1. Our usual mode of speaking of imagination, is to treat it as the opposite of all reality. When we say, 'that was merely an imagination,' we dismiss the topic as not worthy of another thought. For all ordinary purposes, this mode of speaking is correct enough; but let us ask, Why is imagination so weak?—why are its suggestions so evanescent? Simply because it is under the control of reason. But if the action of reason could be suspended, we should then see how great, and even formidable, is the imaginative power. It is the most untiring of all our mental faculties, refusing to be put to rest even during sleep: it can alter the influence of all external agents—for example, can either assist or prevent the effects of medicine—can make the world a prison-house to one man, and a paradise to another—can turn dwarfs into giants, and make various other metamorphoses more wonderful than any described by Ovid; nay, these are all insufficient examples of its power when left without control; for it can produce either health, or disease, or death!

To give a familiar instance of the control under which it is generally compelled to act: You are walking home in the night-time, and some withered and broken old tree assumes, for a moment, the appearance of a giant about to make an attack upon you with an enormous club. You walk forward to confront the monster with perfect coolness. Why? Not because you are a Mr Greatheart, accustomed to deal with giants, but because, in fact, the illusion does not keep possession of your mind even for a moment. Imagination merely suggests the false image; but memory and reason, with a rapidity of action which cannot be described, instantly correct the mistake, and tell you it is only the old elm-tree; so that here, and in a thousand similar instances, there is really no sufficient time allowed for any display of the power of imagination.

A tale is told—we cannot say on what authority—which, whether it be a fact or a fiction, is natural, and may serve very well to shew what would be the effect of imagination if reason did not interfere. It is said that the companions of a young man, who was very 'wild,' had foolishly resolved to try to frighten him into better conduct. For this purpose, one of the party was arrayed in a white sheet, with a lighted lantern carried under it, and was to visit the young man a little after midnight, and address to him a solemn warning. The business, however, was rather dangerous, as the subject of this experiment generally slept with loaded pistols near him. Previously to the time fixed for the apparition, the bullets were abstracted from these weapons, leaving them charged only with gunpowder. When the spectre stalked into the chamber, the youth instantly suspected a trick, and, presenting one of the pistols, said: 'Take care of yourself: if you do not walk off, I shall fire!' Still stood the goblin, staring fixedly on the angry man. He fired; and when he saw the object still standing—when he believed that the bullet had innocuously passed through it—in other words, as soon as reason failed to explain it and imagination prevailed—he fell back upon his pillow in extreme terror.

2. The point upon which we would insist is that, in the normal condition of the mind and the body, the power of imagination is so governed, that a display of the effects it produces while under the control of reason, can give us but a feeble notion of what its power might be in other circumstances. To make this plain, we add a few suggestions respecting the nature and extent of the control exercised by reason over imagination; and we shall next proceed to shew, that the activity of reason is dependent upon certain physical conditions.

We shall say nothing of a metaphysical nature respecting reason, but shall simply point to two important facts connected with its exercise. The first—that it suspends or greatly modifies the action of other powers—has already been noticed in our remarks on imagination; but we must state it here in more distinct terms. We especially wish the reader to understand how wide and important is the meaning of the terms 'control' and 'overrule' as we use them when we say: 'reason controls, or overrules, imagination!' When we say that, in nature, the laws which regulate one stage of existence overrule the laws of another and a lower stage, we do not intend to say that the latter are annulled, but that they are so controlled and modified in their course of action, that they can no longer produce the effects which would take place if they were left free from such control. A few examples will make our meaning plain. Let us contrast the operations of chemistry with those of mechanism. In the latter, substances act upon each other simply by pressure, motion, friction, &c.; but in chemistry, affinities and combinations come into play, producing results far beyond any that are seen in mechanics. On mechanical principles, the trituration of two substances about equal in hardness should simply reduce them to powder, but in chemistry, it may produce a gaseous explosion. Again—vegetable life overrules chemistry: the leaves, twigs, and branches of a tree, if left without life, would, when exposed to the agencies of air, light, heat, and moisture, be partly reduced to dust and partly diffused as gas in the atmosphere. It is the vegetative life of the tree which controls both the mechanical and the chemical powers of wind, rain, heat, and gravitation; and it is not until the life is extinct that these inferior powers come into full play upon the tree. So, again, the animal functions control chemical laws—take digestion, for example: a vegetable cut up by the root and exposed to the air, passes through a course of chemical decomposition, and is finally converted into gas; but when an animal consumes a vegetable, it is not decomposed according to the chemical laws, but is digested, becomes chyle, and is assimilated to the body of the animal. It is obvious that animal life controls mechanical laws. Thus, the friction of two inert substances wears one of them away—the soft yields to the hard; but, on the contrary, the hand of the labourer who wields the spade or the pickaxe becomes thicker and harder by friction.

The bearing of these remarks upon our present point will soon be obvious: we multiply examples, in order to shew in what an important sense we use the word control, with regard to the relation of reason with imagination. As we have seen, chemistry overrules the mechanical laws; vegetation suspends the laws of chemistry; a superior department of animal life controls influences which are laws in a lower department; again, mind controls the effects of physical influences; and, lastly, one power of the mind controls, and in a great measure suspends, the natural activity of another power—reason controls imagination. A second fact with regard to the action of reason must be noticed—that it requires a wakeful condition of the brain. Some may suppose that they have reasoned very well during sleep; but we suspect that, if they could recollect their syllogisms, they would find them not much better than Mickle's poetry composed during sleep. Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, sometimes expressed his regret that he could not remember the poetry which he improvised in his dreams, for he had a vague impression that it was very beautiful. 'Well,' said his wife, 'I can at least give you two lines, which I heard you muttering over during one of your poetic dreams. Here they are:

"By Heaven! I'll wreak my woes Upon the cowslip and the pale primrose!"'

If we required proof that the operation of reason demands a wakeful and active condition of the brain, we might find it in the fact, that all intellectual efforts which imply sound reasoning are prevented even by a partial sleepiness or dreaminess. A light novel may be read and enjoyed while the mind is in an indolent and dreamy state; music may be enjoyed, or even composed, in the same circumstances, because it is connected rather with the imaginative than with the logical faculty; but, not to mention any higher efforts, we cannot play a game of chess well unless we are 'wide awake.'

Now we come to our point:—Supposing that, by any means, the brain can be deprived of that wakefulness and activity which is required for a free exercise of the reasoning powers, then what would be the effect on the imagination? For an answer to this query, we shall not refer to the phenomena of natural sleep and dreaming, because it is evident that the subjects of the experiments we have to explain are not in a state of natural sleep; we shall rather refer to the condition of the brain during what we may call 'doziness,' and also to the effects sometimes produced by disease on the imagination and the senses.

We all know that in a state of 'doziness,' any accidental or ridiculous image which happens to suggest itself, will remain in the mind much longer than in a wakeful condition. A few slight, shapeless marks on the ceiling will assume the form of a face or a full-length figure; and strange physiognomies will be found among the flowers on the bed-curtains. In the impressible and passive state of the brain left by any illness which produces nervous exhaustion, such imaginations often become very troublesome. Impressions made on the brain some time ago will now reappear. Jean Paul Richter cautions us not to tell frightful stories to children, for this reason—that, though the 'horrible fancies' may all be soon forgotten by the healthful child, yet afterwards, when some disease—a fever, for instance—has affected the brain and the nerves, all the dismissed goblins may too vividly reproduce themselves. Our experience can confirm the observation. Some years ago, we went to a circus, where, during the equestrian performances, some trivial popular airs were played on brass instruments—cornets and trombones—dismally out of tune. Now, by long practice, we have acquired the art of utterly turning our attention away from, bad music, so that it annoys us no more than the rumble of wheels in Fleet Street. We exercised this voluntary deafness on the occasion. But not long afterwards, we were compelled, during an attack of disease which affected the nervous system, to hear the whole discordant performance repeated again and again, with a pertinacity which was really very distressing. Such a case prepares us to give credit to a far more remarkable story, related in one of the works of Macnish. A clergyman, we are told, who was a skilful violinist, and frequently played over some favourite solo or concerto, was obliged to desist from practice on account of the dangerous illness of his servant-maid—if we remember truly, phrenitis was the disease. Of course, the violin was laid aside; but one day, the medical attendant, on going toward the chamber of his patient, was surprised to hear the violin-solo performed in rather subdued tones. On examination, it was found that the girl, under the excitement of disease, had imitated the brilliant divisions and rapid passages of the music which had impressed her imagination during health! We might multiply instances of the singular effects of peculiar conditions of the brain upon the imaginative faculty. For one case we can give our personal testimony. A young man, naturally imaginative, but by no means of weak mind, or credulous, or superstitious, saw, even in broad daylight, spectres or apparitions of persons far distant. After being accustomed to these visits, he regarded them without any fear, except on account of the derangement of health which they indicated. These visions were banished by a course of medical treatment. In men of great imaginative power, with whom reason is by no means deficient, phenomena sometimes occur almost as vivid as those of disease in other persons. Wordsworth, speaking of the impressions derived from certain external objects, says:

—————— on the mind They lay like images, and seemed almost To haunt the bodily sense!

Again, in his verses recording his impression of the beauty of a bed of daffodils, he says:

And oft, when on my couch I lie, [dozing?] They flash before that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

These words are nothing more, we believe, than a simple and unexaggerated statement of a mental phenomenon.

Enough has now been said to shew, that in a certain condition of the brain, when it is deprived of the wakefulness and activity necessary for the free use of reason, the effects of imagination may far exceed any that are displayed during a normal, waking state of the intellectual faculties. The question now remains: Are the means employed by the professors of electro-biology sufficient to produce that peculiar condition to which we refer? We believe that they are; and shall proceed to give reasons for such belief.

3. What are these means? or rather let us ask, 'Amid the various means employed, which is the real agent?' We observe that, in the different processes by which—under the names of electro-biology or mesmerism—a peculiar cerebral condition is induced, such means as the following are employed:—Fixed attention on one object—it may be a metallic disk said to have galvanic power, or a sixpence, or a cork; silence, and a motionless state of the body are favourable to the intended result; monotonous movements by the experimenter, called 'passes,' may be used or not. The process may be interrupted by frequent winking, to relieve the eyes; by studying over some question or problem; or, if the patient is musical, by going through various pieces of music in his imagination; by anything, indeed, which tends to keep the mind wakeful. Now, when we find among the various means one invariably present, in some form or another—monotony of attention producing a partial exhaustion of the nervous energy, we have reason to believe that this is the real agent.

But how can the 'fixed gaze upon the disk' affect reason? Certainly, it does not immediately affect reason; but through the nerves of the eye it very powerfully operates on the organ of reason, the brain, and induces an impressive, passive, and somnolent condition.

Such a process as the 'fixed gaze on a small disk for about the space of a quarter of an hour,' must not be dismissed as a trifle. It is opposed to the natural wakeful action of the brain and the eye. Let it be observed that, in waking hours, the eye is continually in play, relieving itself, and guarding against weariness and exhaustion by unnumbered changes of direction. This is the case even during such an apparently monotonous use of the eye as we find in reading. As sleep approaches, the eye is turned upwards, as we find it also in some cases of disease—hysteria, for example; and it should be noticed, that this position of the eye is naturally connected with a somnolent and dreaming condition of the brain. In several of the subjects of the so-called electro-biological experiments, we observed that the eyes were partially turned upward. It is curious to notice that this mode of acting on the brain is of very ancient date, at least among the Hindoos. In their old poem, the Bhagavad-Gita, it is recommended as a religious exercise, superior to prayer, almsgiving, attendance at temples, &c.; for the god Crishna, admitting that these actions are good, so far as they go, says: 'but he who, sitting apart, gazes fixedly upon one object until he forgets home and kindred, himself, and all created things—he attains perfection.' Not having at hand any version of the Bhagavad-Gita, we cannot now give an exact translation of the passage; but we are quite sure that it recommends a state of stupefaction of the brain, induced by a long-continued fixed gaze upon one object.

We have now stated, 1st, That such an act of long-fixed attention upon one object, has a very remarkable effect on the brain; 2d, That in the cerebral condition thus induced, the mental powers are not free to maintain their normal relations to each other; especially, will, comparison, and judgment, appear to lose their requisite power and promptitude of action, and are thus made liable to be overruled by the suggestions of imagination or the commands of the experimenter.

To this explanation we can only add, that all who doubt it may easily put it to an experimental test. If it is thought that the mere 'fixed gaze,' without electric or galvanic agency, is not sufficient to produce the phenomena in question, then the only way of determining our dispute must be by fair experiment. But here we would add a word of serious caution, as we regard the process as decidedly dangerous, especially if frequently repeated on one subject.

To conclude: we regard the exhibitions now so common under the name of electro-biology as delusions, so far as they are understood to have any connection with the facts of electricity; so far as they are real, we regard them as very remarkable instances of a mode of acting on the brain which is, we believe, likely to prove injurious. As we have no motive in writing but simply to elicit the truth, we will briefly notice two difficulties which seem to attend our theory. These are—1. The rapid transition from the state of illusion to an apparently wakeful and normal condition of mind. The patient who has been making snow-balls in a warm room, and has pulled the moon down, comes from the platform, recognises his friends, and can laugh at the visions which to him seemed realities but a few minutes since. 2. The apparently slight effects left, in some cases, after the experiments. Among the subjects whom we have questioned on this point, one felt 'rather dizzy' all the next day after submitting to the process; another felt 'a pressure on the head;' but a third, who was one of the most successful cases, felt 'no effects whatever' afterwards; while a fourth thinks he derived 'some benefit' to his health from the operation. We leave these points for further inquiry.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] We can corroborate the view taken by the writer of this article as to the reality of the effects produced on the persons submitting to the process, having seen many who are intimately known to us experimented on with success. The incredulity which still prevails on this subject in London can only be attributed to the necessary rarity, in so large a town, of experiments performed on persons known to the observers.—ED.



NEW MOTIVE-POWER.

We copy the following from an American newspaper, without vouching for the accuracy of the statement:—'The Cincinnati Atlas announces a wonderful invention in that city. Mr Solomon, a native of Prussia, is the inventor. He is a gentleman of education, and was professor of a college in his native land at the age of twenty-five. In Cincinnati, he prosecuted his scientific researches and experiments, which now promise to result in fame, wealth, and honour to himself, and incalculable benefit to the whole human family. The invention of a new locomotive and propelling power by Mr Solomon was mentioned some six months ago; and a few days ago, his new engine, in course of construction for many months, was tested, and the most sanguine expectations of the inventor more than realised. The Atlas says: "On Monday last, the engine was kept in operation during the day, and hundreds of spectators witnessed and were astonished at its success. The motive-power is obtained by the generation and expansion, by heat, of carbonic acid gas. Common whiting, sulphuric acid, and water, are used in generating this gas, and the 'boiler' in which these component parts are held, is similar in shape and size to a common bomb-shell. A small furnace, with a handful of ignited charcoal, furnishes the requisite heat for propelling this engine of 25 horsepower. The relative power of steam and carbonic acid is thus stated:—Water at the boiling-point gives a pressure of 15 pounds to the square inch. With the addition of 30 degrees of heat, the power is double, giving 30 pounds; and so on, doubling with every additional 30 degrees of heat, until we have 4840 pounds under a heat of 452 degrees—a heat which no engine can endure. But with the carbon, 20 degrees of heat above the boiling-point give 1080 pounds; 40 degrees give 2160 pounds; 80 degrees, 4320 pounds; that is, 480 pounds greater power with this gas, than 451 degrees of heat give by converting water into steam! Not only does this invention multiply power indefinitely, but it reduces the expense to a mere nominal amount. The item of fuel for a first-class steamer, between Cincinnati and New Orleans, going and returning, is between 1000 and 1200 dollars, whereas 5 dollars will furnish the material for propelling the boat the same distance by carbon. Attached to the new engine is also an apparatus for condensing the gas after it has passed through the cylinders, and returning it again to the starting-place, thus using it over and over, and allowing none to escape. While the engine was in operation on Monday, it lifted a weight of 12,000 pounds up the distance of five feet perpendicular, five times every minute. This weight was put on by way of experiment, and does by no means indicate the full power of the engine."'



GOOD-NIGHT.

Good-night! a word so often said, The heedless mind forgets its meaning; 'Tis only when some heart lies dead On which our own was leaning, We hear in maddening music roll That lost 'good-night' along the soul.

'Good-night'—in tones that never die It peals along the quickening ear; And tender gales of memory For ever waft it near, When stilled the voice—O crush of pain!— That ne'er shall breathe 'good-night' again.

Good-night! it mocks us from the grave— It overleaps that strange world's bound From whence there flows no backward wave— It calls from out the ground, On every side, around, above, 'Good-night,' 'good-night,' to life and love!

Good-night! Oh, wherefore fades away The light that lived in that dear word? Why follows that good-night no day? Why are our souls so stirred? Oh, rather say, dull brain, once more, 'Good-night!'—thy time of toil is o'er!

Good-night!—Now cometh gentle sleep, And tears that fall like welcome rain. Good-night!—Oh, holy, blest, and deep, The rest that follows pain. How should we reach God's upper light If life's long day had no 'good-night?'

O.



ENGLISH INDEPENDENCE.

Somebody—and we know not whom, for it is an old faded yellow manuscript scrap in our drawer—thus rebukes an Englishman's aspiration to be independent of foreigners: A French cook dresses his dinner for him, and a Swiss valet dresses him for his dinner. He hands down his lady, decked with pearls that never grew in the shell of a British oyster, and her waving plume of ostrich-feathers certainly never formed the tail of a barn-door fowl. The viands of his table are from all countries of the world; his wines are from the banks of the Rhine and the Rhone. In his conservatory, he regales his sight with the blossoms of South American flowers; in his smoking-room, he gratifies his scent with the weed of North America. His favourite horse is of Arabian blood, his pet dog of the St Bernard breed. His gallery is rich with pictures from the Flemish school and statues from Greece. For his amusement, he goes to hear Italian singers warble German music followed by a French ballet. The ermine that decorates his judges was never before on a British animal. His very mind is not English in its attainments—it is a mere picnic of foreign contributions. His poetry and philosophy are from ancient Greece and Rome, his geometry from Alexandria, his arithmetic from Arabia, and his religion from Palestine. In his cradle, in his infancy, he rubbed his gums with coral from Oriental oceans; and when he dies, he is buried in a coffin made from wood that grew on a foreign soil, and his monument will be sculptured in marble from the quarries of Carrara. A pretty sort of man this to talk of being independent of foreigners!—Harper's Magazine.

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