unless there was excited an idea of pleasure in eating. If the pneumogastric nerve was severed, even this anticipated gastronomic pleasure, or the actual passage of the loved meat through the severed œsophagus, did not cause gastric secretion. The part played by the mind in what have been called mere mechanical, physical functions has been thus shown. The psychological side of digestion, as of every other manifestation in the body, is the more important.
The most wonderful result of the experiments made by Professor Gates was the discovery that certain states of mind produce chemical products in the body. He says:
“In 1879 I published a report of experiments showing that when the breath of a patient was passed through a tube cooled with ice so as to condense the volatile qualities of the respiration, the iodide of rhodopsin, mingled with these condensed products, produced no observable precipitate. But, within five minutes after the patient became angry, there appeared a brownish precipitate, which indicates the presence of a chemical compound produced by the emotion. This compound, extracted and administered to men and animals, caused stimulation and excitement. Extreme sorrow, such as mourning for the loss of a child recently deceased, produced a gray precipitate; remorse, a pink precipitate, etc. My experiments show that irascible, malevolent, and depressing emotions generate in the system injurious compounds, some of which are extremely poisonous; also, that agreeable, happy emotions generate chemical compounds of nutritious value which stimulate the cells to manufacture energy.” As Professor Gates has had to point out emphatically, to counteract ridiculous statements, the color of these precipitates depends on the chemical used, but with the same chemical the emotions produce different colors.
Prof. Jacques Loeb’s experiments at the University of Chicago and at Stanford University have seemed to show that thought produces phenomena similar to those of electricity, that the particles of living matter change trom positive to negative and negative to positive by the influence of thought. This makes the old comparison of thought to a “telegram from the brain ” all the more apt, and enlarges the conception of what the mind can do in changing bodily conditions.
Chapter III.
Thought Causes Health And Disease
“It is the spirit that maketh dive. The flesh profiteth nothing”
Every volition and thought of man is inscribed on his brain, for volition and thoughts have their beginnings in the brain, whence they are conveyed to the bodily members, wherein they terminate. Whatever, therefore, is in the mind is in the brain, and from the brain in the body, according to the order of its parts. Thus a man writes his life in his physique, and thus the angels discover his autobiography in his structure.—Swedenborg.
IT is not necessary to appeal to scientific experiments alone to prove the control of the mind over health and disease. Every-day experience gives ample demonstration. Striking and interesting incidents by the hundred have been collected and published by physicians, but a few will suffice.
We are so accustomed to the deadly effects of certain kinds and degrees of thought that we do not think what it is that causes illness and death. Some one dies of “shock.” What does that mean? Simply that some sudden and powerful thought has so deranged the bodily mechanism that it has stopped. Fright—that is, a thought of fear—stopped the heart’s action. Excitement set it beating so hard that a blood-vessel burst in the head. Sudden joy caused a rush of blood to the brain that ruptured the delicate membranes. A loved one died, and the thought of grief prevented nutrition, repair of waste, and the performance of other bodily functions dependent on normal mental condition, and the person pined away and died, from some disease the enfeebled body could not resist, or from no disease at all but the sick and mourning thought. Recently a trolley wire in London broke and fell into the street with sputtering fire. A young lady, seemingly as well as any one, was about to board a car, but, on seeing the accident, fell dead. Nothing had touched her. She had suffered no harm. She simply thought she was in danger, and thought so intensely that something gave way and separated her spirit from her body. A mind more composed, less easily startled, would have saved her life. A beautiful young lady was struck in the face by a golf stick. It broke her jaw, but that was healed in a few weeks. However, a scar was left that marred her beauty. The idea of disfigurement so preyed upon her mind that she shrank from meeting people, and melancholia became habitual. A trip to Europe, expensive treatment by specialists, did no good. The idea that she was marred and scarred took all joy from her life, all strength from her body. She soon could not leave her bed. Yet no physician was able to find any organic disease. Very silly, no doubt, but it illustrates what diseased thought can do in overcoming perfectly healthy bodily functions. Had she been able to dismiss the idea she brooded over, her health would have been restored.
Fright and grief have often blanched human hair in a few hours or a few days. Ludwig, of Bavaria, Marie Antoinette, Charles I. of England, and the Duke of Brunswick are historic examples, and every little while modern instances occur. The supposed explanation is that strong emotion has caused the formation of chemical compounds, probably of sulphur, which changed the color of the oil of the hair. Such chemical action is caused suddenly by thought instead of gradually by advancing years. Dr. Rogers says: “Many causes which affect but little the constitution, accelerate the death of the hair, more especially the depressing passions, corroding anxieties, and intense thought.”
Men have died because they thought they were terribly wounded when no wound existed. The story of the medical student who was frightened to death by fellow-students, who pretended to be bleeding him, has often been told. A man who thought he swallowed a tack had horrible symptoms, including a local swelling in his throat, until it was discovered that he was mistaken. Hundreds of other cases have been verified where belief sufficed to produce great suffering and even death.
On the other hand, sickness and disease gave way before strong thought of any other kind, excitement, alarm, or great joy.
Benvenuto Cellini, when about to cast his famous statue of Perseus, now in the Loggia dei Lanzi, at Florence, was taken with a sudden fever and forced to go home and to bed. In the midst of his suffering, one of his workmen rushed in to say: “O Benvenuto, your statue is spoiled, and there is no hope whatever of saving it.” Dressing hastily, he rushed to his furnace, and found his metal “caked.” Ordering dry oak wood brought, he fired the furnace, fiercely working in a rain that was falling, stirred the channels, and saved his metal. He continues the story thus: “After all was over, I turned to a plate of salad on a bench there and ate with a hearty appetite and drank, together with the whole crew. Afterward I retired to my bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two hours before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had never felt a touch of illness.” His overpowering idea of saving his statue not only drove the idea of illness from his mind but also drove away the physical condition and left him well.
It is related of Muley Moluc, the Moorish leader, that, when lying ill, almost worn out by incurable disease, a battle took place between his troops and the Portuguese, when, starting from his litter at the great crisis of the fight, he rallied his army, led them to victory, and then instantly sank exhausted and expired.
The biographer of Dr. Elisha Kane says:
“I asked him for the best proved instance that he knew of the soul’s power over the body. He paused a moment upon my question, as if to feel how it was put, and answered as with a spring: ‘ The soul can lift the body out of its boots, sir! When our captain was dying —I say dying; I have seen scurvy enough to know—every old scar in his body an ulcer—I never saw a case so bad that either lived or died, men die of it, usually long before they are as ill as he was—there was trouble aboard. There might be mutiny so soon as the breath was out of his body. We might be at each others’ throats. I felt that he owed the repose of dying to the service. I went down to his bunk, and shouted in his ear, “Mutiny! Captain, mutiny! ” He shook off the cadaverous stupor. “Set me up!” said he, “and order these fellows before me!” He heard the complaint, ordered punishment, and from that hour convalesced.’”
Emperor Dom Pedro, of Brazil,