Part 10
Might not proper care have saved this interesting creature from misery! It is admitted that "much care had been bestowed upon her instruction," but was she withdrawn from the low circle that surrounded her and placed in a society where, in her waking hours, she could have derived those advantages of a superior intercourse, which might have worked upon her vivid imagination as powerfully as the melodious sounds she had heard at other times? "She became immoral--scoffed at religion"--_in her sleep_. She was then in a state of nature; unconscious, to a certain extent, of immorality and religion, although conscious, no doubt, of relative good and evil. Is it not more than probable that when awake, not only were her ears assailed by profane and improper language, but is it not most likely that her ruin was perpetrated during her visionary slumbers, and ever after visited her mind during her paroxysms? Nor is it improbable that her affections had been bestowed upon her despoiler. Instead of being dismissed and cast upon the wide world, helpless, stigmatized, perhaps, with the odious epithet of witch--for we have seen that the lower order considered her such--might not a friendly hand have secured her in an abode where she might have been invited _to_ COME _and sin no more_! Alas! no wonder that the poor creature should have become insane! It is said that she was obtuse in intellect when awake. May not this be accounted for in some measure, by the exhaustion of her mental faculties during her paroxysms? It is to be lamented that the learned and philosophic Dr. Abercrombie, who has given this history, did not comment upon it. True Christianity and its benevolence breath in every line of the eloquent writer, and the poor Scotch _lassie_ might have afforded him a valuable theme. How proud would any humane person have felt in making this interesting object of pity what she might have been!
Dr. Dewar also relates the case of an ignorant servant-girl, who, during the paroxysm of somnambulism, showed an astonishing knowledge of geography and astronomy, and expressed herself, in her own language, in a manner which, though often ludicrous, showed an understanding of the subject. The alteration of the seasons, for example, she explained by saying the world was set _a gee_.
In many cases of somnambulism the sleeper is able to continue the occupation that he had previously carried on. Martinet mentions a watchmaker's apprentice, whose paroxysm came on once in the fortnight, and commenced in a sensation of heat ascending to the heart. This was followed by a confusion of thought and insensibility. His eyes were open, but fixed and vacant, and he was totally insensible to every thing around him. Yet he continued his usual employment, and was always much surprised when he awoke to find the progress that had taken place in his work. This case ended in epilepsy.
Horstius, whom we have already quoted, tells us of a noble youth of Breslau, living in the citadel, who used to steal out of a window during his sleep, muffled up in his cloak, and ascend the roof of the building, where one night he tore in pieces a magpie's nest, wrapped up the little ones in his cloak, and returned to bed. The following morning he mentioned the circumstance as having occurred in a dream, but could not be persuaded of the reality of the circumstance till the magpies in the cloak were shown to him.
Dr. Abercrombie has given a very remarkable case of a young woman of low rank, who, at the age of 19, became insane, but was gentle, and applied herself eagerly to various occupations. Before her insanity she had been only learning to read and to form a few letters; but during her lunacy she taught herself to write perfectly, though all attempts of others had failed; she had intervals of reason, which frequently continued three weeks and sometimes longer. During these she could neither read nor write, but immediately on the return of her insanity, she recovered the power of writing and reading.
The faculty of conversing in a state of somnambulism is too well authenticated to be doubted, although in many instances it may have been a fraudulent trick of animal magnetism. This singular power has been recorded by several of the ancient writers, many of whom pretended that divine inspiration illumined the sleepers. Cicero tells us that when the Lacedaemonian magistrates were embarrassed in their administration, they went to sleep in the temple of Pasiphae, thus named from _Pasi phainein_, or "communicative to all." Strabo mentions a cavern, sacred to Pluto and Juno, where the sick came to consult sleeping priests. Aristides is said to have delivered his opinion while fast asleep in the temple of Aesculapius. It would be endless to quote all the authorities on this subject. Modern magnetisers, however, outstrip the ancients in the wonders they relate in regard to somnambulent faculties developed by magnetism. In 1829, Cloquet, a very distinguished Parisian surgeon, assisted by Dr. Chapelain, removed the cancerous breast of a lady in her magnetic sleep, during which she continued her conversation, unconscious of the operation, which lasted twelve minutes.
The faculty of seeing through the closed eyelids was fully substantiated in the presence of a commission of investigation appointed by the Academy of Medicine of Paris, and in the presence of fifteen persons. They found a somnambulist, of the name of Paul, to all appearance fast asleep. On being requested to rise and approach the window, he complied immediately. His eyes were then covered in such a manner as not to awaken him, and a pack of cards having been shuffled by several persons, he recognised them without the slightest hesitation. Watches were then shown him, and he named the hour and minute, though the hands were repeatedly altered. A book was then presented to him,--it happened to be a collection of operas,--and he read _Cantor et Pollux_ instead of _Castor et Pollux, Tragedie Lyrique_: a volume of Horace was then submitted to him, but not knowing Latin, he returned it, saying, "This is some church-book." The celebrated Dr. Broussais laid before the same somnambulist a letter he had drawn from his pocket; to his utter surprise he read the first lines: the doctor then wrote a few words on a piece of paper in very small characters, which the somnambulist also read with the utmost facility; but, what was still more singular, when letters or books were applied to his breast, or between the shoulders, he also perused them with equal accuracy and ease. In one instance the queen of clubs was presented to his back; after a moment's hesitation he said, "This a club--the nine;" he was informed that he was in error, when he recovered himself and said, "No, 'tis the queen:" a ten of spades was then applied, when he hastily exclaimed, "At any rate this is not a court-card; it is--the ten of spades."
The many astute tricks played by animal magnetisers, and frequently detected, naturally induced most persons to doubt the veracity of these experiments; but when we find that they were witnessed by seventy-eight medical men, most of them decidedly hostile to magnetism, and sixty-three intelligent individuals not belonging to the profession, and in every respect disinterested, what are we to say?--perhaps, exclaim with Hamlet,
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!
I cannot better conclude this article than by the following quotation from Dr. Pritchard's valuable work:[8] "There is an obvious relation between the state of the faculties in somnambulism and that which exists during dreams. It is indeed probable that somnambulism is dreaming in a manner so modified, that the will recovers its usual power over muscular motion, and likewise becomes endued with a peculiar control over the organs of sense and perception. This power, which gives rise to the most curious phenomena of somnambulism, is of such a kind, that, while the senses are in general obscured, as in sleep, and all other objects are unperceived, the somnambulator manifests a faculty of seeing, feeling, or otherwise discovering those particular objects of which he is in pursuit, towards which his attention is by inward movement directed, or with which the internal operations of his mind bring him into relation. As in dreams, so likewise in somnambulism the individual is intent on the pursuit of objects towards which his mind had been previously directed in a powerful manner, and his attention strongly roused; he is in both states impelled by habit, under the influence of which he repeats the routine of his daily observances. A somnambulator is a dreamer who is able to act his dreams."
MEDICAL POWERS OF MUSIC.
The powerful influence of music on our intellectual faculties, and consequently on our health, has long been ascertained, either in raising the energies of the mind, or producing despondency and melancholy associations of ideas. Impressed with its sublime nature, the ancients gave it a divine origin. Diodorus tells us that it was a boon bestowed on mankind after the deluge, and owed its discovery to the sound produced by the wind when whistling through the reeds that grew on the banks of the Nile. This science became the early study of philosophers and physicians. Herophilus explained the alterations of the pulse by the various modes and rhythms of music. In the sacred writings we have many instances of its influence in producing an aptitude for divine consolation. The derangement of Saul yielded to the harp of David, and the hand of the Lord came upon Elisha as the minstrel played. In Egypt certain songs were legally ordained in the education of youth, to promote virtue and morality. Polybius assures us that music was required to soften the manners of the Arcadians, whose climate was heavy and impure; while the inhabitants of Cynaethe, who neglected this science, were the most barbarous in Greece. The medical power of harmonious sounds was also fully admitted. We find Pythagoras directing certain mental disorders to be treated by music. Thales, called from Crete to Sparta, cured a disastrous pestilence by its means. Martinus Capella affirms that fevers were thus removed. Xenocrates cured maniacs by melodious sounds, and Asclepiades conquered deafness with a trumpet. In modern times it has been related of a deaf lady that she could only hear while a drum was beating, and a drummer was kept in the house for the purpose of enabling her to converse. Aulus Gellius tells us that a case of sciatica was cured by gentle modulations, and Theophrastus maintains that the bites of serpents and other venomous reptiles can be relieved by similar means. Ancient physicians, who attributed many diseases to the influence of evil spirits, fancied that harmonious sounds drove them away, more especially when accompanied by incantations; and we find in Luther, "that music is one of the most beautiful and glorious gifts of God, to which Satan is a bitter enemy."
In more modern times we have several instances of the medical powers of music, and the effect produced by Farinelli on Philip of Spain is well known. This monarch was in such a deplorable state of despondency from ill health, that he refused to be shaved or to appear in public. On the arrival of Farinelli, the Queen was resolved to try the power of music, and a concert was ordered in a room adjoining the King's chamber: Farinelli sang two of his best airs,[9] which so overcame Philip that he desired he might be brought into his presence, when he promised to grant him any reasonable request he might make. The performer, in the most respectful manner, then begged of the King to allow himself to be shaved and attended by his domestics, to which Philip consented. Farinelli continued to sing to him daily until a perfect cure was effected.--The story of Tartini is rather curious: in a moment of musical enthusiasm he fell asleep, when the devil appeared to him playing on the violin, bidding him with a horrible grin to play as well as he did; struck with the vision, the musician awoke, ran to his harpsichord, and produced the splendid sonata which he entitled "_the Devil's_." Brueckmann, and Hufeland relate cases of St. Vitus's dance, cured by music, which, according to Desessarts, also relieved Catalepsy. Schneider and Becker have ascertained its influence in hysteric and hypochondriac affections.
The following curious case is recorded by Paret:--"Une jeune fille d'environ 11 ans, fort prematuree relativement aux facultes, ayant le genre nerveux tres sensible et tres irritable, fut attaquee, il y a environ deux ans, de douleurs violentes dans tout le corps, avec insomnie, tension excessive et fort douleureuse des muscles de l'abdomen, accompagnee de fievre. Deux ans apres, des convulsions se declarerent, avec une violence qui surpassa tout ce que je craignais; les bonds, les elans, furent, pendant quatre or cinq jours et autant de nuits, si forts, qu'il fallait deux hommes pour retenir dans le lit la jeune personne, d'ailleurs faible et delicate. Enfin, je proposai d'employer la musique. On fit, en consequence, entrer deux menestriers, disposes a donner leur premier coup d'archet; a l'instant de leur apparition les convulsions cesserent d'abord et-reparurent peu de tems apres: on changea d'air, et les convulsions cesserent encore pour reparaitre, aussi au troisieme air, qui sans doute se trouva plus au gout de la malade, elle demanda un violon, qu'on lui donna, et quoiqu'elle n'eut jamais fait d'autre essai, son oeil fixe sur les joueurs, son attention fut si grande, et ses mouvemens si rapides, qu'elle suivait ceux des menetriers sans causer aucune discordance. Des connaisseurs ne pouvaient s'empecher de convenir de la justesse et de la precision qu'elle observait. Son oreille etait meme si delicate, qu'elle faisait des reproches aux menetriers, qui, obliges de jouer une grande partie de la nuit, se trouvaient eux-memes dans le cas de manquer de mesure.
La petite malade continua de jouer pendant plus de 30 heures de suite, sans autre interruption que celle qu'il fallait pour prendre ses bouillons, et dans ce court intervalle on voyait les contractions des tendons se renouveller, quoique moins fortes. Les musiciens fatigues, elle se contenta de la voix, qu'elle accompagna de son instrument. Au bout de ce terme, un sommeil de six ou sept heures, qui vint tres naturellement, produisit une augmentation de calme. Au reveil, on varia les exercices, et ainsi se termina la scene qui avait dure 48 heures, apres laquelle les convulsions cesserent totalement. Trois jours apres, la malade se trouva parfaitement bien; et ne restait que des convulsions tres faibles, et la maladie se termina apres trois mois de duree."
A still more singular effect of music is related by Roger in the case of a poor wretch broken upon the wheel. In his agonies he blasphemed in the most fearful manner, and cordially damned the spiritual comforter who sought to reconcile him to his sufferings. Some itinerant musicians chanced to pass by, they were stopped by the priest and requested to play to the patient, when to the surprise of all around, he seemed relieved, and became so tranquil, that he attended with calm resignation to their exhortations, confessed his manifold offences, and died like a good Christian.
Rousseau, who entertained a sovereign contempt for French music, observes, that the _Cantates_ of Bernier cured the fever of a French musician, while they most probably would have given a fever to a musician of any other country.
This remark of Rousseau reminds me of the French philosophical traveller (I believe it was Diderot), who on his journey to London from Dover, while horses were changing, had the curiosity to see a sick ostler with a raging fever attended by a country practitioner, who, despairing most probably of his patient, said, that he might be allowed to eat any thing he wished for. The man asked for a red-herring, which was forthwith given to him. Our tourist, generalizing like most of his brethren, immediately noted in his diary--_English Physicians allow red-herrings to fever patients_.
Some months after he changed horses at the same inn, and asked how long the unfortunate creature had survived his herring, when, to his utter surprise, he was informed that the hale, hearty fellow who was bringing out the relays, was the very man. He of course pulled out his journal and entered--_red-herrings cure the fever of Englishmen_.
Our traveller crossed over, and having accidentally seen in a French inn a poor devil whose case appeared to him similar to the sturdy ostler, he ventured to prescribe a similar remedy, which the patient only survived an hour or two; when his death was announced, he philosophically shrugged up his shoulders, and wrote in his book--_Though red-herrings cure fevers in England, they most decidedly kill in France_.
Mad musicians seem to be more mad than others; for Fodere gives us the following strange account of some of them. "Les plus grands musiciens ne reconnaissent souvent plus leurs instruments: l'un prenant son violon, que je lui avais mis dans les mains, pour un vase de nuit, et un autre prenant sa flute pour un sabre, et voulait m'en frapper."
We, however, frequently meet with lunatics who, although they have no remembrance of the past circumstances of their life, recollect and perform airs which they had formerly played.
Various well-authenticated cases lead us to suppose, that a sensibility to music long latent may be called into action by accidental circumstances. A case is on record of a countrywoman, twenty-eight years of age, who had never left her village, but was, by mere chance, present at a _fete_ where a concert was performed, and dancing to a full band afterwards followed. She was delighted with the novelty of the scene; but, the _fete_ concluded, she could not dismiss from her mind the impression the music had produced. Whether she was at her meals, her devotions, her daily occupation, or in her bed,--still, or moving about,--the airs she had heard, and in the succession in which they had been performed, were ever present to her recollection. To sleep she became a stranger,--every function became gradually deranged, and six short months terminated her existence, not having for one moment lost this strange sensation; and during this sad period, when any false note on the violin was purposely drawn, she would hold her head with both hands, and exclaim, "Oh! what a horrible note! it tears my brain!"
Sir Henry Halford relates the case of a man in Yorkshire, who after severe misfortunes lost his senses, and was placed in a lunatic asylum. There, in a short time, the use of the violin gradually restored him to his intellects; so promptly, indeed, that six weeks after the experiment, on hearing the inmates of the establishment passing by, he said, "Good morning, gentlemen; I am quite well, and shall be most happy to accompany you."
Curious anecdotes are related of the effect of music upon animals. Marville has given the following amusing account of his experiments. "While a man was playing on a trump-marine, I made my observations on a cat, a dog, a horse, an ass, a hind, some cows, small birds, and a cock and hens, who were in a yard under the window: the cat was not the least affected; the horse stopped short from time to time, raising his head up now and then as he was feeding on the grass; the dog continued for above an hour seated on his hind-legs, looking steadfastly at the player; the ass did not discover the least indication of his being touched, eating his thistles peaceably; the hind lifted up her large wide ears, and seemed very attentive; the cows slept a little, and, after gazing at us, went forward; some little birds that were in an aviary, and others on trees and bushes, almost tore their little throats with singing; but the cock, who minded only his hens, and the hens, who were solely employed in scraping a neighbouring dunghill, did not show in any manner that the trump-marine afforded them pleasure." That dogs have an ear for music cannot be doubted: Steibelt had one which evidently knew one piece of music from the other: and a modern composer, my friend, Mr. Nathan, had a pug-dog that frisked merrily about the room when a lively piece was played, but when a slow melody was performed, particularly Dussek's Opera 15, he would seat himself down by the piano, and prick up his ears with intense attention until the player came to the forty-eighth bar; as the discord was struck, he would yell most piteously, and with drooping tail seek refuge from the unpleasant sound under the chairs or tables.[10]
Eastcot relates that a hare left her retreat to listen to some choristers who were singing on the banks of the Mersey, retiring whenever they ceased singing, and reappearing as they recommenced their strains. Bossuet asserts, that an officer confined in the Bastille drew forth mice and spiders to beguile his solitude with his flute; and a mountebank in Paris had taught rats to dance on the rope in perfect time. Chateaubriand states as a positive fact, that he has seen the rattlesnakes in Upper Canada appeased by a musician; and the concert given in Paris to two elephants in the Jardin des Plantes leaves no doubt in regard to the effect of harmony on the brute creation. Every instrument seemed to operate distinctly as the several modes of pieces were slow or lively, until the excitement of these intelligent creatures had been carried to such an extent that further experiments were deemed dangerous.
The associations produced by national airs, and illustrated by the effect of the _Rans des Vaches_ upon the Swiss, are too well known to be related; and the _mal de pays_, or _nostalgia_, is an affection aggravated by the fond airs of infancy and youth during the sad hours of emigration, when the aching heart lingers after home and early ties of friendship and of love. It is somewhat singular, but this disease is frequent among soldiers in countries where they are forcibly made to march: but is seldom, if ever, observed in the fair sex, who most probably seek for admiration in every clime, and are reconciled by flattery to any region.
The whims of musical composers have often been most singular; Gluck composed in a garden, quaffing champaign; Sarti, in a dark room; Paesiello, in his bed; Sacchini, with a favourite cat perched upon each shoulder. The extraordinary fancies of Kutswara, composer of the "Battle of Prague," are too well known, and led to his melancholy, but unpitied end.