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MIND AND BODY:

THEIR MUTUAL RELATION,

BY MR. W. J. COX, M. R.C. S., &c.

"Delivered at the Kensall Green Mechanics' Institute, London; and at Wigan Mechanics' Institute.]

Is forming an estimate of the value of any branch of knowledge, we should, I think, be cautious of the invariable application of the cui bono question: neither be always inclined to adopt the mathematician's standard of excellence, who, after reading "Paradise Lost," said, "Very fine; but what does it prove?" Let us not despise an inquiry into those finer and deeper, if more remote, matters which constitute the charm and poetry of life, and have powerful indirect efforts on the character and happiness of the individual man, and on the intellectual progress of nations. Goëthe, in an eloquent passage, says,— "When the man of the world is devoting his days to wasting melancholy for some deep disappointment, or in the ebullience of his joy is going out to meet his happy destiny, the all-conceiving spirit of the poet steps forth, and with soft transitions tunes his heart either to joy or woe." Would that I, with equally lofty eloquence, could impress on you the conception I myself have formed of the practical value of a more general acquaintance with those studies which chasten the taste, discipline the

mind, invigorate the understanding, improve the heart, and keep in abeyance the corroding and baser feelings which embitter and shorten the term of human existence. For us, then, let not Hamlet breathe his lofty philosophy, nor Bacon teach wisdom, in vain; nor Milton pass the bounds of place and time, to trace the councils of hell, and lead the choirs of heaven.

The thoughts and faculties of our intellectual frames, and all that we admire and reverence in human genius; the moral laws, which are ever felt by us with pleasure or with remorse according as they are obeyed or violated; the virtuous qualities of those we love, and the vices we view with abhorence or pity; the feeling of dependence upon the gracious GoD who formed us, and the expectation of a state of being whose duration shall not be measured by the beatings of a feeble pulse;—all these tend to impress on us the importance of a knowledge of the relation of our minds to our mortal bodies.

Be it far from me to presume to lead you into the mazes of metaphysics, where, indeed, I apprehend leader as well as followers would soon be hopelessly entangled: on the contrary, it is my intention to be as matter-of-fact as possible, and to adhere pretty closely to the recital of ascertained facts and phenomena. In the first place, let us understand the terms it will be necessary to employ. By mind I mean not the scul per se, but the soul as it dwells in the body: not the disembodied, but the embodied spirit. The body, on the other hand, is only animated matter. Two worlds, one intellectual and the other sensual, were equally given to us from the beginning; and all attempts to deduce them from one principle (excepting the Divine source) have failed. This, then, is the duality which we must accept as the boundary line of mortal knowledge. For information touching the soul in its future state of existence we must look alone to revelation. It is beyond the limits of human

intellect. I have said that all endeavours to deduce the two principles of our being from one origin have failed. Nevertheless such attempts have been made, and supported by powerful thinkers and subtle intellects; and it behoves us, ere we proceed, to consider the most prominent and plausible of these hypotheses. Fichte considered the body as a phenomenon only of the mind. This is a mere waste of words; for it advances us not a step towards the solution of the enigma. Schelling more ingeniously contended that the mind and body merged into each other's existence. This not only fails to give a solution to the question at issue, but is opposed to known facts. For we are sometimes conscious that the two different principles obey different laws; that the self-preservation of the spirit may interfere and be incompatible with that of the body; that we have in truth in our nature a spirit often "warring with the law of our members." Materialism, however, is the most important of these theories, and has the largest number of supporters. By this system, it is pretended that the mind is but a product of the body, a result of its organization. No studied or elaborate arguments are required to show its fallacy: a single fact of natural science will suffice. Physiology teaches us that all parts and organs of our bodies are constantly being wasted and renewed from the elements of surrounding nature. But the mind remains the same. To give an illus

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tration:-Napoleon on his dying couch, at St. Helena, was assuredly the same spirit that rose to the surface of the republican tornado; conquered at Marengo and Austerlitz; soared over the fettered European states; was baffled at Moscow; despaired at Leipsic; and sank on the bloody field of Waterloo. fabric of his body had been changed a score of times during that stormy and unexampled period of time: yet, a few hours only before he passed for ever from the dreams of battle, he conversed with his faithful Bertrand on his past campaigns, and showed a

memory unimpaired respecting all the great events of his career.

And, were it not somewhat a "begging of the question," I would say, that the upholders of Materialism can scarcely be supposed sensible of the monstrous conclusion they must admit: for to contend that the mind is a mere emanation of the body, -a product of its organization,-is in effect to assert that the inorganic elements, of which our bodies are composed, are capable, when combined, of creating all the mighty works of human genius. They have no escape from the astounding conclusion, that the combination of a few pounds of charcoal and lime, and a few ounces of sulphur and phosphorus, with a certain amount of water, and the gases of the atmosphere, is all that is needed to demonstrate the law of gravitation to dissect the desolation of an antediluvian world, and to supply a physiology to destruction-trace the path of an undetected orb-to invent the steam engine and telegraph-to produce the Venus and the Laocoon-to paint the Madonna, and the Transfiguration-to write the Iliad, the Novum Organum, Paradise Lost, King Lear, Le Tartuffe, Rasselas, Locke's Essay, Faust, Festus, Revolt of Islam, and David Copperfield. Accepting, then, this dualism as it exists (and which indeed we find by analysis of the unity given to us)-this testimony of the two worlds which we ourselves present-let us content ourselves with endeavouring to acquire correct knowledge of their reciprocal relations.

To commence, then, properly with our subject. The mind exercises an important influence on the body. As in the body there are two classes of nerves --of sensation and of volition-so are there two great orders of mental faculties, the intellectual and the affective. Sensation, perception, thought, judgment and imagination, are operations of the intellect. Love, fear, hope, ambition, pride, envy, hatred, &c., belong to the passions or emotions. A law of asso

ciation governs both, and they are also powerfully controlled by habit. As the intellectual faculties become possessed of the materials of thought through the senses, it is upon the senses they re-act; but as the passions seek their own gratification through the agency of the will on the muscles, it is on the latter they chiefly display their power. Hence the influence of the intellect on the body is much less than that of the passions. The imagination, however, seems to have a strong affinity with the passions and emotions; it holds, indeed, a middle place between the intellect on the one hand, and the passions on the other, adding vigour to thought, whilst it decks the objects of desire with attractions. Imagination is the only intellectual faculty which exercises a direct effect on the bodily organs; it acts by producing in them the same state as is usually brought about by external objects. These false impressions may affect all the organs of sense, but the eye especially. As illustrations on this point, I may mention the apparently increased magnitude of the sun and moon on rising and setting, the green colour of strips of sky between strata of red clouds, the seemingly infinite number of the stars, all of which are delusions of the sense of sight. The common experiment of touching a marble with the tips of two fingers of the same hand crossed, producing the exact sensation of the presence of two marbles, will serve as an instance of the effect of imagination over the sense of touch.

The influence of the passions over the body is much more extensive than that of the imagination. For the imagination, strictly speaking, affects only the organs of sense; whilst the passions, excited by the imagination, influence every part and function of the body. Thus fear, acting through the imagination, creates false sensations. A good instance of this sort is afforded us by the case of a thief, to whom in common with several other suspected persons, a stick of a measured length was given; with the as

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