taken full and fiend-like possession of the men-not perhaps sinners above the rest of us who are of the same flesh and blood with them" who crucified the Lord of Glory." And then, when a text was started it was natural, I suppose, for a parson to follow, till presently he actually caught himself in imagination preaching from that very verse of St. Paul's to the Corinthians! But his "opening remarks" would not do, I suppose, for a sermon at all, for as he tramped along-for all the world like a travelling packman-but fancying himself in his own chapel (or church rather, dedicated to St. Athanasius), he thus mentally began: "My friends, sad as is this word of the Apostle's, they crucified the Lord of Glory,' mournfully as it falls on our ear and grieves our heart, yet I am glad that the good Apostle says, surely as truly as generously, that had they known they would not have done it.'" How much farther he would have gone on in this totally uncritical and unsound style there is no telling, for he was suddenly and rudely awakened out of his pulpit-reverie by a policeman, who had with him, handcuffed, but still frantically gesticulating, and swearing like seven devils, a man maddened by drink, who had been kicking and trampling on one after another whom he had knocked down, and the policeman showed our traveller the severe injury he had himself received from the fellow, and still the blasphemy and the malice that the poor madman poured out, and the violent efforts he still made to injure everybody about him, while all nature was so lovely around, jarred sadly on the couleur de rose sort of musing that had been beguiling the parson along the dusty roads.

And now he was at the top of the village where he was to rest, but which has been so often and so well described that the present writer intends now to take his leave of the parson, only adding this morsel of history-that delighted beyond measure at the novel sight that greeted him, and exquisitely charmed by the appearance of one of the loveliest cottages in this happy land, covered all over with fuschias and woodbines and roses, he flung all thoughts of " roughing it" to the winds, and forthwith sought a home for a few days in as lovely a bower as happy youth and maiden, walking tenderly by moonlight through groves kindly planned by genial Nature for fond lovers, ever dreamed of. And so let us leave him to his rest, wishing to him—

596

ON NERVOUSNESS.

NERVOUS is a word whose signification branches off in two opposite directions. We are not going to deal with its old and classical meaning of sinewy, strong, vigorous, but with its modern, incipient, and as yet scarcely authorized meaning of timid and weak, as when we speak of a nervous temperament. Both uses of the term are easily accounted for, as each is derived from the condition or quality of the nervous system. Body and mind sympathize with each other. And the mind is subject to physical influences most of all through that portion of matter that is brought into closest relation to itself, viz., the brain and nerves, the latter being media of communication between the brain and the several members of the body, and apparently but a prolongation of cerebral tissue, a very part of the brain itself. When they are firm and elastic, we have the foundation of a vigorous constitution and buoyant spirits, conditions of life with which a diseased or languid nervous system is incompatible. For the nerves are more than passive instruments of mind; they have power to react upon it and modify its state. Should the hands or feet be feeble or wanting, the only consequence is that the mind is more or less incapacitated for the particular services they were designed to aid it in. The intellect will remain as capable as ever, only falling short of certain operations for want of the necessary instruments, as the most skilful mechanic may be brought to a stand-still when his tools are not at hand. Very different is it with the nervous fibre, whose quality makes the energies of the mind ebb or flow-often in spite of itself-as when reason is perfectly satisfied of the groundlessness of particular apprehensions, which nevertheless are not dissipated. Hence the common observation that there is no use in trying to reason a man out of his timidity. He cannot set his spirit at liberty by a strong effort of will, and therefore you persuade him in vain. If my reader has ever had a fright-not a mere startling surprise, but one that has wrought him up to a pitch of terror almost amounting to frenzy-a fit of alarm that may be ranked with the events if not the crises of a life-he will appreciate the force of the remark that the nerves are ungovernable when violently agitated, and imperiously drag the captive reason and will in their train. This they are able to do again and again after one is convinced of the folly of yielding-indeed one defeat prepares the way for another, as the first rushings of water scoop out a groove that serves as a channel for all subsequent

flowings. Some diseases predispose to a relapse. And one of the evils connected with any overpowering nervous excitement is the imminent danger of a recurrence. If, some dark winter evening, at college, when the mental energies are well nigh spent by hours of application, a restless companion in search of sport sallies forth from his room and steals, fantastically dressed, to your open study door, there remaining until your eye is lifted from the page, and you frantically shriek with amazement and horror, terrible as the shock is, and distressing as are its immediate effects, haunting you for days and nights, making you start at every shadow and afraid to be left one half-hour alone, these do not exhaust the mischief done. The first consequences are temporary, and will gradually wear off, but not without leaving you weaker than before, more than ever vulnerable at a particular point, and liable to a return of the panic. The chances arethat you will repeatedly, in the course of years, be the victim of similar miserable sensations; the experience of old cases affording no security against fresh attacks. A recurring dream is relied on as firmly the hundredth time as the first. And nervous feeling must run its course as often as the exciting stimulant is applied; familiarity cannot arrest the mighty torrent's flow.

Nervous emotion is liable to be roused to furious activity by every avenue of the senses. The most common is that of sight. The venerable and world-wide fraternity of ghosts are, almost exclusively, representations, real or imaginary, of a visible form. The ghost rarely speaks, and can never be handled or touched. But vision is far from being the only means of infliction to excitable nerves. Some are more troubled with ominous and sepulchral sounds, that, like the notes of an unlucky bird, keep tolling on the ear. The wild throttle of a turkey-cock is not more alarming to little children than the howling of a dog, unhappy and low-spirited for want of his supper, is to grown-up people, The scratchings of a saw and the tearing of linen produce a livelily unpleasant effect upon many ears. Would-be musicians are a class notorious for amusing themselves at other people's expense, whilst the tribe of beggar-performers has become such a nuisance to her Majesty's subjects as to have attracted the attention of Parliament and led to recent legislation of a restrictive kind! The other day the craft incurred the odium of having tormented to death the greatest comic artist England ever produced—a man said to have been martyred by the grinding of street-organs, a pest to his susceptible temperament from which he vainly strove to escape by removing from house to house.

Of nervous susceptibility to touch, we have a familiar instance in the convulsive effects of a little gentle tickling upon persons whose system is so curiously strung that severe pain in one part

is more endurable than the slightest titillation in another. The cut of a knife is less formidable than the touch of a feather. Neither are taste and smell unfrequently the occasions of singularly powerful impressions. There are those who contract an unconquerable and unaccountable aversion for particular articles of diet, and would rather fast than partake of what most men reckon a delicacy. The revulsion of feeling is, in many cases, by no means fanciful, and, if not indulged, serious inconveniences might be apprehended, and that to the extent, when efforts in opposition are persisted in, of prejudicing health, if not endangering life. Even smell has its nervous victims. The scent of a rose, delicious to nearly all, is unsupportable to a few. In such cases the sensation is quite distinct from what would be due to refinement in the organ. Otherwise brutes would be more subdued by olfactory impressions than men are, for the irrational animal has the advantage of mankind with reference to the perceptions of smell; but then the creatures that perceive most acutely are utterly wanting in that excitability sometimes attendant upon our duller sense. The malady called hay-fever is closely connected with an abnormal sensitiveness of the smelling organs. Whether it be that the air inhaled conveys intangible and injurious pollen to their nostrils, it is certain there are persons obliged to keep at a distance from the living touches of nature at the most interesting season of the year. I have heard of a gentleman actually taking a voyage to America and back in order to get clear away from what brought enjoyment to others, but distress to him. A singular phenomenon of special nervous susceptibility is its arbitrariness in withstanding some things, and yielding to others, with no apparent ground for the preference, and it may be in direct opposition to what reason would have anticipated. Why should one lady delight in nursing cats, but live in daily terror of meeting a dog; whilst another is partial to dogs, but flies from a cat as if it combined the fierceness of a tiger and the strength of a lion? Similar arbitrariness is observable in animals. On a certain small farm there are two horses constantly at work together. Both are given to shying, but not at the same objects. One can endure all manner of sights and sounds, except those connected with the railway. The poor creature is old and unable to get reconciled to the innovations of a line recently constructed in what was virgin soil. With the other and younger animal it is just the reverse. This one can confront the smoke-whistle and roar with as much composure as if it had never been off the line, but a piece of crockery or a handful of straw by the way-side is an object so suspiciouslooking that whip and bridle are almost set at defiance. I once stayed at a place in town where there was a housemaid, a girl in

sound health apparently, who had an invincible dread of a razor. If a cast-off shaving utensil had to be disposed of, she would beg some one to remove it for her. To touch such an article herself would have occasioned as much horror as others would feel at seizing a viper by the tail.

Nervous people give way to all sorts of depressing notions touching their own persons, affairs, or prospects. One lies in bed whole days under the false impression of being ill or too weak to walk, or fancying that he has no legs to stand upon. The doctor is summoned to physic the body, when mental delusion is the only ailment. And should the patient have wealth and leisure, he becomes a golden prize to his medical adviser The professional in a large city or town that can secure the confidence of half-a-dozen rich old dowagers, who believe themselves to be afflicted with "all the ills that flesh is heir to," is a made man; and, if disposed to like his ease, needs not be concerned to enlarge his practice. For to dance attendance upon a few persons troubled with imaginary ailments, and willing to pay for imaginary cures, is lucrative employment, and will soon lead to fortune. The patients keep the doctor alive, if he does not

them.

The groundless persuasion that success is unattainable will sometimes seize the mechanic or tradesman, and incapacitate him for the duties of his calling, the prognostic fulfilling itself. As little birds, riveted by the gaping boa-constrictor, fly into the very jaws of the death they are anxious to avoid, so does the sinking man, paralyzed by the dread of the poor-house, hurry himself within its hated walls.

To confront society is a painful ordeal to many nervous men. Privacy is their natural element. In their very walks they like the fields and lanes that are least frequented and least dotted with houses, preferring the companionship of dumb brutes to that of their own species. In the street they turn aside, or at least look in an opposite direction so as to avoid the salutation of a friend. My acquaintances include one of this description. A person with a ready utterance and a good command of language-intelligent and well-informed-exceedingly genial and respectful whenever we are thrown together-but who, nevertheless, shrinks from meeting me, and never fails to avoid an interview if he possibly can.

The real interests of such people are consulted by an employment that compels them to mix with the world, though the continual strain thus put upon nature, may prove the severest part of the discipline of life. The Christian pastor, obliged to visit his flock during the week, and to stand up before a congregation on the Sunday, feels his deficiency acutely, if he be a man of