Chapter IV: Act V

The resuscitation of dying persons is founded on a knowledge of the subjects which have engaged our attention; for where the failure of the circulation or respiration depends on causes which are not necessarily permanent, temporary assistance may restore life. The use of stimulants and opiates, in cases of loss of blood, are the means of renewing the action of the heart when it has already nearly ceased to beat.

The transfusion of blood is also sometimes resorted to. The late Mr. Ingleby, of Birmingham, in his work on Hæmorrhage[25], mentions an instance in which he employed it with advantage in the case of a woman who had just been confined. All the usual means had been tried, and the patient did not rally. She was “in a constant state of jactitation, with a dewy sweat and pinched features.” The respiration was difficult, “with the sound of air passing through the mucus.”

The patient became cold and insensible. With the assistance of two other medical gentlemen, with whom he advised, Mr. Ingleby proceeded to inject some blood into her veins which he had obtained from the arm of her husband. In less than five minutes, a perceptible improvement arose, which was confirmed in about an hour. This operation is not, however, always so fortunate, and is liable to some serious objections. We require, no doubt, more experience on the subject; but, in the mean time, it is one of considerable interest. Mr. Ingleby remarks, at the conclusion of his case, that the scriptural expression applied by Adam to Eve--“bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh,”--seems in this case, to have been literally applicable.

It is, however, in cases where the respiration is suspended by the narcotic poisons that the most marked advantages may be seen from artificial aid. I shall relate a case with which I was much interested and surprised, and though a considerable time has now elapsed since it occurred, I feel no diminution of the astonishment I first experienced.

A young woman of the name of Caroline Mercy was brought into the Infirmary at Manchester, on the 16th of June, 1849, at half past three, P.M. She had taken opium with a view to destroy herself, and was in a complete state of insensibility. It was impossible, by pulling the hair or pinching the skin, to excite any wincing or signs of uneasiness; nor was any effect produced by the sudden affusion of cold water. The pupils were contracted in an extreme degree; and the countenance presented that peculiar vacancy, or want of expression, which is so characteristic of the influence of opium. The breathing was very considerably embarrassed, the inspirations and expirations being separated by an unusually long interval, and accompanied by a slight rattle. The extremities were warm. As soon as she was put to bed, Mr. Gaskell, the resident medical officer, introduced the stomach pump, with which he injected and withdrew about a gallon of cold water; but towards the end of the operation, as the breathing became laborious, the rattle louder, and the surface assumed a more livid appearance, he thought it prudent to desist. He accordingly introduced into the stomach a solution of ammonia, afterwards removing with the pump as much as could be conveniently withdrawn. Large sinapisms were then placed down the back, but she appeared, notwithstanding, to get gradually worse; the respiration became more difficult, the lividity greater, and the pulse less full, and slightly irregular.

Boiling water was now applied to the feet and legs, which had the effect for a time of increasing both the power and frequency of the respirations; but the benefit was only of a very transitory kind. At about a quarter past five, Mr. Gaskell thought it desirable to assist the respiration by artificial means, and he accordingly proceeded to adopt the following expedient. He placed a large pitch plaster on the abdomen, and, by this means maintaining his hold, endeavoured to solicit the usual respiratory movements. This did not, however, give him so much assistance as he had expected, and he was, therefore, induced to abandon it after a short trial. He then placed a similar plaster on each side of the chest, by which he was able to command a more decisive effect: he thus, with the assistance of the man nurse, alternately raised and depressed the ribs in imitation of the breathing. This plan was productive of some amendment; the lividity diminished, and the natural muscular efforts were more frequent and apparent; the assistance was adapted as carefully as possible to the indications of nature.

In addition to these means, boiling water was occasionally applied to the arms and legs. At about five o’clock I came to Mr. Gaskell’s assistance. At this period the temperature of the body had become considerably reduced; and I remember the patient’s appearance was exactly that of a dying woman; and I believe it was the impression both of Mr. Gaskell and myself that our patient could not survive long. The lips were of a livid colour, the expression of the countenance altogether cadaverous, and the rattle in the throat had become exceedingly loud. Boiling water poured on the legs did not now excite the slightest movement, so that we were almost disposed to regard the case as hopeless. The circumstance, however, that whilst the exertions lasted, they had evidently been productive of advantage, did not suffer us to abandon further trial. We now laid aside the plasters, and taking hold of the margins of the ribs, endeavoured to support the respiration with our hands alone. Standing on each side of the bed, with our faces towards the feet of the patient, and our fingers curved round the cartilages of the ribs, we could easily enlarge the capacity of the chest, by approximating the ribs at the same time that they were elevated; while, in expiration, the reverse movement could as easily be accomplished. By a steady continuance of these efforts, we had the pleasure of seeing a gradual improvement in our patient; and towards six o’clock, the pulse had acquired the hard jerk which is commonly felt when the system is under the influence of opium. Shortly after six, indications of returning sensation were evinced by occasional spasmodic quiverings of the muscles of the chest and abdomen. These spasmodic movements resembled the actions which usually denote approaching dissolution, with this essential difference, however, that they became more frequent and prolonged at each time that they were renewed. A little before seven o’clock she raised her eyelids, and at the same time her left arm was slightly elevated. By persisting in artificial respiration, and using means to rouse sensibility, such as forcibly striking the face and chest with a wet towel, and applying ammonia to the nostrils, in about half an hour from this period the state of stupor had in a great measure disappeared. Instead of lying prostrate on the back, she now lay on her side, and was enabled to breathe without assistance. We then caused her clothes to be put on, and the vesicated parts being dressed, she was taken out of bed, and compelled to walk about the room.

It is worthy of remark, that whenever from fatigue we had been led to suspend our efforts to maintain the respiration, a degree of relapse followed; the lips became more intensely livid, the pulsations of the heart more feeble and irregular, and the respirations fewer, and accompanied with a louder rattle. On again resuming operations, the converse was also noticed. When the amendment became decided, and the sensibility returned, the rattle disappeared altogether; and this took place without any expectoration, notwithstanding it was natural to suppose that a considerable quantity of mucus was contained in the air passages. The woman was fortunately a favourable subject for our manipulations, as the abdominal parietes were sufficiently lax to admit the easy prehension of the chest. As far as it could be done, we always waited for the natural indications of the act of respiration, and paid great attention to regulate our movements in correspondence with each other. At the conclusion, the cartilages of the ribs were slightly everted, and the cuticle removed in places by the unavoidable chafing of the hands.

_June 17._--It was found that she had been kept out of bed all night, which scarcely appeared necessary, and was, indeed, contrary to instructions. She had vomited through the night, and complained of shooting pains in the head. The pupils were less contracted; the pulse was not ascertained, owing to the vesicated condition of the arms.

For several nights after this period she was troubled with a starting in her sleep, which, however, was gradually removed by the administration of twenty drops of laudanum every night at bed time. She also suffered a good deal from the condition of her legs, which were severely scalded, especially on the posterior part, where they had been in contact with the hot water which had fallen on the bed. On the 27th of August she left the hospital, cured.

After this account, which I have purposely given at length, as it illustrates the subject in a remarkable manner, it is natural to wish to know the previous circumstances of her case. The woman’s husband, who was a master plumber, failed about four years before her admission. Since that time he had lived irregularly, a circumstance which caused her to be much distressed and dejected in spirits.

Two years after this failure she left her husband to reside with her mother, but was persuaded again to live with her husband, who had promised an amendment, which, it seems, he did not keep; she again became low spirited, pawned her clothes, and was ashamed to return to her mother.

On Sunday, the 16th of June, she sat down to dinner at one o’clock, when, after a quarrel, she left the house, and purchased sixpennyworth of laudanum at four different shops: she said she obtained about a dessert spoonful for a penny, and drank it as she purchased it. She then went to a neighbour’s house, and can only recollect feeling heavy, and that she had brandy given her.[26]

When death is anticipated, there is a common curiosity to know the period at which it will take place. But from what has been just said, it will be evident that it is not always possible to predict the precise time, nor are the symptoms which indicate its approach always to be relied on. When the evidences of dissolution, however, begin to manifest themselves, a general failure of the temperature, with a cold dew on the skin, may generally be considered as indicative that the scene is about to close. In many cases it is easy to recognise the fatal turn which diseases take by the alterations which the symptoms undergo. Where internal inflammations are about to issue in death, there is mostly a striking change in the expression of the face, and sometimes a curious shrinking of the body.

I shall never forget one instance in which these signs were particularly manifest. A young woman, who had formerly been a servant in Manchester, became ill, was unable to continue in service, and was eventually removed to the Infirmary. One day, as I went to visit her as usual, I observed a complete alteration in her countenance. It seemed _shrunk and diminutive_, with a ghastly paleness. She put out her hand and said, “You seem as if you did not know me.”--She spoke in a changed voice.

She complained of no pain, but I remarked a trembling in her hands, like that of the shaking palsy. The mind was perfectly collected, but her usual features seemed only mimicked by their pale shrunk copy. She said she knew that she was going to die,--and so it proved.

The nose and lips are very characteristic in the dying. The lips become pale, the nostrils dilated and dark looking, and the hairs about the lips seem more than usually apparent; the teeth look like pieces of ordinary bone, and the eyes seem to shadow through the eyelids, or are partially turned under the lids; the nails look dark, and the ends of the fingers sodden.

Finally, convulsive twitchings often show themselves in the face, with singular elevations of the eyebrows, and staring of the eyes. A gaping attempt to breathe terminates the struggle.

When coma is present, a mucous rattle is generally of fatal import; and, _è contrario_, when the lungs are affected, the supervention of coma is equally to be dreaded.

When fluids taken by the patient flow back from his mouth, or fall heavily down his throat as if poured into an ordinary tube, death is soon to be expected.

In young children, a curious playing with the bed-clothes often attends fatal affections of the brain. I remember a little child, who had her handkerchief in her hand, which she spread out repeatedly with apparent care, and in a fantastic manner, that would have been amusing but for its fatal import. The picking of bed-clothes and catching of the hands, as if at imaginary objects, are well known as terrible indications.

Chomel remarks, as of serious presage, the automatic manner in which a patient will unceasingly draw his hand to his side, in spite of the efforts of the physician to ascertain his pulse. I might enlarge much on such points, but it would, perhaps, be “to consider too curiously to consider so.”

The signs of death are not, however, always very marked; for when death arises in advanced and feeble age, the vital powers are so easily depressed, and the heart’s action brought to a stand in so imperceptible a manner, that it is common to speak of it as a quiet sleep. Madame D’Arblay, writing to her husband, graphically describes the death of her revered father, Dr. Burney, the celebrated author of the History of Music.

“An awful stillness pervaded his apartment; and so soft became his breathing, that I dropped my head by the side of his pillow, to be sure that he breathed at all. There, anxiously, I remained, and such was my position, when his faithful man-servant, George, after watchfully looking at him from the foot of his bed, suddenly burst out into an audible sob, crying out, ‘My master! My dear master!’

“For a moment, however, only; an alarm from his outcry had been raised, and the servants, full of sorrow, hurried into the chamber, which none of the family, that could assemble, ever quitted, and a general lamentation broke forth.

“Yet could I not believe that all had ceased thus suddenly, without a movement, without even a sigh! and, conjuring that no one would speak or interfere, I solemnly and steadily persisted in passing a full hour or more in listening to catch again a breath I could so reluctantly lose; but all of life, of earthly life, was gone for ever; and here, _mon ami_, I drop the curtain.”[27]

So frequently as medical men are called upon to contemplate the last hours of human existence, it is to be regretted that they have not more often given to their fellow men the reflections into which they must naturally have been led. It cannot but be, that many accomplished minds are to be found in a profession which is so enlightened; and it is not then easy to assign any sufficient reason for this silence. Possibly a kind of false delicacy may have operated on some minds, and others may have been diverted from such thoughts by the pressure of active occupation. It is common to suppose that medical men are blunted in their feelings by the nature of their avocations. It may be that there is some foundation for such an opinion; but I think the apparent want of sympathy sometimes found, is more frequently the effect of a strong temporary direction of the mind to the contemplation of curative means. Yet it must be owned that habit does much to lessen that exquisite sensibility with which we instinctively regard the chamber of death. The anatomist, as he traces with curious scalpel the secret structure of the frame, loses in professional technicalities the awful truth that he contemplates his own likeness. The hoary-headed gravedigger, as he turns up the mould to receive his fellow man, thinks not how soon the sand will rattle on his own coffin, and his humble name “shine upon the plate.” This indifference is, to some extent, good and necessary; but it is sadly too common and too great. But yet to the medical man, above all others, there is something of terrible reality in death. The student pictures death in his own manner: he looks upon it as the distant prospect which is to surround him at the remotest period of his life, the haven and resting place of his toil, the slumber and quiet repose which is to terminate the harvest of his day. The father tells his children of a peaceful and a better country, and smooths the pillow of his sick child as he whispers words of consolation and affection. The medical man has fresh in his mind, with all its ghastly reality, the cold image of his once dear friend; he yet hears the choking rattle in his throat, and yet wipes in imagination the perspiration from his corpse-like brow.

To what result then shall we come after the contemplation of death?--to the greatest and the best: the daylight of life is still around us, but the gloom of that night, in which no man can work, will soon be foreshadowed by sickness, infirmity, and age. Before this night steals upon us, and our ability for useful exertion ceases in the thickening obscurity, let us remember the reality of these things,--and, as we write our characters in the indelible language of deeds that can never be changed, let us remember, also, how soon the story will be told, and the book closed for ever.

It is, indeed, a mortifying thing to think what a laborious preparation we make for a few years of existence. It is humiliating to look back to the cares of infancy--the nights of maternal watching and anxiety--the hopes of childhood--the dreary toils and frequent tasks of school life--the ambition of riper years, with its unceasing efforts to attain what we find at last to be vanity and vexation. For what do we prepare,--if gold and silver at last tire the eye--if the applause of the world is found empty and interested--if ambition estranges friendship--if wealth cools our best affections, and separates man from his fellow man? For what do we prepare whilst the grave is so near to all of us, and the feet of those who are to carry us out are already lingering at the threshold of our doors?

But who is there that timely thinks on these things? Who can imagine his own death--anticipate the time when he shall be the object of fearful regard in others--when he himself shall be the almost unconscious being struggling with the thickening breath, and gasping with the convulsive throes of death? Who can think of the world being without himself; of the things which he has called his own being entirely at the disposal of others? To realise such ideas is to catch a glimpse of the true value of present interests. What then think we of the approbation of the great--the vanity of fashion, the pride of learning and the dignity of title;--the remembrance of one kind feeling, one charitable action, one generous sentiment and loving emotion, is more grateful to the heart, and more satisfying to the understanding. We are all too ready to avoid the contemplation of death. The subject is not an agreeable one, and can seldom find a fitting place in our consideration. It is too soon, and we would put it off “till a more convenient season.” But if we may not consider our own end, have we no one dear and precious to us in whose life our interests are intimately and affectionately entwined!--How shall we stand on the grave-side of such precious one, and with what thoughts shall we hereafter turn from the little circle of our mourning friends to the fresh landscape which surrounds the tomb?

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Byron’s Vision of Judgment.

[2] Art. Inhumations precipitées: Dict. de Médecine et de Chirurgie.

[3] Medical Jurisprudence, p. 5.

[4] For the suggestion of these apt quotations, I am indebted to Paris’s Med. Jurisprudence.

[5] Sommer observed, that, contrary to the statement of Nysten, the body became rigid before it was completely cold.

[6] According to Sommer, seldom if ever later.

[7] See Guy’s Hospital Reports, p. 388. vol. vii. 1851, Remarks on Strangulation.

[8] See Alison’s Pathology.

[9] Belloc, Cours de Médicine Légale, p. 318.

[10] Medical Jurisprudence, p. 492. Edit. for 1838.

[11] Traité des Signes de la Mort, et des Moyens de prévenir les Enterrements prématurés. Par E. Bouchut, Paris, chez J. B. Baillière, 1849.

[12] See Sir H. Halford’s Essays.

[13] Influence of Disease on the Mind, Essays and Orations, p. 83.

[14] Hans Christian Andersen’s Story of My Life, translated by Mary Howitt, p. 114.

[15] Arnold’s Life, vol. ii. p. 337.

[16] Latham’s Clinical Medicine, vol. ii. p. 388.

[17] Vide Watson’s Lectures.

[18] See Christison on Poisons.

[19] Knight’s London, vol. iv. p. 301.

[20] What is called _pressure_ on the brain is not necessary for the production of _coma_.

[21] Vide Elliotson’s Lect. on the Practice of Physic.

[22] Vide O’Meara’s Residence at St. Helena, vol. i. p. 179.

[23] Op. Cit. vol. i. p. 192.

[24] Vide Cowper’s Life and Correspondence, by Southey, vol. i. p. 130.

[25] Ingleby on Uterine Hæmorrhage.

[26] See Lancet, for Oct. 1840. Case of recovery from the effects of opium, by J. Bower Harrison.

[27] Memoirs of Dr. Burney, p. 432.

THE

HUMAN MIND

CONSIDERED IN SOME OF ITS MEDICAL

ASPECTS.

_Macbeth._ How does your patient, doctor?

_Doctor._ Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thickcoming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE HUMAN MIND, &c.[28]

There is nothing which is more common than to hear people speak of possessing a knowledge of human nature. It is usual to signify by this a mere acquaintance with the vices of mankind, which does, indeed, form one part of such knowledge, but it is not all. What is called a knowledge of human nature is said to be acquired only by mixing with the world, which implies that a real intimacy with the workings, tendencies, and capabilities of the human mind is industriously kept back in our literature, and that by the general consent of mankind it is deemed better that a great part of the world should be ignorant of the true position of their fellow beings. Many of those who are teachers of religion and morality, have certainly derived their ideas on this subject from sources which show, in point of fact, a complete ignorance of human nature, or, at least, the studious _disguisement_ of such knowledge.

The reserve, which is common and proper in society, may screen from the unreflecting, and those little conversant with life, much of the real nature of the human mind.

The prescribed forms of living, of speaking and writing, and the conventional usages of mankind, have given an artificial hue to our actions and language, and thus the words of the great dramatist have become literally true, that “all the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” The true character of the human mind in its more intimate workings, is little confessed in our literature, and little acknowledged in our laws. Unfortunately, the real appreciation of the human mind (with regard to its actual state, and not its abstract consideration) has scarcely appeared to fall within the province either of the moralist or metaphysician, and has remained a kind of neutral ground, uncultivated because unclaimed. That knowledge which is sometimes designated a _knowledge of the world_, approaches, perhaps, nearest to the subject in question, but is seldom possessed by those who are either desirous or capable of systematizing their information, and thus, much of what is really known of our common nature is lost both to the philosopher and the philanthropist. In the writings of some of our novelists, it is true, we find a considerable amount of this species of information, but it is for the most part rendered subservient only to the entertainment of the reader, and not in every case calculated for his edification. The writings of Fielding, Smollett, Cervantes, and Le Sage, with many others of more modern date, amongst which I may mention those of Mr. Charles Dickens, abound in judicious reflections on men and manners, and discover no little penetration into character and mind. After all, however, there is an evident deficiency in published or recognised information of this kind; and hence the surprise or affected surprise with which it is common to view what are called the _inconsistencies_ of human nature. That certain infirmities of mind are not incompatible with genius, it may be common to admit; but when we approach the subject closer, we shall find the poetic temperament, more frequently than not, clouded with insanity or touched with perversity. The same bright spirit which rejoices in the sunshine of nature is not less sensitive of the gloom. There is often a foreboding of evil, and often the imagination will heighten the calamities which are really present, until a thousand heart-rending associations grow up in the fertility of the mind.

The consideration of the human mind, then, in what may be called its medical aspects, seems to me one which has not yet sufficiently engaged the general attention of mankind; and I wish on the present occasion to bring it before your notice, as a subject which is neither devoid of interest, nor wanting in utility.

The effect of temperament may first claim our attention. I shall not, however, confine myself to the divisions which strictly medical writers have formed on this subject, reserving to myself the freedom of the popular acceptation of the word.

The constitution of the body as to its bulk and general aspect, as well seen in the countenance as in the conformation of other parts, is known to be connected with accompanying peculiarities of mind which are of every day observation. There is an asperity in the countenance and figure of some people which immediately strikes us, and we feel a sort of intuitive dislike. There are others whose open countenance and portly bearing tell at once of generous feelings and easy dispositions. Every one remembers the passage in the play of Julius Cæsar:--

“Would he were fatter; but I fear him not,--
Yet if my name were _liable_ to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that _spare_ Cassius.”

The Sanguine Temperament, as the very name implies, is characterised by a constitution in which the blood-vessels are predominant; the face is red, and easily flushed, the complexion often light; the temper hasty, the actions quick. Those who have this temperament in a marked form, often act by impulse; they are restless, and have difficulty in waiting for the result of their undertakings. The mind is often too easily excited to allow of a proper operation of its workings; the ideas flow too quickly, and in a little while become confused. Such persons, when called upon in exciting circumstances, become embarrassed,--are what they call nervous, and lose self-possession--or act to disadvantage.

The character of Peter in the sacred writings gives us a good example of this sanguine temper: we find him saying to his Lord, “Though all men shall be offended because of thee, yet I will never be offended; I will lay down my life for thy sake:” and again; “though I die with thee, yet will I not deny thee.” But, as in many other sanguine people, the feeling wanted the support of a steady equanimity. When Jesus was betrayed, and Peter found himself accused of being in his company, he denied any knowledge of him; and when he found that he was known by his accent, (“surely thou also art one of them, for thy speech betrayeth thee,”) “he began to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man.” Such is often the fate of the warm protestations of sanguine people. The emotion which attends the expression of their sentiments gives the complexion to them whilst it exists, but it is not enduring, and is succeeded by other emotions, which, for the time, overcome the better feelings of the heart. This sanguine temperament gives what we call the generous character; the warmth of temper which, in moderation, we rather admire as heightening the affections, and giving joy and gladness: but it has also its sorrows and its errors.--There is the quick resentment and the passionate grief, and these are the dark aspects which are full of tears and lamentation. Hamlet, you know, says to Horatio:--

“Give me the man that is not passion’s slave,
And I will wear him in my heart’s core;
Aye, in my heart of hearts, as I do thee.”

In sanguine people, the train of thoughts appears to be much quicker than in others. This is attended with certain advantages, but corresponding disadvantages. Such minds are imaginative--what is called ingenious. The associations are not too strong to forbid erratic thoughts; relations are often readily perceived, but there is less exactness. The memory is, perhaps, less retentive, and the speed of the thoughts leads often to confusion. They crowd on one another until indistinctness arises. This indistinctness is sometimes painful.

This kind of mind is what is called passionate; hence the term _hasty_, which may be well used as indicative of a too rapid procession of thoughts. The mind cannot well operate in this hurried state. The ideas flash across, but they light up too fiercely a train of associations to admit the suggestions of other minds.

The brain is, perhaps, over sensitive, and its powers too readily exhausted, and too intense whilst in operation.

The Lymphatic Temperament is quite the reverse of the sanguine. Those who have this temperament are not easily moved, or excited; the skin is pale. Such persons are better calculated to undergo anxieties, or meet the exigencies of sudden emergencies. The mind has not those quick sympathies, or brilliant imaginings, which distinguish a warmer temperament.

There is a steady, cool calculation, which is more adapted to worldly prosperity; feelings less readily wounded, and less apt to betray themselves in the excitement of life. Some possess this in a surprising degree, and many assume it. Many cover a natural sensibility by the forms and usages which polite life has invented, and studiously avoid showing the natural burst of affection, or the bitter outpourings of grief.

It is well, in some degree, that this should be done; but let not nature be altogether destroyed, and all the fine sensibilities crushed, under an artful and sophisticated mannerism.

There is a story told of a cockney, who visited the beautiful and romantic scenery of the Alps, and being asked his impression of a sublime prospect, which suddenly burst on his view, said, that he must confess “_it was a well got up thing_.” This is the school of fashion, which gives us two fingers to touch as a welcome, after the absence of as many years.

In some, the operations of the mind are so slow that they seem to stagnate, and pass into reverie. The extreme of this condition lapses into a state of imbecility and fatuity; but a certain degree of apathy has its advantages. The mind has time to act; there is no overcrowding of ideas--no hurry of thought. There is more continuance of application--less impatience of consideration. The _affections_ do not trouble the operations of the mind. There are not those quick sympathies which have relations with every thing that passes.

There are some people, again, in whose constitution the nervous system seems to have an unnatural preponderance; the mind seems to be constantly in a restless state, and to wear out the body in a ceaseless activity, or in the struggles of overweening ambition. Such characters are ever pressing on in the competition of social life; often a prey to cares and anxieties, which follow each other in a never-ending succession. “_After life’s fitful fever_,” they indeed “_sleep well_.”

Hypochondriacal feelings are, no doubt, in a great measure, connected with constitution or temperament. Melancholy is much more common than is generally conceived, and may be, as I have already hinted, perhaps in some degree inseparable from a mind which highly appreciates the beautiful, has quick sympathies with all around, and a thoughtful regard to the possibilities, and even probabilities of a changing world. On this account it has always been considered by the poets as a poetic feeling, and though this view may have attracted the sneers of some, or the ridicule of others, there is a certain truth in the opinion. Ben Jonson alludes to this notion, with respect to melancholy, as an accompaniment of sensibility, in his “_Every Man in his Humour_.”

“_Stephen._ Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.

“_Matthew._ Oh! it’s your only fine humour, sir; your true
melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself
divers times, sir; and then do I no more but take pen and paper
presently, and overflow your half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a
sitting.”--Act III., Scene 1.

Again:--

“_Ed. Knowall_.... What think you of this, coz?

“_Stephen._ Why, I do think of it; and I will be more proud and
melancholy and gentlemanlike than I have been, I’ll insure you.”--Act
I., Scene 2.

In Scott’s “Diary” (May, 1827,) he says:--“Imagination renders us the victim of occasional low spirits. All belonging to this gifted, as it is called, but often unhappy class, must have felt, but for the dictates of religion, or the natural recoil of the mind from the idea of dissolution, there have been times when they would have been willing to throw away life, as a child does a broken toy. I am sure I know one who has often felt so.”

A disposition to melancholy is by no means, as might at first be imagined, necessarily indicated by a grave and staid deportment.

In a large proportion of instances, it is even coupled with an exuberance of spirits, which would seem to promise a perpetual sunshine of cheerfulness.

The mind, however, which is alive to joy, is also, and perhaps equally, alive to sorrow; and often passes by quick transitions from the one to the other.

Our great dramatist, in mingling the ludicrous with the tragic, has evidently shown his acquaintance with this tendency of the human mind. Byron has happily blended in some of his most successful passages the sublime and the ridiculous, thereby greatly heightening the effect of both. In his “_Corsair_,” however, he has directly touched upon this peculiarity of the mind, where he says--

“Strange though it seem, yet with extremest grief
Is linked a mirth,--it doth not bring relief.
That playfulness of sorrow ne’er beguiles,
And smiles in bitterness,--but still it smiles.”

In Dr. Currie’s Life of Burns, allusion is made to the combination of melancholy and gaiety in the character of that extraordinary poet.

Notwithstanding the gaiety of Burns’ writings, he was constitutionally a melancholy man, and was subject “to those depressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, but which, in him, arose to an uncommon degree.” ... “Such a disposition is far from being at variance with social enjoyments. Those who have studied the affinities of mind, know that a melancholy of this description after a while seeks relief in the endearments of society, and that it has no distant connexion with the flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of mirth.”[29]

In a letter from Sir Walter Scott to his daughter in-law, the following mention is made of Matthews, the comedian. “I am glad you like my old acquaintance, Matthews. Some day I will make him show his talent for your amusement in private--for I know him well. It is very odd--he is often subject to fits of deep melancholy.”[30]

From these cursory remarks on melancholy, I may proceed to speak of some particular states of mind, which attend the same peculiarity of temperament, and though not incompatible with mental sanity, are yet to be considered as bordering upon derangement.

Some of the illustrations I shall bring forward are from works of poetry, but may be considered, nevertheless, as expressive of actual facts, because I have scrupulously avoided making use of them where the subject had need of graver support; so that in effect they are rather introduced to relieve and exemplify the matter, than to substantiate it. The curious feelings to which I allude, exist in various degrees of intensity in different people. They cannot be considered as common to everybody, and are far more frequent or powerful in the imaginative and eccentric, than in others. Yet I should conceive that they prevail to a greater extent than is commonly supposed.

Amongst this class of feelings may be placed the disposition which is sometimes manifested by those who stand on precipitous cliffs to cast themselves down. This seems suggested by a kind of insane impulse, which is dreaded by the very person who indulges it.

Scott beautifully alludes to such a feeling in “The Lady of the Lake.”

“There are, who have at midnight hour,
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower,
And on the verge that beetled o’er
The ocean tides incessant roar,
Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream,
Till wakened by the morning beam;
When dazzled by the eastern glow,
Such startler cast his glance below,
And saw unmeasured depths around,
And heard unintermitted sound,
And thought the battled fence so frail,
It waved like cobweb in the gale;
Amid his senses giddy wheel
Did he not desperate impulse feel
Headlong to plunge himself below,
And meet the worst his fears foreshow?”