When both the body and mind are healthy, the relative intensity of the two kinds of impressions is very unequally divided, mental images being more evanescent and comparatively weak, and with persons of ordinary temperament incapable of effacing or disturbing the reflections of visible objects. The affairs of life could not go on if the memory introduced amongst them brilliant representations of the past in the midst of ordinary domestic scenes or the objects familiar to us. We may account for this by supposing that the set of nerves which carries the efforts of the memory to the brain cannot execute their functions at the same time as those which take cognizance of the images reflected on the retina. In other words, the mind cannot accomplish two separate functions at one and the same time, and the mere act of directing the attention to one class of subjects causes all others to become instantly imperceptible. The exercise of the mind in these instances is, however, so rapid that the alternate appearance and disappearance of the two different impressions is completely unnoticed. Thus, for instance, while looking at the dome of St. Paul’s, if our memory suddenly evokes the image of some other object, Mont Blanc for instance, the picture of the cathedral, although still depicted on our retina, is momentarily effaced by the effort of the will, although we may not change the position of our eyes during the time. While the memory continues to dwell on the picture it has called up, it is seen with sufficient distinctness, although its details may be somewhat misty and its colours confused; but as soon as the wish to see it passes away the whole disappears, and the cathedral is seen in all its former distinctness.
In darkness and solitude, when surrounding objects produce no images that can interfere with those of the mind, these latter are more lively and distinct: and when in addition we are half asleep and half awake, the intensity of mental impressions approaches that of visible objects. In the case of persons of studious habits who are continually employed in mental effort, these images are more distinct than with those who follow the ordinary avocations of life, and during their working hours rarely see the objects round them. The earnest thinker, absorbed by meditation, is in a manner deprived for the time of the use of his senses. His children and servants pass in and out of his study without his seeing them, they speak to him without his hearing them and they may even try to rouse him from his reverie without success; and yet his eyes, ears, and nerves received the impression of light, sound, and touch. In such instances, the mind of the philosopher is voluntarily occupied in following out an idea which interests him profoundly; but even the most unlearned and thoughtless of us sees the images of dead or absent friends with his mind’s eye, or even fantastic figures which have nothing to do with the train of thought he may be pursuing. It is with these involuntary apparitions as with spectres of the imagination: although they are intimately connected with some thought that has passed through our mind unperceived, it is impossible to trace a single link of the chain connecting them together.
PART II.
THE LAWS OF LIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT IS LIGHT?
Everybody knows the effects of the action of light, without, however, understanding precisely what constitutes light itself. Any formal definition would rather puzzle than help the student; we must therefore content ourselves with saying that light is that effect of force which causes us to perceive external objects.
A man who was blind from his birth, and upon whom the operation for cataract had been successfully performed, had accustomed himself for a long time to imagine the nature of those unknown phenomena that his affliction had prevented him from observing. He had arranged in his mind the various definitions that had been given to him as to the nature of light, and having combined them, he fancied he had acquired some notion of what the sense of vision really meant. But what was the astonishment of the surgeon who had restored to him his fifth sense, when he asked him to give his opinion upon the effects of light, to see him take up a lump of sugar and reply that it was under that form that he had imagined it to himself.
As for us who have the happiness of possessing the sense of sight, we know this mysterious agent more by the enjoyment that we have derived from it, than from any analysis we have made of its nature. It is an endless chain that connects us with the entire universe; a bond that laughs at distance and spans the abysses of space. By means of light we can appreciate the beauties of hue and form, and by its power we touch as it were the inaccessible. It constitutes the most intimate connexion between ourselves and external objects—a connexion that seems even to alter our temper, disposition, and character, according to the variations of its intensity. The dull and foggy days of winter, those days when sleet and rain struggle in the atmosphere, spread like a veil over us, and throw a shadow upon our life. The return of the bright spring sun, the reappearance of light and blue sky, on the contrary, open up our hearts and minds, gay nature enchants us once more, and a feeling of fresh happiness prepares us for the coming glories of the newly risen year.