Every faculty manifests itself by means of matter, but it is important not to confound the faculty with the corporeal organ upon which the external manifestation of such faculty depends. The word organ is the name given to a part of the human frame by which we have sensation, and by means of which we do a certain act or work; such are the organs of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. All these organs are passive, and require to be operated on ab extra, precisely in the same way as the musical organ, which is an instrument constructed by man, requires man's interference for the production of musical sounds.
When a musician sits down to a piano, the music cannot be said to be in the instrument, but in the soul of the performer. If the instrument be in good order, the inspiration of a Thalberg or of a Liszt will become apparent; break the cords or otherwise damage the instrument, and nothing but discordant strains are produced, the musical faculty of the performer, however, remaining unaffected. We are all familiar with Plato's celebrated dialogue on the Immortality of the Soul, where a disputant with Socrates inquires if the soul is not like the harmony of a lyre, more beautiful, more divine than the lyre itself, but yet is nothing without the lyre, vanishing when this instrument is broken.
Let me further illustrate this point by an allusion to the electric telegraph, by means of which ideas and words are transmitted from mind to mind with a rapidity to which ordinary language cannot attain. Now, the electrical battery may be not inaptly compared to the brain, and the telegraph wires to the nerves which emanate from it. If the battery be out of order, or the telegraph wires be broken, this lightning language, by which mind speaks to mind, becomes impossible. In the same way, idiocy may be considered as a disease of the instrument rather than of the performer; the idiot's brain is damaged and has become an unfit instrument for the outward manifestation of the powers of the mind, but the lowest idiot possesses the germs of intellectual activity and moral responsibility; and within his malconstructed organism, there lies concealed in its fragile, fleshly casket, a precious jewel of immortality—an imperishable essence that is destined to live on for ever and for aye, through countless æons of time, when the dicta of these dreamers of whom I have been speaking, to use the language of one of them, "shall have melted away like streaks of morning cloud into the infinite azure of the past."
I repeat it, we must take care not to confound the organ with the person who possesses this organ: the eye is not that which sees, it is only the organ by which we see; the ear is not that which hears, it is only the organ by which we hear. Precisely in the same way and in the same sense, the brain is the organ of mind, the organ by which our mental faculties become externally manifested. That it cannot be otherwise is shewn by the results of memory. The brain is of a perishable nature, its atoms are constantly changing; the body is continually throwing off old particles and appropriating new ones, every breath that is drawn, and every exertion that is made, cause some minute change in the bodily frame-work, so that it is never entirely the same;[34] there is no person, therefore, who has the same brain that he had 20 years ago; and the vivid impressions of the past are utterly inexplicable on the supposition that mental activity is a mere function of any perishable organ like the brain, but they necessitate the conclusion that mind and body, spirit and matter, are two entirely heterogeneous substances, and that mind—the concrete Ego—is independent of the material organ by which its external manifestation is alone possible.[35]
However tempting it might be, I feel I must not trespass any further by dwelling on the mysterious connection between matter and mind, a subject the complete comprehension of which is beyond the limits of our finite capacities. As Goethe philosophically remarks, "We are eternally in contact with problems. Man is an obscure being, he knows little of the world, and of himself least of all."
It would seem that the great Roman orator, nearly 2,000 years ago, with prescient eye, foresaw the attempts that would hereafter be made to pry into the hidden mysteries of Nature, when he said:—
"Latent ista omnia, Luculle, crassis occultata et circumfusa tenebris, ut nulla acies humani ingenii tanta sit, quæ penetrare in cœlum, terra intrare possit."
These lines of Cicero would seem to be peculiarly applicable to certain modern philosophers, who, in their attempts to bridge over the gulf—the impassable gulf—which separates matter from mind, persistently ignore the fact that there are certain things which, from their very nature, are beyond the pale of precise knowledge, and which cannot be determined by physical investigation—which, in fact, lie outside the sphere of man's intellect. I believe the question I am discussing is one of these, and that, although we may grope with the taper of science into the dark caverns whence seem to issue the springs of humanity, we shall probably fail to understand the mysterious connection between matter and mind, a theme essentially beyond the grasp of human intelligence, and which cannot be fathomed by the puny plummet of human thought or touch.
The study of the idiot is calculated to elucidate this overwhelmingly important subject, and I believe the Idiot Asylum is destined to become the arena and battlefield on which this great question will have to be fought out.