Wyville
Thomson have disclosed to us the existence of minute living beings in
the deepest parts of the ocean, into which we may be almost sure no
solar ray can penetrate. How, then, do these minute creatures obtain
that energy and delicacy of construction without which they cannot
live? in other words, how are they fed?
Now, the same naturalists who discovered the existence of these
creatures, have recently furnished us with a very probable explanation
of the mystery. They think it highly probable that the whole ocean
contains in it organic matter to a very small but yet perceptible
extent, forming, as they express it, a sort of diluted soup, which thus
becomes the food of these minute creatures.
232. In conclusion, we are dependent upon the sun and centre of our
system, not only for the mere energy of our frames, but also for our
delicacy of construction--the future of our race depends upon the sun’s
future. But we have seen that the sun must have had a beginning, and
that he will have an end.
We are thus induced to generalize still further, and regard, not only
our own system, but the whole material universe when viewed with
respect to serviceable energy, as essentially evanescent, and as
embracing a succession of physical events which cannot go on for ever
as they are.
But here at length we come to matters beyond our grasp; for physical
science cannot inform us what must have been before the beginning, nor
yet can it tell us what will take place after the end.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] _See_ an article on “The Position of Life,” by the author of this
work, in conjunction with Mr. J. N. Lockyer, “Macmillan’s Magazine,”
September, 1868; also a lecture on “The Recent Developments of Cosmical
Physics,” by the author of this work.
APPENDIX.
CORRELATION OF VITAL WITH CHEMICAL AND
PHYSICAL FORCES.
BY JOSEPH LE CONTE,
PROFESSOR OF GEOLOGY AND NATURAL HISTORY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA.
CORRELATION OF VITAL WITH CHEMICAL AND PHYSICAL FORCES.
Vital force; whence is it derived? What is its relation to the other
forces of Nature? The answer of modern science to these questions is:
It is derived from the lower forces of Nature; it is related to other
forces much as these are related to each other--it is correlated with
chemical and physical forces.
At one time matter was supposed to be destructible. By combustion or
by evaporation matter seemed to be consumed--to pass out of existence;
but now we know it only changes its form from the solid or liquid to
the gaseous condition--from the visible to the invisible--and that,
amid all these changes, the same quantity of matter remains. Creation
or destruction of matter, increase or diminution of matter, lies beyond
the domain of Science; her domain is confined entirely to the changes
of matter. Now, it is the doctrine of modern science that the same is
true of force. Force seems often to be annihilated. Two cannon-balls
of equal size and velocity meet each other and fall motionless. The
immense energy of these moving bodies seems to pass out of existence.
But not so; it is changed into heat, and the exact amount of heat may
be calculated; moreover, an equal amount of heat may be changed back
again into an equal amount of momentum. Here, therefore, force is not
lost, but is changed from a visible to an invisible form. Motion is
changed from bodily motion into molecular motion. Thus heat, light,
electricity, magnetism, chemical affinity, and mechanical force, are
transmutable into each other, back and forth; but, amid all these
changes, the amount of force remains unchanged. Force is incapable of
destruction, except by the same power which created it. The domain
of Science lies within the limits of these changes--creation and
annihilation lie outside of her domain.
The mutual convertibility of forces into each other is called
_correlation of forces_; the persistence of the same amount, amid all
these protean forms, is called _conservation of force_.[11]
The correlation of physical forces with each other and with chemical
force is now universally acknowledged and somewhat clearly conceived.
The correlation of vital force with these is not universally
acknowledged, and, where acknowledged, is only imperfectly conceived.
In 1859 I published a paper[12] in which I attempted to put the idea of
correlation of vital force with chemical and physical forces in a more
definite and scientific form. The views expressed in that paper have
been generally adopted by physiologists. Since the publication of the
paper referred to, the subject has lain in my mind, and grown at least
somewhat. I propose, therefore, now to reëmbody my views in a more
popular form, with such additions as have occurred to me since.
There are four planes of material existence, which may be represented
as raised one above another. These are: 1. The plane of elementary
existence; 2. The plane of chemical compounds, or mineral kingdom;
3. The plane of vegetable existence; and, 4. The plane of animal
existence. Their relations to each other are truly expressed by writing
them one above the other, thus:
I may sometimes use the word energy instead. If any one should charge
me with want of precision in language, my answer is: Our language
cannot be more precise until our ideas in this department are far
clearer than now.
4. _Animal Kingdom._
3. _Vegetable Kingdom._
2. _Mineral Kingdom._
1. _Elements._
Now, it is a remarkable fact that there is a special force, whose
function it is to raise matter from each plane to the plane above,
and to execute movements on the latter. Thus, it is the function
of chemical affinity alone to raise matter from No. 1 to No. 2, as
well as to execute all the movements, back and forth, by action and
reaction; in a word, to produce all the phenomena on No. 2 which
together constitute the science of chemistry. It is the prerogative
of vegetable life-force alone to lift matter from No. 2 to No. 3, as
well as to execute all the movements on that plane, which together
constitute the science of vegetable physiology. It is the prerogative
of animal life-force alone to lift matter from No. 3 to No. 4, and to
preside over the movements on this plane, which together constitute the
science of animal physiology. But there is no force in Nature capable
of raising matter at once from No. 1 to No. 3, or from No. 2 to No. 4,
without stopping and receiving an accession of force, of a different
kind, on the intermediate plane. Plants cannot feed upon elements, but
only on chemical compounds; animals cannot feed on minerals, but only
on vegetables. We shall see in the sequel that this is the necessary
result of the principle of conservation of force in vital phenomena.
It is well known that atoms, in a nascent state--i. e., at the moment
of their separation from previous combination--are endowed with
peculiar and powerful affinity. Oxygen and nitrogen, nitrogen and
hydrogen, hydrogen and carbon, which show no affinity for each other
under ordinary circumstances, readily unite when one or both are in a
nascent condition. The reason seems to be that, when the elements of
a compound are torn asunder, the chemical affinity which previously
bound them together is set free, ready and eager to unite the nascent
elements with whatever they come in contact with. This state of exalted
chemical energy is retained but a little while, because it is liable
to be changed into some other form of force, probably heat, and is
therefore no longer chemical energy. To illustrate by the planes:
matter falling down from No. 2 to No. 1 generates force by which matter
is lifted from No. 1 to No. 2. Decomposition generates the force by
which combination is effected. This principle underlies every thing I
shall further say.
There are, therefore, two ideas or principles underlying this paper:
1. The correlation of vital with physical and chemical forces; 2.
That in all cases _vital force is produced by decomposition_--is
transformed nascent affinity. Neither of these is new. Grove, many
years ago, brought out, in a vague manner, the idea that vital force
was correlated with chemical and physical forces.[13] In 1848 Dr.
Freke, M. R. I. A., of Dublin, first advanced the idea that vital force
of animal life was generated by decomposition. In 1851 the same idea
was brought out again by Dr. Watters, of St. Louis. These papers were
unknown to me when I wrote my article. They have been sent to me in the
last few years by their respective authors. Neither of these authors,
however, extends this principle to vegetation, the most fundamental
and most important phenomenon of life. In 1857 the same idea was again
brought out by Prof. Henry, of the Smithsonian Institution, and by him
extended to vegetation. I do not, therefore, now claim to have first
advanced this idea, but I do claim to have in some measure rescued it
from vagueness, and given it a clearer and more scientific form.
I wish now to apply these principles in the explanation of the most
important phenomena of vegetable and animal life:
1. VEGETATION.--The most important phenomenon in the life-history of
a plant--in fact, the starting-point of all life, both vegetable and
animal--is the formation of organic matter in the leaves. The necessary
conditions for this wonderful change of mineral into organic matter
seem to be, sunlight, chlorophyl, and living protoplasm, or bioplasm.
This is the phenomenon I wish now to discuss.
The plastic matters of which vegetable structure is built are of
two kinds--amyloids and albuminoids. The amyloids, or starch and
sugar groups, consist of C, H, and O; the albuminoids of C, H, O,
N, and a little S and P. The quantity of sulphur and phosphorus is
very small, and we will neglect them in this discussion. The food
out of which these substances are elaborated are, CO₂, H₂O,
and H_{3}N--carbonic acid, water, and ammonia. Now, by the agency of
sunlight in the presence of chlorophyl and bioplasm, these chemical
compounds (CO₂, H₂O, and H_{3}N) are torn asunder, or shaken
asunder, or decomposed; the excess of O, or of O and H, is rejected,
and the remaining elements in a nascent condition combine to form
organic matter. To form the amyloids--starch, dextrine, sugar,
cellulose--only CO₂ and H₂O are decomposed, and excess of O
rejected. To form albuminoids, or protoplasm, CO₂, H₂O, and
H_{3}N, are decomposed, and excess of O and H rejected.
It would seem in this case, therefore, that physical force (light)
is changed into nascent chemical force, and this nascent chemical
force, under the peculiar conditions present, forms organic matter,
and reappears as vital force. Light falling on living green leaves is
destroyed or consumed in doing the work of decomposition; disappears
as light, to reappear as nascent chemical energy; and this in its
turn disappears in forming organic matter, to reappear as the vital
force of the organic matter thus formed. The light which disappears is
proportioned to the O, or the O and H rejected; is proportioned also to
the quantity of organic matter formed, and also to the amount of vital
force resulting. To illustrate: In the case of amyloids, oxygen-excess
falling or running down from plane No. 2 to plane No. 1 generates force
to raise C, H, and O, from plane No. 2 to plane No. 3. In the case of
albuminoids, oxygen-excess and hydrogen-excess running down from No. 2
to No. 1 generate force to raise C, H, O, and N, from No. 2 to No. 3.
To illustrate again: As sun-heat falling upon water disappears as heat,
to reappear as mechanical power, raising the water into the clouds, so
sunlight falling upon green leaves disappears as light, to reappear as
vital force lifting matter from the mineral into the organic kingdom.
2. GERMINATION.--Growing plants, it is seen, take their life-force
from the sun; but seeds germinate and commence to grow in the dark.
Evidently there must be some other source from which they draw their
supply of force. They cannot draw force from the sun. This fact is
intimately connected with another fact, viz., that they do not draw
their food from the mineral kingdom. The seed in germination feeds
entirely upon a supply of organic matter laid up for it by the
mother-plant. It is the decomposition of this organic matter which
supplies the force of germination. Chemical compounds are comparatively
stable--it requires sunlight to tear them asunder; but organic matter
is more easily decomposed--it is almost spontaneously decomposed.
It may be that heat (a necessary condition of germination) is the
force which determines the decomposition. However this may be, it
is certain that a portion of the organic matter laid up in the seed
is decomposed, burned up, to form CO₂ and H₂O, and that this
combustion furnishes the force by which the mason-work of tissue-making
is accomplished. In other words, of the food laid up in the form of
starch, dextrine, protoplasm, a portion is decomposed to furnish the
force by which the remainder is organized. Hence the seed always loses
weight in germination; it cannot develop unless it is in part consumed;
“it is not quickened except it die.” This self-consumption continues
until the leaves and roots are formed; then it begins to draw force
from the sun, and food from the mineral kingdom.
To illustrate: In germination, matter running down from plane No. 3
to plane No. 2 generates force by which other similar matter is moved
about and raised to a somewhat higher position on plane No. 3. As
water raised by the sun may be stored in reservoirs, and in running
down from these may do work, so matter raised by sun-force into the
organic kingdom by one generation is stored as force to do the work of
germination of the next generation. Again, as, in water running through
an hydraulic ram, a portion runs to waste, in order to generate force
to lift the remainder to a higher level, so, of organic matter stored
in the seed, a portion runs to waste to create force to organize the
remainder.
Thus, then, it will be seen that three things, viz., the absence
of sunlight, the use of organic food, and the loss of weight, are
indissolubly connected in germination, and all explained by the
principle of conservation of force.
3. STARTING OF BUDS.--Deciduous trees are entirely destitute of leaves
during the winter. The buds must start to grow in the spring without
leaves, and therefore without drawing force from the sun. Hence,
also, food in the organic form must be, and is, laid up from the
previous year in the body of the tree. A portion of this is consumed
with the formation of CO₂ and H₂O, in order to create force for
the development of the buds. So soon as by this means the leaves are
formed, the plant begins to draw force from the sun, and food from the
mineral kingdom.
4. PALE PLANTS.--Fungi and etiolated plants have no chlorophyl,
therefore cannot draw their force from the sun, nor make organic
matters from inorganic. Hence these also must feed on organic matter;
not, indeed, on starch, dextrine, and protoplasm, but on decaying
organic matter. In these plants the organic matter is taken up in some
form intermediate between the planes No. 3 and No. 2. The matter thus
taken up is, a portion of it, consumed with the formation of CO₂ and
H₂O, in order to create force necessary to organize the remainder.
To illustrate: Matter falling from some intermediate point between No.
2 and No. 3 to No. 2, produces force sufficient to raise matter from
the same intermediate point to No. 3; a portion runs to waste downward,
and creates force to push the remainder upward.
5. GROWTH OF GREEN PLANTS AT NIGHT.--It is well known that almost all
plants grow at night as well as in the day. It is also known that
plants at night exhale CO₂. These two facts have not, however, as
far as I know, been connected with one another, and with the principle
of conservation of force. It is usually supposed that in the night
the decomposition of CO₂ and exhalation of oxygen are checked by
withdrawal of sun light, and some of the CO₂ in the ascending sap is
exhaled by a physical law. But this does not account for the growth. It
is evident that, in the absence of sun light, the force required for
the work of tissue-building can be derived only from the decomposition
and combustion of organic matter. There are two views as to the source
of this organic matter, either or both of which may be correct: First.
There seems to be no doubt that most plants, especially those grown in
soils rich in _humus_, take up a portion of their food in the form of
semi-organic matter, or soluble _humus_. The combustion of a portion of
this in every part of the plant, by means of oxygen also absorbed by
the roots, and the formation of CO₂, undoubtedly creates a supply of
force night and day, independently of sunlight. The force thus produced
by the combustion of a portion might be used to raise the remainder
into starch, dextrine, etc., or might be used in tissue-building.
During the day, the CO₂ thus produced would be again decomposed in
the leaves by sunlight, and thus create an additional supply of force.
During the night, the CO₂ would be exhaled.[14]
Again: It is possible that more organic matter is made by sunlight
during the day than is used up in tissue-building. Some of this excess
is again consumed, and forms CO₂ and H₂O, in order to continue
the tissue-building process during the night. Thus the plant during the
day stores up sun-force sufficient to do its work during the night.
It has been suggested by Dr. J. C. Draper,[15] though not proved, or
even rendered probable, that the force of tissue-building (_force
plastique_) is always derived from decomposition, or combustion of
organic matter. In that case, the force of organic-matter formation
is derived from the sun, while the force of tissue-building (which is
relatively small) is derived from the combustion of organic matter thus
previously formed.
6. FERMENTATION.--The plastic matters out of which vegetable tissue
is built, and which are formed by sunlight in the leaves, are of
two kinds, viz., amyloids (dextrine, sugar, starch, cellulose), and
albuminoids, or protoplasm. Now, the amyloids are comparatively
stable, and do not spontaneously decompose; but the albuminoids not
only decompose spontaneously themselves, but drag down the amyloids
with which they are associated into concurrent decomposition--not only
change themselves, but propagate a change into amyloids. Albuminoids,
in various stages and kinds of decomposition, are called ferments. The
propagated change in amyloids is called fermentation. By various kinds
of ferments, amyloids are thus dragged down step by step to the mineral
kingdom, viz., to CO₂ and H₂O. The accompanying table exhibits
the various stages of the descent of starch, and the ferments by which
they are effected:
1. Starch }
2. Dextrine } Diastase.
3. Sugar }
4. Alcohol and CO₂ Yeast.
5. Acetic acid Mother of vinegar.
6. CO₂ and H₂O Mould.
By appropriate means, the process of descent may be stopped on any one
of these planes. By far too much is, unfortunately, stopped on the
fourth plane. The manufacturer and chemist may determine the downward
change through all the planes, and the chemist has recently succeeded
in ascending again to No. 4; but the plant ascends and descends the
scale at pleasure (avoiding, however, the fourth and fifth), and even
passes at one step from the lowest to the highest.
Now, it will be seen by the table that, connected with each of
these descensive changes, there is a peculiar ferment associated.
Diastase determines the change from starch to dextrine and
sugar--saccharification; yeast, the change from sugar to
alcohol--fermentation; mother of vinegar, the change from alcohol to
acetic acid--acetification; and a peculiar mould, the change from
acetic acid to CO₂ and water. But what is far more wonderful and
significant is, that, associated with each of these ferments, except
diastase, and therefore with each of these descensive changes, except
the change from starch to sugar, or saccharification, there is a
peculiar form of life. Associated with alcoholic fermentation, there
is the yeast-plant; with acetification, the vinegar-plant; and with the
decomposition of vinegar, a peculiar kind of mould. We will take the
one which is best understood, viz., yeast-plant (saccharomyce), and its
relation to alcoholic fermentation.
It is well known that, in connection with alcoholic fermentation,
there is a peculiar unicelled plant which grows and multiplies.
Fermentation never takes place without the presence of this plant; this
plant never grows without producing fermentation, and the rapidity
of the fermentation is in exact proportion to the rapidity of the
growth of the plant. But, as far as I know, the fact has not been
distinctly brought out that the decomposition of the sugar into alcohol
and carbonic acid furnishes the force by which the plant grows and
multiplies. If the growing cells of the yeast-plant be observed under
the microscope, it will be seen that the carbonic-acid bubbles form,
and therefore probably the decomposition of sugar takes place only in
contact with the surface of the yeast-cells. The yeast-plant not only
assimilates matter, but also force. It decomposes the sugar in order
that it may assimilate the chemical force set free.
We have already said that the change from starch to sugar, determined
by diastase (saccharification), is the only one in connection with
which there is no life. Now, it is a most significant fact, in this
connection, that this is also the only change which is not, in a proper
sense, descensive, or, at least, where there is no decomposition.
We now pass from the phenomena of vegetable to the phenomena of animal
life.
7. DEVELOPMENT OF THE EGG IN INCUBATION.--The development of the egg
in incubation is very similar to the germination of a seed. An egg
consists of albuminous and fatty matters, so inclosed that, while
oxygen of the air is admitted, nutrient matters are excluded. During
incubation the egg changes into an embryo; it passes from an almost
unorganized to a highly-organized condition, from a lower to a higher
condition. There is work done: there must be expenditure of force;
but, as we have already seen, vital force is always derived from
decomposition. But, as the matters to be decomposed are not taken _ab
extra_, the egg must consume itself; that it does so, is proved by
the fact that in incubation the egg absorbs oxygen, eliminates CO₂
and probably H₂O, and loses weight. As in the seed, a portion of
the matters contained in the egg is consumed in order to create force
to organize the remainder. Matter runs down from plane No. 4 to plane
No. 2, and generates force to do the work of organization on plane No.
4. The amount of CO₂ and H₂O formed, and therefore the loss of
weight, is a measure of the amount of plastic work done.
8. DEVELOPMENT WITHIN THE CHRYSALIS SHELL.--It is well known that many
insects emerge from the egg not in their final form, but in a wormlike
form, called a larva. After this they pass into a second passive state,
in which they are again covered with a kind of shell--a sort of second
egg-state, called the chrysalis. From this they again emerge as the
perfect insect. The butterfly is the most familiar, as well as the
best, illustration of these changes. The larva or caterpillar eats with
enormous voracity, and grows very rapidly. When its growth is complete,
it covers itself with a shell, and remains perfectly passive and almost
immovable for many days or weeks. During this period of quiescence of
animal functions there are, however, the most important changes going
on within. The wings and legs are formed, the muscles are aggregated in
bundles for moving these appendages, the nervous system is more highly
developed, the mouth-organs and alimentary canal are greatly changed
and more highly organized, the simple eyes are changed into compound
eyes. Now, all this requires expenditure of force, and therefore
decomposition of matter; but no food is taken, therefore the chrysalis
must consume its own substance, and therefore lose weight. It does so;
the weight of the emerging butterfly is in many cases not one-tenth
that of the caterpillar. Force is stored up in the form of organic
matter only to be consumed in doing plastic work.
9. MATURE ANIMALS.--Whence do animals derive their vital force? I
answer, from the decomposition of their food and the decomposition of
their tissues.
Plants, as we have seen, derive their vital force from the
decomposition of their mineral food. But the chemical compounds on
which plants feed are very stable. Their decomposition requires a
peculiar and complex contrivance for the reception and utilization of
sunlight. These conditions are wanting in animals. Animals, therefore,
cannot feed on chemical compounds of the mineral kingdom; they must
have organic food which easily runs into decomposition; they must feed
on the vegetable kingdom.
Animals are distinguished from vegetables by incessant decay in
every tissue--a decay which is proportional to animal activity. This
incessant decay necessitates incessant repair, so that the animal body
has been likened to a temple on which two opposite forces are at work
in every part, the one tearing down, the other repairing the breach as
fast as made. In vegetables no such incessant decay has ever been made
out. If it exists, it must be very trifling in comparison. Protoplasm,
it is true, is taken up from the older parts of vegetables, and these
parts die; but the protoplasm does not seem to decompose, but is used
again for tissue-building. Thus the internal activity of animals is of
two kinds, tissue-destroying and tissue-building; while that of plants
seems to be, principally, at least, of one kind, tissue-building.
Animals use food for force and repair and growth, and in the mature
animal only for force and repair. Plants, except in reproduction, use
food almost wholly for growth--they never stop growing.
Now, the food of animals is of two kinds, amyloids and albuminoids. The
carnivora feed entirely on albuminoids; herbivora on both amyloids and
albuminoids. All this food comes from the vegetable kingdom, directly
in the case of herbivora, indirectly in the case of carnivora. Animals
cannot make organic matter. Now, the tissues of animals are wholly
albuminoid. It is obvious, therefore, that for the repair of the
tissues the food must be albuminoid. The amyloid food, therefore (and,
as we shall see in carnivora, much of the albuminoid), must be used
wholly for force. As coal or wood, burned in a steam-engine, changes
chemical into mechanical energy, so food, in excess of what is used
for repair, is burned up to produce animal activity. Let us trace more
accurately the origin of animal force by examples.
10. CARNIVORA.--The food of carnivora is entirely albuminoid. The idea
of the older physiologists, in regard to the use of this food, seems
to have been as follows: Albuminoid matter is exceedingly unstable; it
is matter raised, with much difficulty and against chemical forces,
high, and delicately balanced on a pinnacle, in a state of unstable
equilibrium, for a brief time, and then rushes down again into the
mineral kingdom. The animal tissues, being formed of albuminoid matter,
are short-lived; the parts are constantly dying and decomposing; the
law of death necessitates the law of reproduction; decomposition
necessitates repair, and therefore food for repair. But the force by
which repair is effected was for them, and for many physiologists now,
underived, innate. But the doctrine maintained by me in the paper
referred to is, that the decomposition of the tissues creates not only
the necessity, but also the force, of repair.
Suppose, in the first place, a carnivorous animal uses just enough
food to repair the tissues, and no more--say an ounce. Then I say the
ounce of tissue decayed not only necessitates the ounce of albuminous
food for repair, but the decomposition sets free the force by which
the repair is effected. But it will be perhaps objected that the force
would all be consumed in repair, and none left for animal activity of
all kinds. I answer: it would not all be used up in repair, for, the
food being already albuminoid, there is probably little expenditure of
force necessary to change it into tissue; while, on the other hand, the
force generated by the decomposition of tissue into CO₂, H₂O,
and urea, is very great--the ascensive change is small, the descensive
change is great. The decomposition of one ounce of albuminous tissue
into CO₂, H₂O, and urea, would therefore create force sufficient
not only to change one ounce of albuminous matter into tissue, but
also leave a considerable amount for animal activities of all kinds. A
certain quantity of matter, running down from plane No. 4 to plane No.
2, creates force enough not only to move the same quantity of matter
about on plane No. 4, but also to do much other work besides. It is
probable, however, that the wants of animal activity are so immediate
and urgent that, under these conditions, much food would be burned for
this purpose, and would not reach the tissues, and the tissues would be
imperfectly repaired, and would therefore waste.
Take, next, the carnivorous animal full fed. In this case there can
be no doubt that, while a portion of the food goes to repair the
tissues, by far the larger portion is consumed in the blood, and
passes away partly as CO₂ and H₂O through the lungs, and partly
as urea through the kidneys. This part is used, and can be of use
only, to create force. The food of carnivora, therefore, goes partly
to tissue-building, and partly to create heat and force. The force of
carnivorous animals is derived partly from decomposing tissues and
partly from food-excess consumed in the blood.
11. HERBIVORA.--The food of herbivora and of man is mixed--partly
albuminoid and partly amyloid. In man, doubtless, the albuminoids
are usually in excess of what is required for tissue-building; but
in herbivora, probably, the albuminoids are not in excess of the
requirements of the decomposing tissues. In this case, therefore, the
whole of the albuminoids is used for tissue-making, and the whole of
the amyloids for force-making. In this class, therefore, these two
classes of food may be called tissue-food and force-food. The force of
these animals, therefore, is derived partly from the decomposition of
the tissues, but principally from the decomposition and combustion of
the amyloids and fats.
Some physiologists speak of the amyloid and fat food as being burned
to keep up the animal heat; but it is evident that the prime object
in the body, as in the steam-engine, is not heat, but force. Heat is
a mere condition and perhaps a necessary concomitant of the change,
but evidently not the prime object. In tropical regions the heat is
not wanted. In the steam-engine, chemical energy is first changed into
heat, and heat into mechanical energy; in the body the change is,
probably, much of it direct, and not through the intermediation of heat.
12. We see at once, from the above, why it is that plants cannot feed
on elements, viz., because their food must be decomposed in order to
create the organic matter out of which all organisms are built. This
elevation of matter, which takes place in the green leaves of plants,
is the starting-point of life; upon it alone is based the possibility
of the existence of the organic kingdom. The running down of the
matter there raised determines the vital phenomena of germination, of
pale plants, and even of some of the vital phenomena of green plants,
and all the vital phenomena of the animal kingdom. The stability of
chemical compounds, usable as plant-food, is such that a peculiar
contrivance and peculiar conditions found only in the green leaves of
plants are necessary for their decomposition. We see, therefore, also,
why animals as well as pale plants cannot feed on mineral matter.
We easily see also why the animal activity of carnivora is greater
than that of herbivora, for the amount of force necessary for the
assimilation of their albuminoid food is small, and therefore a larger
amount is left over for animal activity. Their food is already on plane
No. 4; assimilation, therefore, is little more than a _shifting_ on the
plane No. 4 from a liquid to a solid condition--from liquid albuminoid
of the blood to solid albuminoid of the tissues.
We see also why the internal activity of plants may conceivably be
only of one kind; for, drawing their force from the sun, tissue-making
is not necessarily dependent on tissue-decay. While, on the other
hand, the internal activity of animals must be of two kinds, decay and
repair; for animals always draw a portion of their force, and starving
animals the whole of their force, from decaying tissue.
13. There are several general thoughts suggested by this subject, which
I wish to present in conclusion:
_a._ We have said there are four planes of matter raised one above the
other: 1. Elements; 2. Chemical compounds; 3. Vegetables; 4. Animals.
Their relative position is truly represented thus:
4. _Animals._
3. _Plants._
2. _Chemical compounds._
1. _Elements._
Now, there are also four planes of force similarly related to each
other, viz., physical force, chemical force, vitality, and will. On the
first plane of matter operates physical force only; for chemical force
immediately raises matter into the second plane. On the second plane
operates, in addition to physical, also chemical force. On the third
plane operates, in addition to physical and chemical, also vital force.
On the fourth plane, in addition to physical, chemical, and vital,
also the force characteristic of animals, viz., will.[16] With each
elevation there is a peculiar force added to the already existing,
and a peculiar group of phenomena is the result. As matter only rises
step by step from plane to plane, and never two steps at a time, so
also force, in its transformation into higher forms of force, rises
only step by step. Physical force does not become vital except through
chemical force, and chemical force does not become will except through
vital force.
Again, we have compared the various grades of matter, not to a
gradually rising inclined plane, but to successive planes raised one
above the other. There are, no doubt, some intermediate conditions;
but, as a broad, general fact, the changes from plane to plane are
sudden. Now, the same is true also of the forces operating on these
planes--of the different grades of force, and their corresponding
groups of phenomena. The change from one grade to another, as from
physical to chemical, or from chemical to vital, is not, as far as we
can see, by sliding scale, but suddenly. The groups of phenomena which
we call physical, chemical, vital, animal, rational, and moral, do not
merge into each other by insensible gradations. In the ascensive scale
of forces, in the evolution of the higher forces from the lower, there
are places of rapid, paroxysmal change.
_b._ Vital force is transformed into physical and chemical forces; but
it is not on that account identical with physical and chemical force,
and therefore we ought not, as some would have us, discard the term
vital force. There are two opposite errors on this subject: one is the
old error of regarding vital force as something innate, underived,
having no relation to the other forces of Nature; the other is the
new error of regarding the forces of the living body as nothing but
ordinary physical and chemical forces, and therefore insisting that
the use of the term vital force is absurd and injurious to science.
The old error is still prevalent in the popular mind, and still
haunts the minds of many physiologists; the new error is apparently
a revulsion from the other, and is therefore common among the most
advanced scientific minds. There are many of the best scientists who
ridicule the use of the term vital force, or vitality, as a remnant
of superstition; and yet the same men use the words gravity, magnetic
force, chemical force, physical force, etc. Vital force is not
underived--is not unrelated to other forces--is, in fact, correlated
with them; but it is nevertheless a distinct form of force, far more
distinct than any other form, unless it be still higher forms, and
therefore better entitled to a distinct name than any lower form. Each
form of force gives rise to a peculiar group of phenomena, and the
study of these to a peculiar department of science. Now, the group of
phenomena called vital is more peculiar, and more different from other
groups, than these are from each other; and the science of physiology
is a more distinct department than either physics or chemistry; and
therefore the form of force which determines these phenomena is more
distinct, and better entitled to a distinct name, than either physical
or chemical forces. De Candolle, in a recent paper,[17] suggests the
term vital movement instead of vital force; but can we conceive of
movement without force? And, if the movement is peculiar, so also is
the form of force.
_c._ Vital is transformed physical and chemical forces; true, but the
necessary and very peculiar condition of this transformation is the
previous existence then and there of living matter. There is something
so wonderful in this peculiarity of vital force that I must dwell on it
a little.
Elements brought in contact with each other under certain physical
conditions--perhaps heat or electricity--unite and rise into the second
plane, i. e., of chemical compounds; so also several elements, C, H, O,
and N, etc., brought in contact with each other under certain physical
or chemical conditions, such as light, nascency, etc., unite and rise
into plane No. 3, i. e., form organic matter. In both cases there is
chemical union under certain physical conditions; but in the latter
there is one unique condition, viz., the previous existence then and
there of organic matter, under the guidance of which the transformation
of matter takes place. In a word, organic matter is necessary
to produce organic matter; there is here a law of like producing
like--there is an assimilation of matter.
Again, physical force changes into other forms of physical force,
or into chemical force, under certain physical conditions; so also
physical and chemical forces are changed into vital force under certain
physical conditions. But, in addition, there is one altogether unique
condition of the latter change, viz., the previous existence then and
there of vital force. Here, again, like produces like--here, again,
there is assimilation of force.
This law of like producing like--this law of assimilation of matter
and force--runs throughout all vital phenomena, even to the minutest
details. It is a universal law of generation, and determines the
existence of species; it is the law of formation of organic matter and
organic force; it determines all the varieties of organic matter which
we call tissues and organs, and all the varieties of organic force
which we call functions. The same nutrient pabulum, endowed with the
same properties and powers, carried to all parts of a complex organism
by this wonderful law of like producing like, is changed into the
most various forms and endowed with the most various powers. There
are certainly limits and exceptions to this law, however; otherwise
differentiation of tissues, organs, and functions, could not take
place in embryonic development; but the limits and exceptions are
themselves subject to a law even more wonderful than the law of like
producing like itself, viz., the law of evolution. There is in all
organic nature, whether organic kingdom, organic individual, or organic
tissues, a law of variation, strongest in the early stages, limited
very strictly by another law--the law of inheritance, of like producing
like.
_d._ We have seen that all development takes place at the expense of
decay--all elevation of one thing, in one place, at the expense of
corresponding running down of something else in another place. Force is
only transferred and transformed. The plant draws its force from the
sun, and therefore what the plant gains the sun loses. Animals draw
from plants, and therefore what the animal kingdom gains the vegetable
kingdom loses. Again, an egg, a seed, or a chrysalis, developing to a
higher condition, and yet taking nothing _ab extra_, must lose weight.
Some part must run down, in order that the remainder should be raised
to a higher condition. The amount of evolution is measured by the loss
of weight. By the law of conservation of force, it is inconceivable
that it should be otherwise. Evidently, therefore, in the universe,
taken as a whole, evolution of one part must be at the expense of
some other part. The evolution or development of the whole cosmos--of
the whole universe of matter--as a unit, by forces within itself,
according to the doctrine of conservation of force, is inconceivable.
If there be any such evolution, at all comparable with any known form
of evolution, it can only take place by a constant increase of the
whole sum of energy, i. e., by a constant influx of divine energy--for
the same quantity of matter in a higher condition must embody a greater
amount of energy.
_e._ Finally, as organic matter is so much matter taken from the
common fund of matter of earth and air, embodied for a brief space,
to be again by death and decomposition returned to that common fund,
so also it would seem that the organic forces of the living bodies of
plants and animals may be regarded as so much force drawn from the
common fund of physical and chemical forces, to be again all refunded
by death and decomposition. Yes, by decomposition; we can understand
this. But death! can we detect any thing returned by simple death?
What is the nature of the difference between the living organism and
a dead organism? We can detect none, physical or chemical. All the
physical and chemical forces withdrawn from the common fund of Nature,
and embodied in the living organism, seem to be still embodied in the
dead until little by little it is returned by decomposition. Yet the
difference is immense, is inconceivably great. What is the nature of
this difference expressed in the formula of material science? What is
it that is gone, and whither is it gone? There is something here which
science cannot yet understand. Yet it is just this loss which takes
place in death, and before decomposition, which is in the highest sense
vital force.
Let no one from the above views, or from similar views expressed by
others, draw hasty conclusions in favor of a pure materialism. Force
and matter, or spirit and matter, or God and Nature, these are the
opposite poles of philosophy--they are the opposite poles of thought.
There is no clear thinking without them. Not only religion and virtue,
but science and philosophy, cannot even exist without them. The belief
in spirit, like the belief in matter, rests on its own basis of
phenomena. The true domain of philosophy is to reconcile these with
each other.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] In recent works the word _energy_ is used to designate active or
working force as distinguished from passive or non-working force. It is
in this working condition only that force is conserved, and therefore
_conservation of energy_ is the proper expression. Nevertheless, since
the distinction between force and energy is imperfectly or not at all
defined in the higher forms of force, and especially in the domain of
life, I have preferred in this article to use the word _force_ in the
general sense usual until recently.
[12] _American Journal of Science_, November, 1859. _Philadelphia
Magazine_, vol. xix., p. 133.
[13] In 1845 Dr. J. R. Mayer published a paper on “Organic Motion and
Nutrition.” I have not seen it.
[14] For more full account, see my paper, _American Journal of
Science_, November, 1859, sixth and seventh heads.
[15] _American Journal of Science_, November, 1872. The experiments
of Dr. Draper are inconclusive, because they are made on _seedlings_,
which, until their supply of organic food is exhausted, are independent
of sunlight.
[16] I might add still another plane and another force, viz., the human
plane, on which operate, in addition to all the lower forces, also
free-will and reason. I do not speak of these, only because they lie
beyond the present ken of inductive science.
[17] _Archives des Sciences_, vol. xlv., p. 345, December, 1872.
CORRELATION OF NERVOUS AND MENTAL FORCES.
BY ALEXANDER BAIN, LL. D.,
PROFESSOR OF LOGIC AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF
ABERDEEN.
THE CORRELATION OF NERVOUS AND MENTAL FORCES.
The doctrine called the correlation, persistence, equivalence,
transmutability, indestructibility of force, or the conservation of
energy, is a generality of such compass that no single form of words
seems capable of fully expressing it; and different persons may prefer
different statements of it. My understanding of the doctrine is, that
there are five chief powers or forces in Nature: one _mechanical_,
or _molar_, the momentum of moving matter; the others _molecular_,
or embodied in the molecules, also supposed in motion--these are,
heat, light, chemical force, electricity. To these powers, which are
unquestionable and distinct, it is usual to add vital force, of which,
however, it is difficult to speak as a whole; but one member of our
vital energies, the nerve-force, allied to electricity, fully deserves
to rank in the correlation.
Taking the one mechanical force, and those three of the molecular
named heat, chemical force, electricity, there has now been established
a definite rate of commutation, or exchange, when any one passes into
any other. The mechanical equivalent of heat, the 772 foot-pounds of
Joule, expresses the rate of exchange between mechanical momentum
and heat: the equivalent or exchange of heat and chemical force is
given (through the researches of Andrews and others) in the figures
expressing the heat of combinations; for example, one pound of carbon
burnt evolves heat enough to raise 8,080 pounds of water one degree, C.
The combination of these to equivalents would show that the consumption
of half a pound of carbon would raise a man of average weight to the
highest summit of the Himalayas.
It is an essential part of the doctrine, that force is never absolutely
created, and never absolutely destroyed, but merely transmuted in form
or manifestation.
As applied to living bodies, the following are the usual positions. In
the growth of plants, the forces of the solar ray--heat and light--are
expended in decomposing (or deoxidizing) carbonic acid and water, and
in building up the living tissues from the liberated carbon and the
other elements; all which force is given up when these tissues are
consumed, either as fuel in ordinary combustion, or as food in animal
combustion.
It is this animal combustion of the matter of plants, and of animals
(fed on plants)--namely, the reoxidation of carbon, hydrogen,
etc.--that yields all the manifestations of power in the animal frame.
And, in particular, it maintains (1) a certain warmth or temperature
of the whole mass, against the cooling power of surrounding space; it
maintains (2) mechanical energy, as muscular power; and it maintains
(3) nervous power, or a certain flow of the influence circulating
through the nerves, which circulation of influence, besides reacting
on the other animal processes--muscular, glandular, etc.--has for its
distinguishing concomitant the MIND.
The extension of the correlation of force to mind, if at all competent,
must be made through the nerve-force, a genuine member of the
correlated group. Very serious difficulties beset the proposal, but
they are not insuperable.
The history of the doctrines relating to mind, as connected with body,
is in the highest degree curious and instructive, but, for the purpose
of the present paper, we shall notice only certain leading stages of
the speculation.[18]
Not the least important position is the Aristotelian; a position
in some respects sounder than what followed and grew out of it. In
Aristotle, we have a kind of gradation from the life of plants to the
highest form of human intelligence. In the following diagram, the
continuous lines may represent the material substance, and the dotted
lines the immaterial:
A. _Soul of Plants._
---- Without consciousness.
B. _Animal Soul._
---- Body and mind inseparable.
....
C. _Human Soul_--NOUS--_Intellect_.
I. Passive intellect.
---- Body and mind inseparable.
....
II. Active intellect--cognition of the highest principles.
.... Pure form; detached from matter; the prime mover of all; immortal.
All the phases of life and mind are inseparably interwoven with the
body (which inseparability is Aristotle’s definition of the soul)
except the last, the active _nous_, or intellect, which is detached
from corporeal matter, self-subsisting, the essence of Deity, and an
immortal substance, although the immortality is not personal to the
individual. (The immateriality of this higher intellectual agent was
net, however, that thorough-going negation of all material attributes
which we now understand by the word “immaterial.”) How such a
self-subsisting and purely spiritual soul could hold communication with
the body-leagued souls, Aristotle was at a loss to say--the difficulty
reappeared after him, and has never been got over. That there should
be an agency totally apart from, and entirely transcending, any known
powers of inert matter, involves no difficulty--for who is to limit
the possibilities of existence? The perplexity arises only when this
radically new and superior principle is made to be, as it were, off
and on with the material principle; performing some of its functions
in pure isolation, and others of an analogous kind by the aid of the
lower principle. The difference between the active and the passive
reason of Aristotle is a mere difference of gradation; the supporting
agencies assumed by him are a total contrast in kind--wide as the poles
asunder. There is no breach of continuity in the phenomena, there is an
impassable chasm between their respective foundations.
Fifteen centuries after Aristotle, we reach what may be called the
modern settlement of the relations of mind and body, effected by Thomas
Aquinas. He extended the domain of the independent immaterial principle
from the highest intellectual soul of Aristotle to all the three souls
recognized by him--the vegetable or plant soul (without consciousness),
the animal soul (with consciousness), and the intellect throughout. The
two lower souls--the vegetable and the animal--need the coöperation of
the body in this life; the intellect works without any bodily organ,
except that it makes use of the perceptions of the senses.
A. _Vegetable or Nutritive Soul._
---- Incorporates an immaterial part, although unconscious.
....
B. _Animal Soul._
---- Has an immaterial part, with consciousness.
....
C. _Intellect._
.... Purely immaterial.
The animal soul, B, contains sensation, appetite, and emotion, and is a
mixed or two-sided entity; but the intellect, C, is a purely one-sided
entity, the immaterial. This does not relieve our perplexities; the
phenomena are still generically allied and continuous--sensation passes
into intellect without any breach of continuity; but as regards the
agencies, the transition from a mixed or united material and immaterial
substance to an immaterial substance apart, is a transition to a
differently constituted world, to a transcendental sphere of existence.
The settlement of Aquinas governed all the schools and all the
religious creeds, until quite recent times; it is, for example,
substantially the view of Bishop Butler. At the instance of modern
physiology, however, it has undergone modifications. The dependence
of purely intellectual operations, as memory, upon the material
processes, has been reluctantly admitted by the partisans of an
immaterial principle; an admission incompatible with the isolation of
the intellect in Aristotle and in Aquinas. This more thorough-going
connection of the mental and the physical has led to a new form of
expressing the relationship, which is nearer the truth, without being,
in my judgment, quite accurate. It is now often said _the mind and the
body act upon each other_; that neither is allowed, so to speak, to
pursue its course alone--there is a constant interference, a mutual
influence between the two. This view is liable to the following
objections:
1. In the first place, it assumes that we are entitled to speak of
mind apart from body, and to affirm its powers and properties in that
separate capacity. But of mind apart from body we have no direct
experience, and absolutely no knowledge. The wind may act upon the sea,
and the waves may react upon the wind; but the agents are known in
separation--they are seen to exist apart before the shock of collision;
but we are not permitted to see a mind acting apart from its material
companion.
2. In the second place, we have every reason for believing that there
is an unbroken material succession, side by side with all our mental
processes. From the ingress of a sensation, to the outgoing responses
in action, the mental succession is not for an instant dissevered from
a physical succession. A new prospect bursts upon the view; there is a
mental result of sensations, emotion, thought, terminating in outward
displays of speech or gesture. Parallel to this mental series is the
physical series of facts, the successive agitation of the physical
organs, called the eye, the retina, the optic nerve, optic centres,
cerebral hemispheres, outgoing nerves, muscles, etc. There is an
unbroken physical circle of effects, maintained while we go the round
of the mental circle of sensation, emotion, and thought. It would be
incompatible with every thing we know of the cerebral action to suppose
that the physical chain ends abruptly in a physical void, occupied by
an immaterial substance; which immaterial substance, after working
alone, imparts its results to the other edge of the physical break,
and determines the active response--two shores of the material with an
intervening ocean of the immaterial. There is, in fact, no rupture of
nervous continuity. The only tenable supposition is, that mental and
physical proceed together, as individual twins. When, therefore, we
speak of a mental cause, a mental agency, we have always a two-sided
cause; the effect produced is not the effect of mind alone, but of mind
in company with body. That mind should have operated on the body, is
as much as to say that a two-sided phenomenon, one side being bodily,
can influence the body; it is, after all, body acting upon body. When
a shock of fear paralyzes digestion, it is not the emotion of fear,
in the abstract, or as a pure mental existence, that does the harm;
it is the emotion in company with a peculiarly excited condition of
the brain and nervous system; and it is this condition of the brain
that deranges the stomach. When physical nourishment, or physical
stimulant, acting through the blood, quiets the mental irritation, and
restores a cheerful tone, it is not a bodily fact causing a mental
fact by a direct line of causation: the nourishment and the stimulus
determine the circulation of blood to the brain, give a new direction
to the nerve-currents, and the mental condition corresponding to
this particular mode of cerebral action henceforth manifests itself.
The line of mental sequence is thus, not mind causing body, and body
causing mind, but mind-body giving birth to mind-body; a much more
intelligible position. For this double or conjoint causation, we can
produce evidence; for the single-handed causation we have no evidence.
If it were not my peculiar province to endeavor to clear up the
specially metaphysical difficulties of the relationship of mind and
body, I would pass over what is to me the most puzzling circumstance of
the relationship, and indeed the only real difficulty in the question.
I say the real difficulty, for factitious difficulties in abundance
have been made out of the subject. It is made a mystery how mental
functions and bodily functions should be allied together at all. That,
however, is no business of ours; we accept this alliance, as we do any
other alliance, such as gravity with inert matter, or light with heat.
As a fact of the universe, the union is, properly speaking, just as
acceptable, and as intelligible, as the separation would be, if that
were the fact. The real difficulty is quite another thing.
What I have in view is this: when I speak of mind as allied with
body--with a brain and its nerve-currents--I can scarcely avoid
_localizing_ the mind, giving it a local habitation. I am thereupon
asked to explain what always puzzled the schoolmen, namely, whether the
mind is all in every part, or only all in the whole; whether in tapping
any point I may come at consciousness, or whether the whole mechanism
is wanted for the smallest portion of consciousness. One might perhaps
turn the question by the analogy of the telegraph wire, or the electric
circuit, and say that a complete circle of action is necessary to any
mental manifestation; which is probably true. But this does not meet
the case. The fact is that, all this time we are speaking of nerves
and wires, we are not speaking of mind, properly so called, at all; we
are putting forward physical facts that go along with it, but these
physical facts are not the mental fact, and they even preclude us from
thinking of the mental fact. We are in this fix: mental states and
bodily states are utterly contrasted; they cannot be compared, they
have nothing in common except the most general of all attributes,
degree, and order in time; when engaged with one we must be oblivious
of all that distinguishes the other. When I am studying a brain
and nerve communicating, I am engrossed with properties exclusively
belonging to the object or material world; I am at that moment (except
by very rapid transitions or alternations) unable to conceive a truly
mental fact, my truly mental consciousness. Our mental experience, our
feelings and thoughts, have no extension, no place, no form or outline,
no mechanical division of parts; and we are incapable of attending to
any thing mental until we shut off the view of all that. Walking in the
country in spring, our mind is occupied with the foliage, the bloom,
and the grassy meads, all purely objective things; we are suddenly and
strongly arrested by the odor of the May-blossom; we give way for a
moment to the sensation of sweetness: for that moment the objective
regards cease; we think of nothing extended; we are in a state where
extension has no footing; there is, to us, place no longer. Such states
are of short duration, mere fits, glimpses; they are constantly shifted
and alternated with object states, but while they last and have their
full power we are in a different world; the material world is blotted
out, eclipsed, for the instant unthinkable. These subject-moments are
studied to advantage in bursts of intense pleasure, or intense pain, in
fits of engrossed reflection, especially reflection upon mental facts;
but they are seldom sustained in purity beyond a very short interval;
we are constantly returning to the object-side of things--to the world
where extension and place have their being.
This, then, as it appears to me, is the only real difficulty of the
physical and mental relationship. There is an alliance with matter,
with the object, or extended world; but the thing allied, the mind
proper, has itself no extension, and cannot be joined in local union.
Now, we have no form of language, no familiar analogy, suited to this
unique conjunction; in comparison with all ordinary unions, it is a
paradox or a contradiction. We understand union in the sense of local
connection; here is a union where local connection is irrelevant,
unsuitable, contradictory, for we cannot think of mind without putting
ourselves out of the world of place. When, as in pure feeling--pleasure
or pain--we change to the subject attitude from the object attitude,
we have undergone a change not to be expressed by place; the fact is
not properly described by the transition from the _external_ to the
_internal_, for that is still a change in the region of the extended.
The only adequate expression is a _change of state_: a change from the
state of the extended cognition to a state of unextended cognition.
By various theologians, heaven has been spoken of us not a place,
but a _state_; and this is the only phrase that I can find suitable
to describe the vast, though familiar and easy, transition from the
material or extended, to the immaterial or unextended side of the
universe of being.
When, therefore, we talk of incorporating mind with brain, we must be
held as speaking under an important reserve or qualification. Asserting
the union in the strongest manner, we must yet deprive it of the almost
invincible association of union in place. An extended organism is the
condition of our passing into a state where there is no extension. A
human being is an extended and material thing, attached to which is the
power of becoming alive to feeling and thought, the extreme remove from
all that is material; a condition of _trance_ wherein, while it lasts,
the material drops out of view--so much so, that we have not the power
to represent the two extremes as lying side by side, as container and
contained, or in any other mode of local conjunction. The condition
of our existing thoroughly in the one, is the momentary eclipse or
extinction of the other.
The only mode of union that is not contradictory is the union of close
succession in _time_; or of position in a continued thread of conscious
life. We are entitled to say that the same being is, by alternate fits,
object and subject, under extended and under unextended consciousness;
and that without the extended consciousness the unextended would not
arise. Without certain peculiar modes of the extended--what we call
a cerebral organization, and so on--we could not have those times of
trance, our pleasures, our pains, and our ideas, which at present we
undergo fitfully and alternately with our extended consciousness.
Having thus called attention to the metaphysical difficulty of
assigning the relative position of mind and matter, I will now state
briefly what I think the mode of dealing with mind in correlation with
the other forces. That there is a definite equivalence between mental
manifestations and physical forces, the same as between the physical
forces themselves, is, I think, conformable to all the facts, although
liable to peculiar difficulties in the way of decisive proof:
I. The mental manifestations are in exact proportion to their physical
supports.
If the doctrine of the thorough-going connection of mind and body
is good for any thing, it must go this length. There must be a
numerically-proportioned rise and fall of the two together. I believe
that all the unequivocal facts bear out this proportion.
Take first the more obvious illustrations. In the employment of
external agents, as warmth and food, all will admit that the sensation
rises exactly as the stimulant rises, until a certain point is reached,
when the agency changes its character; too great heat destroying the
tissues, and too much food impeding digestion. There is, although we
may not have the power to fix it, a _sensational equivalent_ of heat,
of food, of exercise, of sound, of light; there is a definite change
of feeling, an accession of pleasure or of pain, corresponding to a
rise of temperature in the air of 10°, 20°, or 30°. And so with regard
to every other agent operating upon the human sensibility: there is,
in each set of circumstances, a sensational equivalent of alcohol, of
odors, of music, of spectacle.
It is this definite relation between outward agents and the human
feelings that renders it possible to discuss human interests from the
objective side, the only accessible side. We cannot read the feelings
of our fellows; we merely presume that like agents will affect them all
in nearly the same way. It is thus that we measure men’s fortunes and
felicity by the numerical amount of certain agents, as money, and by
the absence or low degree of certain other agents, the causes of pain
and the depressors of vitality. And, although the estimate is somewhat
rough, this is not owing to the indefiniteness of the sensational
equivalent, but to the complications of the human system, and chiefly
to the narrowness of the line that everywhere divides the wholesome
from the unwholesome degrees of all stimulants.
Let us next represent the equivalence under vital or physiological
action. The chief organ concerned is the brain; of which we know that
it is a system of myriads of connecting threads, ramifying, uniting,
and crossing at innumerable points; that these threads are actuated
or made alive with a current influence called the nerve force; that
this nerve-force is a member of the group of correlating forces;
that it is immediately derived from the changes in the blood, and in
the last resort from oxidation, or combustion, of the materials of
the food, of which combustion it is a definite equivalent. We know,
further, that there can be no feeling, no volition, no intellect,
without a proper supply of blood, containing both oxygen and the
material to be oxidized; that, as the blood is richer in quality in
regard to these constituents, and more abundant in quantity, the mental
processes are more intense, more vivid. We know also that there are
means of increasing the circulation in one organ, and drawing it off
from another, chiefly by calling the one into greater exercise, as
when we exert the muscles or convey food to the stomach; and that,
when mental processes are more than usually intensified, the blood is
proportionally drawn to the brain; the oxidizing process is there in
excess, with corresponding defect and detriment in other organs. In
high mental excitement, digestion is stopped; muscular vigor is abated
except in the one form of giving vent to the feelings, thoughts, and
purposes; the general nutrition languishes; and, if the state were long
continued or oft repeated, the physical powers, strictly so called,
would rapidly deteriorate. We know, on the other extreme, that sleep
is accompanied by reduced circulation in the brain; there is in fact a
reduced circulation generally; while of that reduced amount more goes
to the nutritive functions than to the cerebral.
In listening to Dr. Frankland’s lecture on “Muscular Power,” delivered
at the Royal Institution of London, I noticed that, in accounting for
the various items of expenditure of the food, he gave “mental work” as
one heading, but declined to make an entry thereinunder. I can imagine
two reasons for this reserve, the statement of which will further
illustrate the general position. In the first place, it might be
supposed that mind is a phenomenon so anomalous, uncertain, so remote
from the chain of material cause and effect, that it is not even to be
mentioned in that connection.
To which I should say, that mind is indeed, as a phenomenon, widely
different from the physical forces, but, nevertheless, rises and falls
in strict numerical concomitance with these: so that it still enters,
if not directly, at least indirectly, into the circle of the correlated
forces. Or, secondly, the lecturer may have held that, though a
definite amount of the mental manifestations accompanies a definite
amount of oxidation in the special organs of mind, there is no means
of reducing this to a measure, even in an approximate way. To this I
answer, that the thing is difficult but not entirely impracticable.
There is a possibility of giving, approximately at least, the amount of
blood circulating in the brain, in the ordinary waking state; and, as
during a period of intense excitement we know that there is a general
reduction, almost to paralysis, of the collective vital functions,
we could not be far mistaken in saying that, in that case, perhaps
one-half or one-third of all the oxidation of the body was expended in
keeping up the cerebral fires.
It is a very serious drawback in any department of knowledge, where
there are relations of quantity, to be unable to reduce them to
numerical precision. This is the case with mind in a great degree,
although not with it alone; many physical qualities are in the same
state of unprecise measurement. We cannot reduce to numbers the
statement of a man’s constitutional vigor, so as to say how much he
has lost by fatigue, by disease, by age, or how much he has gained by
a certain healthy regimen. Undoubtedly, however, it is in mind that
the difficulties of attaining the numerical statement are greatest if
not nearly insuperable. When we say that one man is more courageous,
more loving, more irascible than another, we apply a scale of degree,
existing in our own mind, but so vague that we may apply it differently
at different times, while we can hardly communicate it to others
exactly as it stands to ourselves. The consequence is, that a great
margin of allowance must always be made in those statements; we can
never run a close argument, or contend for a nice shade of distinction.
Between the extremes of timidity and courage of character the best
observer could not entertain above seven or eight varieties of
gradation, while two different persons consulting together could hardly
agree upon so minute a subdivision as that. The phrenologists, in their
scale of qualities, had the advantage of an external indication of
size, but they must have felt the uselessness of graduating this beyond
the delicacy of discriminating the subjective side of character; and
their extreme scale included twenty steps or interpolations.
Making allowance for this inevitable defect, I will endeavor to present
a series of illustrations of the principle of correlation as applied
to mind, in the manner explained. I deal not with mind directly, but
with its material side, with whose activity, measured exactly as we
measure the other physical forces, true mental activity has a definite
correspondence.
Let us suppose, then, a human being with average physical constitution,
in respect of nutritive vigor, and fairly supplied with food and with
air, or oxygen. The result of the oxidation of the food is a definite
total of force, which may be variously distributed. The demand made
by the brain, to sustain the purely mental functions, may be below
average, or above average; there will be a corresponding, but inverse,
variation of the remainder available for the more strictly physical
processes, as muscular power, digestive power, animal heat, and so on.
In the first case supposed, the case of a small demand for mental work
and excitement, we look for, and we find, a better _physique_--greater
muscular power and endurance, more vigor of digestion, rendering a
coarser food sufficient for nourishment, more resistance to excesses of
cold and heat; in short, a constitution adapted to physical drudgery
and physical hardship.
Take, now, the other extreme. Let there be a great demand for mental
work. The oxidation must now be disproportionately expended in the
brain; less is given to the muscles, the stomach, the lungs, the skin,
and secreting organs generally. There is a reduction of the possible
muscular work, and of the ability to subsist on coarser food, and
to endure hardship. Experience confirms this inference; the common
observation of mankind has recognized the fact--although in a vague,
unsteady form--that the head-worker is not equally fitted to be a
hand-worker. The master, mistress, or overseer has each more delicacy
of sense, more management, more resource, than the manual operatives,
but to these belongs the superiority of muscular power and persistence.
There is nothing incompatible with the principle in allowing the
possibility of combining, under certain favorable conditions, both
physical and mental exertion in considerable amount. In fact, the
principle teaches us exactly how the thing may be done. Improve the
quality and increase the quantity of the food; increase the supply
of oxygen by healthy residence; let the habitual muscular exertion
be such as to strengthen and not impair the functions; abate as much
as possible all excesses and irregularities, bodily and mental; add
the enormous economy of an educated disposal of the forces; and you
will develop a higher being, a _greater aggregate_ of power. You
will then have more to spare for all kinds of expenditure--for the
physico-mental, as well as for the strictly physical. What other
explanation is needed of the military superiority of the officer over
the common soldier? of the general efficiency of the man nourished, but
not enervated, by worldly abundance?
It may be possible, at some future stage of scientific inquiry, to
compute the comparative amount of oxidation in the brain during severe
mental labor. Even now, from obvious facts, we must pronounce it to be
a very considerable fraction of the entire work done in the system. The
privation of the other interests during mental exertion is so apparent,
so extensive, that if the exertion should happen to be long continued,
a liberal atonement has to be made in order to stave off general
insolvency. Mental excess counts as largely as muscular excess in the
diversion of power; it would be competent to suppose either the one
or the other reducing the remaining forces of the system to one-half
of their proper amount. In both cases, the work of restoration must
be on the same simple plan of redressing the inequality, of allowing
more than the average flow of blood to the impoverished organs, for a
length of time corresponding to the period when their nourishment has
been too small. It is in this consideration that we seem to have the
reasonable, I may say the arithmetical, basis of the constitutional
treatment of chronic disease. We _repay the debt to Nature_ by allowing
the weakened organ to be better nourished and less taxed, according to
the degradation it has undergone by the opposite line of treatment. In
a large class of diseases we have obviously a species of insolvency,
to be dealt with according to the sound method of readjusting the
relations of expenditure and income. And, if such be the true theory,
it seems to follow that medication is only an inferior adjunct. Drugs,
even in their happiest application, can but guide and favor the
restorative process; just as the stirring of a fire may make it burn,
provided there be the needful fuel.
There is thus a definite, although not numerically-statable relation,
between the total of the physico-mental forces and the total of the
purely physical processes. The grand aggregate of the oxidation of the
system includes both; and, the more the force taken up by one, the
less is left to the other. Such is the statement of the correlation
of mind to the other forces of Nature. We do not deal with pure
mind--mind in the abstract; we have no experience of an entity of that
description. We deal with a compound or two-sided phenomenon--mental
on one side, physical on the other; there is a definite correspondence
in degree, although a difference of nature, between the two sides; and
the physical side is itself in full correlation with the recognized
physical forces of the world.
II. There remains another application of the doctrine, perhaps equally
interesting to contemplate, and more within my special line of study.
I mean the correlation of the mental forces among themselves (still
viewed in the conjoint arrangement). Just as we assign limits to mind
as a whole, by a reference to the grant of physical expenditure, in
oxidation, etc., for the department, so we must assign limits to the
different phases or modes of mental work--thought, feeling, and so
on--according to the share allotted to each; so that, while the mind as
a whole may be stinted by the demands of the non-mental functions, each
separate manifestation is bounded by the requirements of the others.
This is an inevitable consequence of the general principle, and equally
receives the confirmation of experience. There is the same absence of
numerical precision of estimate; our scale of quantity can have but few
divisions between the highest and the lowest degrees, and these not
well fixed.
What is required for this application of the principle is, to ascertain
the comparative cost, in the physical point of view, of the different
functions of the mind.
The great divisions of the mind are--feeling, will, and thought;
feeling, seen in our pleasures and pains; will, in our labors to
attain the one and avoid the other; thought, in our sensations, ideas,
recollections, reasonings, imaginings, and so on. Now, the forces of
the mind, with their physical supports, may be evenly or unevenly
distributed over the three functions. They may go by preference either
to feeling, to action, or to thinking; and, if more is given to one,
less must remain to the others, the entire quantity being limited.
First, as to the feelings. Every throb of pleasure costs something to
the physical system; and two throbs cost twice as much as one. If we
cannot fix a precise equivalent, it is not because the relation is not
definite, but from the difficulties of reducing degrees of pleasure to
a recognized standard. Of this, however, there can be no reasonable
doubt--namely, that a large amount of pleasure supposes a corresponding
large expenditure of blood and nerve-tissue, to the stinting, perhaps,
of the active energies and the intellectual processes. It is a matter
of practical moment to ascertain what pleasures cost least, for there
are thrifty and unthrifty modes of spending our brain and heart’s
blood. Experience probably justifies us in saying that the narcotic
stimulants are, in general, a more extravagant expenditure than the
stimulation of food, society, and fine art. One of the safest of
delights, if not very acute, is the delight of abounding physical
vigor; for, from the very supposition, the supply to the brain is not
such as to interfere with the general interests of the system. But the
theory of pleasure is incomplete without the theory of pain.
As a rule, pain is a more costly experience than pleasure, although
sometimes economical as a check to the spendthrift pleasures. Pain is
physically accompanied by an excess of blood in the brain, from at
least two causes--extreme intensity of nervous action, and conflicting
currents, both being sources of waste. The sleeplessness of the pained
condition means that the circulation is never allowed to subside from
the brain; the irritation maintains energetic currents, which bring the
blood copiously to the parts affected.
There is a possibility of excitement, of considerable amount, without
either pleasure or pain; the cost here is simply as the excitement:
mere surprises may be of this nature. Such excitement has no value,
except intellectually; it may detain the thoughts, and impress the
memory, but it is not a final end of our being, as pleasure is; and it
does not waste power to the extent that pain does. The ideally best
condition is a moderate surplus of pleasure--a gentle glow, not rising
into brilliancy or intensity, except at considerable intervals (say a
small portion of every day), falling down frequently to indifference,
but seldom sinking into pain.
Attendant on strong feeling, especially in constitutions young or
robust, there is usually a great amount of mere bodily vehemence, as
gesticulation, play of countenance, of voice, and so on. This counts as
muscular work, and is an addition to the brain-work. Properly speaking,
the cerebral currents discharge themselves in movements, and are
modified according to the scope given to those movements. Resistance
to the movements is liable to increase the conscious activity of the
brain, although a continuing resistance may suppress the entire wave.
Next as to the will, or our voluntary labors and pursuits for the great
ends of obtaining pleasure and warding off pain. This part of our
system is a compound experience of feeling and movement; the properly
mental fact being included under feeling--that is, pleasure and pain,
present or imagined. When our voluntary endeavors are successful,
a distinct throb of pleasure is the result, which counts among our
valuable enjoyments: when they fail, a painful and depressing state
ensues. The more complicated operations of the will, as in adjusting
many opposite interests, bring in the element of conflict, which is
always painful and wasting. Two strong stimulants pointing opposite
ways, as when a miser has to pay a high fee to the surgeon that saves
his eyesight, occasion a fierce struggle and severe draft upon the
physical supports of the feelings.
Although the processes of feeling all involve a manifest, and it may
be a serious, expenditure of physical power, which of course is lost
to the purely physical functions; and although the extreme degrees of
pleasure, of pain, or of neutral excitement, must be adverse to the
general vigor; yet the presumption is, that we can afford a certain
moderate share of all these without too great inroads on the other
interests. It is the thinking or intellectual part of us that involves
the heaviest item of expenditure in the physico-mental department. Any
thing like a great or general cultivation of the powers of thought, or
any occupation that severely and continuously brings them into play,
will induce such a preponderance of cerebral activity, in oxidation and
in nerve-currents, as to disturb the balance of life, and to require
special arrangements for redeeming that disturbance. This is fully
verified by all we know of the tendency of intellectual application to
exhaust the physical powers, and to bring on early decay.
A careful analysis of the operations of the intellect enables us
to distinguish the kind of exercises that involve the greatest
expenditure, from the extent and the intensity of the cerebral
occupation. I can but make a rapid selection of leading points:
First. The mere exercise of the senses, in the way of attention,
with a view to watch, to discriminate, to identify, belongs to the
intellectual function, and exhausts the powers according as it is long
continued, and according to the delicacy of the operation; the meaning
of delicacy being that an exaggerated activity of the organ is needed
to make the required discernment. To be all day on the _qui vive_ for
some very slight and barely perceptible indications to the eye or the
ear, as in catching an indistinct speaker, is an exhausting labor of
attention.
Secondly. The work of acquisition is necessarily a process of great
nervous expenditure. Unintentional imitation costs least, because there
is no forcing of reluctant attention. But a course of extensive and
various acquisitions cannot be maintained without a large supply of
blood to cement all the multifarious connections of the nerve-fibres,
constituting the physical side of acquisition. An abated support of
other mental functions, as well as of the purely physical functions,
must accompany a life devoted to mental improvement, whether arts,
languages, sciences, moral restraints, or other culture.
Of special acquisitions, languages are the most apparently voluminous;
but the memory for visible or pictorial aspects, if very high, as in
the painter and the picturesque poet, makes a prodigious demand upon
the plastic combinations of the brain.
The acquisition of science is severe, rather than multifarious; it
glories in comprehending much in little, but that little is made up of
painful abstract elements, every one of which, in the last resort, must
have at its beck a host of explanatory particulars: so that, after all,
the burden lies in the multitude. If science is easy to a select number
of minds, it is because there is a large spontaneous determination of
force to the cerebral elements that support it; which force is supplied
by the limited common fund, and leaves so much the less for other uses.
If we advert to the moral acquisitions and habits in a well-regulated
mind, we must admit the need of a large expenditure to build up the
fabric. The carefully-poised estimate of good and evil for self, the
ever-present sense of the interests of others, and the ready obedience
to all the special ordinances that make up the morality of the time,
however truly expressed in terms of high and abstract spirituality,
have their counterpart in the physical organism; they have used up
a large and definite amount of nutriment, and, had they been less
developed, there would have been a gain of power to some other
department, mental or physical.
Refraining from further detail on this head, I close the illustration
by a brief reference to one other aspect of mental expenditure, namely,
the department of intellectual production, execution, or creativeness,
to which in the end our acquired powers are ministerial. Of course,
the greater the mere continuance or amount of intellectual labor in
business, speculation, fine art, or any thing else, the greater the
demand on the _physique_. But amount is not all. There are notorious
differences of severity or laboriousness, which, when closely examined,
are summed up in one comprehensive statement--namely, the number,
the variety, and the conflicting nature of the conditions that have
to be fulfilled. By this we explain the difficulty of work, the toil
of invention, the harassment of adaptation, the worry of leadership,
the responsibility of high office, the severity of a lofty ideal,
the distraction of numerous sympathies, the meritoriousness of sound
judgment, the arduousness of any great virtue. The physical facts
underlying the mental fact are a wide-spread agitation of the cerebral
currents, a tumultuous conflict, a consumption of energy.
It is this compliance with numerous and opposing conditions that
obtains the most scanty justice in our appreciation of character.
The unknown amount of painful suppression that a cautious thinker,
a careful writer, or an artist of fine taste, has gone through,
represents a great physico-mental expenditure. The regard to evidence
is a heavy drag on the wings of speculative daring. The greater the
number of interests that a political schemer can throw overboard, the
easier his work of construction. The absence of restraints--of severe
conditions--in fine art, allows a flush and ebullience, an opulence of
production, that is often called the highest genius. The Shakespearean
profusion of images would have been reduced to one-half, if not less,
by the self-imposed restraints of Pope, Gray, or Tennyson. So, reckless
assertion is fuel to eloquence. A man of ordinary fairness of mind
would be no match for the wit and epigram of Swift.
And again. The incompatibility of diverse attributes, even in minds of
the largest compass (which supposes equally large physical resources),
belongs to the same fundamental law. A great mind may be great in many
things, because the same kind of power may have numerous applications.
The scientific mind of a high order is also the practical mind; it is
the essence of reason in every mode of its manifestation--the true
philosopher in conduct as well as in knowledge. On such a mind also,
a certain amount of artistic culture may be superinduced; its powers
of acquisition may be extended so far. But the spontaneous, exuberant,
imaginative flow, the artistic nature at the core, never was, cannot
be, included in the same individual. Aristotle could not be also a
tragic poet; nor Newton a third-rate portrait-painter. The cost of one
of the two modes of intellectual greatness is all that can be borne by
the most largely-endowed personality; any appearances to the contrary
are hollow and delusive.
Other instances could be given. Great activity and great sensibility
are extreme phases, each using a large amount of power, and therefore
scarcely to be coupled in the same system. The active, energetic man,
loving activity for its own sake, moving in every direction, wants the
delicate circumspection of another man who does not love activity for
its own sake, but is energetic only at the spur of his special ends.
And once more. Great intellect as a whole is not readily united with a
large emotional nature. The incompatibility is best seen by inquiring
whether men of overflowing sociability are deep and original thinkers,
great discoverers, accurate inquirers, great organizers in affairs; or
whether their greatness is not limited to the spheres where feeling
performs a part--poetry, eloquence, and social ascendency.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] For the fuller elaboration of the point here referred to, see