Mind
80 Art. VI.?
Mind is an element or entity, which, like a first principle or fact, is incapable of demonstration or proof. It exists?identical and unique. It admits of neither more nor less. It is absolute and entire, indivisible and indiscerptible. It is in its own nature on6?kv, ens, sum, being, essence. It energises through the ponderable organ the brain, and the material organ subserves the immaterial essence, or vis vitce. The abrupt space that in- tervenes between the last portion of matter and the earliest dawn of intelligence is an unfathomable gulf, tantamount to infinitude?for infinite it must be, since nothing can fill it up. No correct reasoning can conduct us farther than this.
In the monogamic molluscse, which propagate by spontaneous offsets or shoots, and not by reciprocal generation, the new creature is not the product of two, but the self-division of one ? and yet in these animals or animalcule, the life thus apparentlv multiplied in each is nevertheless but one and the same life in principle as that from which it sprang. Its being is one while its mechanism is alone multiplied. Its immaterial being’ is not manifold, although enunciated by a material organism, which is manifold.
In the same sense, the mind may pass from an active to a latent state, and from a latent to an active?as in sleen coma, suspended animation, and ovarious germination in each of which instances the mind is as positively latent as the electricity in the thundercloud before it is bolted forth by fulmination, or the fire in flint before it is struck out into sparks by collision with steel. Now none of these things can be predicated of the material organ of mind the brain which obviously rests upon grounds of enquiry altogether dif- ferent from the element of which it is only the instrument so that the mind may be either active or latent ; but not so the brain. The mind cannot be duplicated or divided into parts, although the brain may be, and in fact is, both dupli- cated and subdivided. The mind is not the medium of thought although the matter of the brain is. The mind is the genera- tive principle, indigent of nothing?the brain is the subserving instrument, indigent of everything. The particles of the brain^ like those of the body generally, are heterogeneous, dividual.’ personal, and transitive?the mind, on the contrary, is itself a monad, homogeneous, individual, identical, and perpetual.
The existence of animals the lowest in the scale of animated nature seems to be for no other purpose than that of mere sustenance and multiplication by offsets or germs. In them there appears, as in the hydra viriclis, no trace of a nervous system, at least none that in the present state of our knowledge we can properly define as such, unless the fine cord round the mouth be a nervous filament; nor can we ascertain anything like intelligence. They are scarcely raised above vegetables. The ascaris whose life is as limited as any living creature’s can well be imagined, presents two white cords. The asterias, or star-fish, ha? a circle of ganglia or brains, from which radiate distinct nerves; this may be only the sympathetic, whose existence may be independent of a brain. Many of the molluscous creatures, as the tunicata, but little raised above the spono-es, and fiied to a rock all their lives long, have nothino- like a brain, particularly not a double one. The oyster is the first to exhibit the bram doubled, only the two brains are separate, without a commissural connection ‘unless the oesophageal arch can be regarded as such. It is singular that with this approximation to a twofold bram, Garner should have pretended to show distinct organs of on its mantilla or beard. But no sooner are feet produced than an additional portion of brain is bestowed, in correspondence with these members, the pedal ganglion, which marks a kind of epoch in the history of the nerves; for where there are feet there is also progression, and the act of progression implies an object of desire to be sought for and obtained by judgment, com- parison, and volition. A more highly organised brain is there- fore requisite. Thus the common slug has two cephalic ganglia, evidently united by a small, but distinct, commissure. The brain becomes a double organ. Some exceptions may be made to this order as an established law; for the vnynapoda, or centipedes, which are higher than the slug, have several brains?one to each leg; while the crab, still higher than these, has only a single brain; but then its large pedal ganglion is almost a second brain. The supra-cesophageal bram of the pearly nautilus is duplicated, and m the cuttle-fish this duality is still more distinct. As soon, however, as the sensorium becomes a more valuable organ, we arrive at those creatures which enjoy a brain in a brain-case (myelencephala). These animals cannot live without a skull-box, or casket, on purpose for holding their seat of intelligence. They no longer subsist like mere vegetation, but exist by intellectual pursuits, as in fishes, reptiles, birds, &c. The brain is now invariably a double organ, more or less perfect, and generally united by commissural bands?whiting, cod, eel, skate, &c. In the frog this is very evident. But, nevertheless, the commissures are as yet lost or confounded in the close proximity of the hemi- spheres. In birds, though the two hemispheres are more manifest, yet the corypus callosum is wanting, as it is also in marsupials. The organ of comparison is defective, and the judgment low- In the beaver, however, with its constructive propensities, intelligent conduct, and provident habits, not only is the brain decidedly double, but the corpus callosum, or organ of comparison, is proportionally large. Convolutions are likewise visible. As we go on ascending in the scale of organic intelligence, the hemispheres become more distinctly double, the commissures larger, and the furrows deeper. In the elephant, so renowned of old for its understanding, and in the porpoise, so remarkable for its sagacious tenderness in nursing- its young, all these characteristics are particularly visible. The brain of the chimpanzee differs from the brain of man only in size and weight; therefore, in the smaller size and extent of the convolutions, the same parts without exception exist in both. Whether the cerebral matter of the ape differs from that of man in microscopic characters, or how otherwise it may differ, are problems that have not hitherto been worked out nor explained.
There is enough in all this to show that comparative anatomy attests a truth which we were first led to assent to on the slender ground of induction and analogy. In man, with his large brain and exalted intellect, the furrows are decided, the com- missures bold and strong, and the brain a double organ, and all its intricate foldings are, as a sculptor would say, deeply chiselled and finely finished off. It is further to be noticed, as an anatomical fact, says Meckel, in a note quoted by the late Sir Henry Holland, in his ” Notes and Reflections,” that in the brain and spinal marrow the external parts of the two sides are less exactly symmetrical than those within; the surface of the brain showing this, perhaps, more distinctly than any other part. Every one may find an opportunity of observing a difference in the relative size of the two sides of the head of some of his acquaintances; nor does this disparity or inequality seem to be detrimental to the intellectual development, but, on the contrary, rather favourable to it; for persons of distinguished talents have had their heads larger on one side than on the other, as Cicero and Bichat, for instance. Indeed, some go so far as to fancy that whenever this inequality exists the under- standing is much better than in those whose heads are more exactly symmetrical. So, also, the convolutions of the brain are a manifestation of mind. When the foldings and furrows are deep, it renders the head long, and the phrase of ” a long- headed fellow” means a clever man. Plutarch says that Pericles had so long a head that he was ashamed of it, and in his statues was always represented with a helmet, on purpose to hide this supposed deformity. Had he enjoyed the advantage of living in the present day, the intellectual vanity of the great Athenian might have been induced to hail it as a distinguished beauty.
Again, as to Mind, whether of man or brute, it may be predicated that it is uniform, one and the same in both; and that Understanding is possessed by all animated beings in various proportions and degrees; as the sagacity of the dog, the sharpness of the ape, and the intelligence of the elephant, which are proverbial. Even Moral Affections are enjoyed by animals and insects. The horse is docile, the lion courageous, the spider deceitful. All these qualities are fragmental por- tions of the understanding, distributed severally throughout creation, for the particular use and purpose of each being*; and are, when taken together and summed up into one, the human understanding’ complete, and, were not the various qualities of the understanding manifested by animals identical with that possessed by man, there could be no intercommunion between man and animals, for without this mutual intelligence the rider could not manage his horse, nor the sportsman direct his spaniel, nor the pig-boy drive his pigs, nor the blind man be led and guided by his dog. Animals and man must understand each other, otherwise animated nature would be a confusion. Even sounds of the voice and the meaning of words are frequently un- derstood by animals as distinctly and fully as they are by ourselves; and the intent and object of our actions are perceived by them in the same sense as we intend them to be perceived. Thus the horse knows the sound of the trumpet, the smack of the whip, and the driver’s bidding ; the hound responds to the huntsman’s horn, the cat minds the maid-servant’s call, and the cow obeys the cry that hails her home to be milked. Stories are told of serpents that have become familiar with man, of insects that have mated with the prisoner in his cell, and of hares that have sat like cats before the fire. The mechanism of the beaver is like our own, because ours is the same as his; and the fox pilfers our poultry yards with the same adroitness as the thief pilfers our coffers. Thus the intelligence of animals is the comparative anatomy of the understanding of man; what is one in us is several in them. They are the analysis of the mind, of which we are the standard and type. By pursuing this train of reasoning, we might show that the less perfect under- standings in man approximate to the lower understandings of animals. Thus we say, as stupid as an ass, as filthy as a swine, as timid as a lamb, as cruel as a tiger. The higher human understandings admit of no such debasing comparison, since they cannot be likened to anything less, than themselves. Great minds are not brutal, but, on the contrary, so elevated that they cannot be lowered by any comparison. They comprehend within themselves all the mental ‘qualities of every animated being below them. It is this excellence that can never be pre- dicated of any of the inferior animals, and entirely excludes them from the idea of possessing either an understanding or a soul, in the ordinary or philosophic meaning of the term. But, as we have already shown, the mind in its fullest and soundest development is, so to speak, at the mercy of the healthy or diseased condition of the body. A slight ailment quickly overthrows it, or tarnishes its vivacity and brilliance. Grenius is often cut short by it. Rossini lost the faculty of musical composition somewhere about the middle period of his life. He lived to be old, and died at seventy-six years of age; but he never recovered his original talent. Some change must have swept over the fibres of the brain, and damaged their congenital tenacity and fineness, to account for so irreparable a bereave- ment.
So delicate is the tracery of the nervous structure that the damage of a single fibre or set of fibres destroys the unity of the whole. It is like a grand orchestra, in which one instrument alone out of time or tune disturbs the harmony of the rest, and the finest musical composition in the world is entirely spoilt by the discord.
The preservation of the intellect to the latest period of age depends upon circumstances, over many of which we have no control. The nerves may be weak by nature, or there may be a scrofulous or gouty taint, the heirloom of the family, or a failure in the functions of the heart or stomach, natural or acquired. The early part of life may have been corroded by anxiety, weakened by privation, or over- strained by toil, which neither we nor our progenitors could either foresee or prevent. Wine or ardent spirits may have been too freely indulged in, and their use apologised for upon the plea of social engagements or a feeble constitution; while the more sensual passions may not have been held in with the curb of a tightened rein. Fortune may have arrived when she has ceased to be sought for, and reputation or celebrity bestowed or achieved when it is too late to facilitate the happi- ness of ourselves and those about us. In each of these instances the mind decays early, and the earlier the sooner the stimulus of necessity is withdrawn or suppressed. Besides all this, there is a climacteric period in man, as well as in woman. In woman it occurs soon after forty, or at the latest at fifty; but in man it varies between his thirty-fifth and sixty-fifth years. But, whether sooner or later, it takes place in man, his character and figure both undergo a change, sometimes for the better, but more frequently for the worse. He becomes fat or thin, attenu- ated or obese. Old age sets in apace. The hair turns grey or white, the affections congeal, virility ceases; or, on the other hand, the figure remains lean and lank, the features are shrivelled the hair falls off, and the complexion tans, while the mind improves, the wit sparkles, the understanding solidifies, and the flash of genius burns brighter than ever. The experience of a whole life comes into play, and the tardy seed- lings of the spring embrown the autumn of our days with fruit. In these cases, the organic life suffers at the cost of the cerebro- spinal system. But, on the contrary! we see the mind degenerate without our being able to account ffer it. Follies of the most denlorable kind are committed in the most pitiable manner. The old man marries a young girl, and after having been respected for his frugality and prudence suddenly breaks out and affects to play the boy, the gallant, and the fop. Sometimes something worse than folly ensues. The religions man turns a worldling, the upright a spendthrift, and the trustworthy a swindler ? or he falls a dupe to religious enthusiasts and knaves, mistakes’ idealities for faith, fasts, prays, preaches, and insults the world.
No doubt alteration of the brain is taking place pan passu, with these alterations of character. It may be atrophy, indicated by loss of memory, slowness of speech and manner, and debility of gait and action. Or the circulation through the encephalon may be checked or impeded by ossification or softening of the cerebral arteries, or by some distinct disease about the heart and large vessels; or the neurine may be undergoing a change, naiticularlv on its peripheral surface, as well as on the surfaces of its several ventricles or cavities. The convolutions become paler and the furrows shallower. The weight of the whole cerebrum and cerebellum is lighter, less complex, and seems to be reduced to the condition of the brain in early life. Softening of the surface of that delicate character which is detected only by letting a slender stream of water flow gently over it, is sometimes the only discoverable alteration. But what is a very usual occurrence, and yet one that is often passed by unnoticed, because it is discernible only to a well-practised eye, which may not be present at the right moment for observing its attack, is a very slight fit of apoplexy and paralysis?so slight, indeed, that it occurs and passes away unperceived, and is recognised only in its after consequences and permanent effects. This appears to have been the case in Moore and Rogers, the poets. We have witnessed the same in private practice, and have observed that, though loss of life does not ensue from it imme- diately, yet in its ultimate effects it is sooner or later fatal, and from the date of its infliction the patient is an altered being? he never recovers himself, but continues to exist, like a vener- able ruin, with the marks of decay indelibly imprinted on his front.
To the old themselves the imbecility of age is not so pain- ful as it is to those who wait upon them. With the return of our second childhood we lose the consciousness of our prime. The loss of any of the senses is accompanied with the oblivion of its enjoyment. The blind are cheerful, the deaf happy, and the aged content. So that we are tempted to conclude that those exquisite lines of Groethe, so ably rendered into English by their noble translator, express a poetic fiction rather than a medical reality:?
” Give me the active spring of gladness, Of pleasure stretched almost to pain ! My hate, my love, in all their madness? Give me my youth again !”
Although the sight of the angelic Margaret, as ” She sat by the casement’s chequered glass, The clouds fly by, and she watches them pass Over the city Avail “
meditating on her love were sufficient to enkindle a spark of passion in the icy veins of an old dotard. But no ; in the really old, whether early or late in life, from disease or excess, the flame is extinct, the ashes have been burnt out, and no spark can ever fire them again.
We knew an aged gentleman who, during the stunning effects of an apoplectic seizure, lost all his money by the failure of a bank. On recovering his senses, he could never be awakened to the feeling of poverty, nor the embarrassing con- viction of being a poor dependant on the bounty of his friends. Another, during a fit of apoplexy and its tedious con- sequences, lost two of his dearest relatives by death, and came into possession of some considerable property. On his recovery he neither regretted their deaths nor rejoiced at his own good fortune. A third, who had always been an anxious and thrifty man of business, declared he had at length reached the goal of contentment, and that neither loss nor gain any longer affected him. A few months later, he died suddenly. These cases might be explained in the dead house. But morbid anatomy is not medicine, in tlie same sense as medicine is not a demonstrative science. Disease is a living phenomenon only to be correctly recognised and properly treated during life. After death, it passes into another domain, which is that of the anatomical demonstrator.
Humboldt is an instance of intellect undecayed by age. He died at ninety-one, and his mind was vigorous to the last. Strabo wrote his geography, it is said, at eighty-two; and Michael Angelo, who died at eighty-eight, preserved his mind and genius to the end of his days. His last will and testament was as grand as it was laconic, while critics are disposed to consider his last productions better than his first. On the other hand, the brightest efforts of genius have been conceived and executed before the meridian of life; of which Byron, Scott, Pope, Mozart, Weber, Tasso, Shakspeare, Sir Isaac Newton, and many others, are illustrious examples. It is popularly supposed that Homer composed his immortal epic in advanced life, and in painting and statuary he is usually represented as the blind old bard. Yet this was not the case. Perhaps the mistake arose from the Homer who recited those wonderful verses to his admiring audience not being th& Homer who had composed them. It is the opinion of Longinus that the Iliad was the production of the mind in a vigorn of manhood, and the Odyssey the poetic recreation or repetition of the evening of life. We agree with the great critic. For there are, as he says, some puerilities in the Odyssey, while there are none in the Iliad; the order of events forbids the conjecture that the latter was composed after the former; and, it must be owned that with all its quiet beauties, the Odyssey wants the pathos, the depth of colouring, the majestic ease and force of the Iliad. The flame of genius burns alone, the envy or admiration of others, if not an exhausting and fatal ecstasy to its hapless pos- sessor. A Eaffaelle or a Carlo Maratti paint in an atmosphere where meaner talents can scarcely draw their breath or handle their brush with freedom and effect. Meteoric in its essence, it shines by fits and starts, blazes for a while, and then goes out.
Disclaimer
The historical material in this project falls into one of three categories for clearances and permissions:
Material currently under copyright, made available with a Creative Commons license chosen by the publisher.
Material that is in the public domain
Material identified by the Welcome Trust as an Orphan Work, made available with a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
While we are in the process of adding metadata to the articles, please check the article at its original source for specific copyrights.