LOCH DOON (lower reach), illustrating Rounded Outline of Hills and Slopes produced by Action of Ice. The effect is most marked in certain directions which indicate the course of the ice-magses. will then appear that each theory had its element of truth. In like manner we are endeavoring to attain to the proper conception of the condition of the earth in the Age of Ice. The whole truth has not yet been discovered. When fully revealed, it will appear far more magnificent and glorious than has now been surmised. IN THE PATHOLOGY OF THE PASSIONS. BY FERNAND PAPILLON. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, BY J. FITZGERALD, A. M. III. N the former part of this essay we considered the general physiology of the passions: their pathology is no less interesting, and to that we now ask attention. When we reflect that the nervous system of the animal life and the system of the great sympathetic govern all the vital operations, and that the regularity of these latter is absolutely dependent on the orderly performance of their functions by the centres wherein are found the prime springs and the fundamental activities of the animal economy, we conceive at once how countless diseases may arise out of disturbances produced by an abuse or an excess of the passions. Physicians have in all ages reckoned the passions among the predisposing, determining, or aggravating causes of the majority of diseases-especially chronic diseases; for it is a peculiarity of the nerve-substance that it is impaired, and that it spreads abroad the consequences of its impairment, only little by little, and by imperceptible degrees. The work of the passions might be compared to the operations by which an army approaches a beleaguered city: they set about overmastering health and life circumspectly and slowly, but their advance is always sure. A few observations concerning the psychological and physiological disturbances produced by the passions of the moral order, which are the most disastrous in their effects, viz., love, melancholy, hate, anger, etc., will give some idea of the material working of these poisons of the soul. We may regard love as a neurosis of the organs of memory and imagination, in so far as these two faculties are related to the object of love. The memory in particular seems here to acquire an intensity that is truly extraordinary. In illustration of this point, Alibert states a fact which he observed at Fahlun. As some laborers were one day at work making a connection between two shafts in a mine, they found the remains of a young man in a complete state of preservation, and impregnated with bituminous substances. The man's features were not recognized by any of the workmen. Nothing further was known than that the accident by which he had been buried alive had occurred upward of fifty years before. The people had ceased to make inquiries as to the identity of the body, when a decrepit old woman came up supported on crutches. She approached the mummified corpse, and in it recognized the body of the man to whom she had been betrothed more than fifty years previously. She threw herself upon the rigid corpse—which was like a bronze statue-wept over it, and manifested intense joy at seeing again the object of her early affection. As for the imagination, it transcends all bounds, and loses all character of exactitude. The will is no longer mistress of the vital acts. Says Romeo at the tomb of Juliet: "Here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. Oh, my love! my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And Death's pale flag is not advanced there." "I am drawn toward you," writes Mdlle. de Lespinasse to M. de Guibert, "by an attraction-by a feeling which I abhor, but which has all the power of malediction and fatality." The English poet Keats, when dying of consumption, writes thus to a friend: "I am in that state wherein a woman—as woman-has no more power over me than a stock or a stone, and yet the thought of leaving N. is something horrible to me. I am ever seeing her form, which is ever disappearing." This latter fact pertains to the history of hallucinations, and this in turn borders on the history of ecstasies, which are so frequent in religious life; so true is it that love, even mystical and divine, if not confined within the bounds of reason, turns to a kind of mania, which, as we shall see, is full of danger for the general functions of the mind. Thought draws the sketch of life, but passion adds the coloring of the picture. When this passion is a happy one, the coloring is brilliant and cheerful, and then life is a bright vernal season. But oftener the passion is a painful one, and the color given by it to life is darksome. Melancholy is one of those passions which throw a gloom over a man's life. There is one form of melancholy which is plainly a variety of dementia, and which often comes under the notice of the physician. It is characterized by an incurable sadness, an irresistible love of solitude, absolute inaction, and a belief in a host of imaginary evils that are ever haunting the patient. "My body is a burning fire," wrote a melancholic subject to his medical man; "my nerves are glowing coals, my blood is boiling oil. Sleep is impossible. I endure martyrdom."-"I am bereft of mind and sensibility," writes another; "my senses are gone-I can neither see nor hear any thing; VOL. IV. 42 I have no ideas-I feel neither pain nor pleasure; all acts, all sensations, are alike to me; I am an automaton, incapable of thinking, or feeling, or recollecting-of will and of motion." This form of melancholia is a disease, and not a passion. It is a species of dementia akin to those strange aberrations which go by the name of lycanthropy, lypemania, etc. The true passional melancholy is that reflex, profound, painful feeling of the imperfections of our nature, and of the nothingness of human life, which seizes on certain minds, torturing them, disheartening them, and making their life one long sigh. This feeling is expressed by the gentle poet Virgil, when he says, "Sunt lacrimæ rerum" (everywhere tears). This is the gloomy thought that haunts the mind of Hamlet, the hallucinatory despair of Pascal, the sadness which broods over Oberman and René, the bitter, heart-rending cry of Childe Harold, the grand desolation of Manfred, the inquietude and the agony represented by Albert Dürer's graver and by Feti's pencil. Melancholy so defined has a place in the depths of the heart of every man that philosophically contemplates Destiny, nor need we seek elsewhere an explanation of the sombre humor which distinguishes men of this kind, and which is witnessed to by those books wherein they convey to us the history of their souls' troubles. If such a humor as this had its source in the common ills of life-in its sufferings, its miseries, and its deceptions-we might understand it perhaps in the case of such men as Swift, Rousseau, Shelley, and Leopardi ; but, when we meet with it in such favored geniuses as Byron, Goethe, Lamartine, and Alfred de Vigny, we are forced to acknowledge that, in men of the higher stamp, its cause must be the pain they feel on seeing that they cannot slake their ideal thirst.' Such is the melancholy which we may call the philosophic. Besides this, there is another form of melancholy which proceeds from better-defined causes, i. e., from the common griefs and vexations of life. Reverses of fortune, balked ambitions, and disappointments in love, are usually the causes of this kind of sadness, which, being far more active than purely philosophic sadness, often gives rise to organic disorders of the most serious kind. Albert Dürer succumbed to the vexations caused him by his wife. Kepler died the victim of the afflictions heaped upon him by Fate. Disappointment in love is one of the most frequent causes of melancholy. This it is which harassed and tortured Mdlle. de Lespinasse-which troubled and worried the chaste soul of Pamela: it was the death of the beautiful Genoese, Tommasina Spinola, when she heard of Louis XII.'s illness, and of Lady Caroline Lamb, when she went home after the fu1 "What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow and our reason frail, Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep." -"Childe Harold," iv., 98. and years, the one neral of Byron. These two women had lived years preserving in the depths of her heart the calm despair of an impossible love, the other the bitter recollection of a love that was spurned; but neither of them could outlive the affliction of seeing the object of her affection taken away by death. There are some cases in which the resistance is not of so long duration, and where the ravages of passion are such that the organism becomes dislocated with fearful rapidity. Indeed, it is no rare thing for a physician to be summoned to a patient who is wasting away with sadness and dejection. No organic cause can be discovered to account for the malady; the usual remedies are of no avail; the patient does not mend, and usually keeps the secret of his griefs to himself. In such cases the physician should always strive to discover whether there is any passion of the soul which produces this disorder of the functions, and makes his remedies of no effect. Usually such a passion exists. Thus it was that the physician Erasistratus discovered that Antiochus loved his step-mother, Stratonice. Boccaccio likewise tells of a physician who by chance detected the true cause, previously unknown, of the complaint with which a certain young man was suffering; whenever a young female cousin of the patient entered his room, his pulse beat quicker. It often happens that the melancholic becomes incapable of bearing his afflictions, or of waiting for death to relieve him. This is the origin of suicide. The history of medicine and literature is full of narratives, real or fictitious, of suicide determined by an unfortunate passion. While we admire what is touching and dramatic in such narratives, we cannot fail to see that suicide is in se a fact of the morbid kind. Its cause is a total aberration of the instinct of selfpreservation; and, as the latter has its seat in a certain part of the brain, we are authorized in locating the cause of suicide in a cerebral disorganization, brought about more or less rapidly by certain more general changes in the economy. Similar changes are produced sooner or later under the influence of resentment, hate, and anger. Resentment is a secret passion which draws its plans in silence. Hate is taciturn, or finds utterance only in imprecations. Anger has its crises. Whereas resentment is disquieting, hate painful, and anger distressing, revenge is a kind of pleasure. It has been compared to the feel of silk, to indicate at once its imperious nature and our gratification in appeasing it. When anger and the desire of revenge distend the veins, flush the face, stiffen the arms, brighten the eyes,' bewilder the mind, and lead it to the commission often of criminal acts, the soul feels a sort of delight, but it is of short duration; and the momentary excitement is followed by a pro 1 In his admirable studies on the "Expression of the Emotions," Mr. Darwin notes a characteristic expression of fear, rage, and anger, not found in man, though it appears in all animals-viz., the erection of the hair and feathers. This phenomenon, which is analogous to that of goose-skin in man, is produced not only by passional influences, but |