Physician and patient

by Worthington Hooker

Now what is true of the cases that we have cited is true in every case—all mental aberration, however slight it may be, results from the connection of the mind with the body, and would not occur without this connection. It is the product of some impression made upon the material organization, either directly, or indirectly through the mind. This impression may be momentary and evanescent, or it may produce a real change of structure. It would be interesting to enlarge upon these points, but it is not necessary for our purpose.

We speak of the brain as the seat of the mind, or soul. If we mean by this simply, that this is the great central organ of that system in the body (the nervous system) through which the mind acts upon external things, and is acted upon by them, it is correct so to speak. But if we mean to localize the mind, as sitting there, and especially if we fix upon some one part of the brain, as Descartes did upon the pineal gland (a body smaller than a pea) as the seat, the throne of the mind, the illustration is an erroneous one. The mind acts upon the whole body, through all the parts of the nervous system, and each portion of that system has its own peculiar offices to perform in obedience to the mind. This is as true of the brain as it is of the rest of the nervous system. This organ is a complex one, and the different parts have their different offices. This we know in regard to some of these parts, and we can justly presume it in regard to others. And we do this without adopting the fanciful ideas of phrenologists in locating the different faculties of the mind.

While the brain is the great central organ of the nervous system, by which the mind imparts and receives impressions, there are other parts of that same system which seem to bear some other relation to the mind than that by which they transmit these impressions to and from the mind through the brain, as the nerves ordinarily do. They seem to have a connection with the mind independent of the direct agency of the brain, and for aught we know they have such a connection. When the mind is affected by any passion, either of the cheerful or the depressing kind, its sensible effects upon the body are not observable chiefly in the brain, but in the region of the heart and the other organs adjacent to it. The thrill of joy is felt there, and grief produces there its sensation of oppression, prompting the occasional sigh to relieve it.

Such facts as these led an eminent French physiologist, Bichat, to adopt the theory, that while the intellectual functions have their seat in the brain, the moral sentiments have theirs in the ganglionic system of nerves, (as it is called,) which has certain great nervous centres in the region of the heart, stomach, &c.

I will not stop to expose the fallacy of this plausible theory. It is sufficient for my purpose simply to advert to the fact, that the moral sentiments of the mind or soul are manifested more in that part of the body than in the brain. The very language of the affections, and the gestures which accompany the utterance of that language, or supply its place when feeling is too big for utterance, are in consonance with this fact. We speak of the heart, and we place the hand upon the heart when the moral sentiments are in lively action. And when feeling is so great as to be overpowering, or when the attempt is made to suppress it, there is with the load which is felt at the heart, a sensation of choking, (no word expresses it so well as this homely one,) preventing utterance; and then when it finds vent, it seems as if there was a gushing forth from the heart, not merely figuratively, but from the material heart that is throbbing in our bosoms.

The fact which I have been illustrating shows the force of such expressions in the Bible as ‘bowels of compassion,’ ‘bowels did yearn,’ &c. It throws some light also on the influence of grief upon the stomach, and on the depression of spirits which so sorely afflicts the dyspeptic.

It gives but a faint idea, then, of the all-pervading connection of the mind with the body, to suppose the mind to be locked up in some chamber of the brain, there receiving by the nerves messages from every quarter, and sending forth messages in return by the same media. There is no evidence of the existence of one great central point of attachment for the mind, but the ties of its connection with the body are multiplied and diffused. It is not merely, therefore, positive disease existing in the brain that affects the mind. Disorder of mind is infinitely modified by the different seats and modes of disease in different portions of the nervous system, as well as in different parts of the brain itself. I speak not now of palpable insanity alone, but of all the various states of mind occurring in sickness.

One of the most common and prominent characteristics of the state of mind in sickness, is weakness. The weakness of body caused by disease is generally accompanied by a corresponding debility of mind. When Cassius speaks of Cæsar, as asking, ‘give me some drink, Titinius, as a sick girl,’ you see something more than weakness of muscle—the giant mind of the mighty Cæsar is prostrated to effeminacy.

And as weakness of muscle is attended with unsteady, irregular, and sometimes even spasmodic action of its fibres, so it is with weakness of mind. Its efforts are fitful, and it is easily thrown off from its balance. A feeble man tottering along, occasionally resting upon his staff, or taking hold of a post or a fence, is thrown down by the gentlest touch, or by stumbling over even a slight obstacle, that he chances not to see so as to avoid or guard against it. And in the tedious journey of sickness, mind and body totter along in their feebleness together, and either is exceedingly liable to fall. And if the one fall, the other is pulled down with it. The guide, therefore, of these two travellers in this journey, must see to it, that all obstacles in the way of either be removed or avoided, that no rude hand be permitted to touch them, and that all those supports be supplied on the way which either can best use.

The mental weakness which disease occasions, is often exhibited to the physician under affecting circumstances. Minds that have been able to grasp the most difficult and abstruse subjects return, in the debility of sickness, to the simplest ideas—those which are both common and precious to the child, the man, the angel, and to God himself. The ‘strong meat’ is turned from, for the ‘milk of babes.’ I remember one of lofty intellect, fading away with consumption, who well exemplified this remark. Her aged father was reading to her a chapter in one of the epistles of Paul. ‘It is good,’ said she, ‘but I cannot understand it now. It bewilders me. Something more simple—something from the Apostle John is better for my poor feeble mind.’