DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE

I lectured last upon the morbus sacer,

Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old

In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed

To deities or devils. To resume

We find it caused by morphological

Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes,

More times, indeed, the anatomical

Basis, if one be, escapes detection.

For many functions of the cortex are

Unknown, as I have said.

And now remember

Mercier's analysis of heredity:

Besides direct transmission of unstable

Nervous systems, there remains the law

Hereditary of sanguinity.

Then here's another matter: Parents may

Have normal nervous systems, yet produce

Children of abnormal nerves and minds,

Caused by unsuitable sexual germs.

Let me repeat before I leave the matter

The factors in a perfect organization:

First quality in the germ producing matter;

Then quality in the sperm producing force,

And lastly relative fitness of the two.

We are but plants, however high we rise,

Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream

We are but plants, and all we are and do

Depends upon the seed and on the soil.

What Mendel found in raising peas may lead

To perfect knowledge of the human mind.

There is one law for men and peas, the law

Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men

And mind of certain matter, all depends

Not on a varying law, but on a law

Varied in its course by matter, as

The arm, which is a lever and which works

By lever principle cannot make use

And form cement with trowel to the forms

It makes of paint or marble.

To resume:

A child may take the qualities of one parent

In some respects, and of the other parent

In some respects. A child may have the traits

Of father at one period of his life,

The mother at one period of his life.

And if the parents’ traits are similar

Their traits may be prepotent in a child,

Thus giving rise to qualities convergent.

So if you take a circle and draw off

A line which would become another circle

If drawn enough, completed, but is left

Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind

Of cumulative heredity. Take John,

My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect,

John has a mind which is a perfect circle.

A perfect circle can be small, you know.

And so John has good sense within his sphere.

But if some force began to work like yeast

In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line

To make a larger thinking circle, say

About a great invention, heaven or God,

Then John would be abnormal, till this line

Shot round and joined, became a larger circle.

This is the secret of eccentric genius,

The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space

Does not enclose co-ordinated thought.

He's like a plant mutating, half himself

Half something new and greater. If we looked

To John's heredity we'd find this change

Was manifest in mother or in father

About the self-same period of life,

Most likely in his father. Attributes

Of fathers are inherited by sons,

Of mothers by the daughters.

Now this morning

I take up paranoia. Paranoics

Are often noted for great gifts of mind.

Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics,

Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown,

Cellini, many others. All who think

Themselves inspired of God, and all who see

Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects

Of prophecies are paranoics. All

Who visions have of God or archangels,

Hear voices or celestial music, these

Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise

Enough above the earth to look along

A longer arc and see realities,

Or see strange things through atmospheric strata

Which build up or distort the things they see

Remains the question. Let us wait the proof.

Last week I told you I would have to-day

The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here,

And lecture on his case. Here is the brain:

Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look

After the lecture at the brain and skull.

There's nothing anatomical at fault

With this fine brain, so far as I can find.

You'll note how deep the convolutions are,

Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull

Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note,

The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical.

But this is scarce significant. Let me tell

How Jacob Groesbell looked:

The man was tall,

Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs.

His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high,

And ran back at an angle, temples full.

His nose was long and fleshy at the point,

Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray,

The iris flecked. They looked as if a light

As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears

Were very large, projected at right angles.

His neck was slender, womanish. His skin

Of finest texture, white and very smooth.

His voice was quiet, musical. His manner

Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable.

His parents, as I learned through inquiry,

Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved.

The mother healthy both in mind and body.

The father was eccentric, perhaps insane.

They were first cousins.

I knew Jacob Groesbell

Ten years before he died. I knew him first

When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman

With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then

As time went on I saw him when he came

At my request to do my carpentry.

I grew to know him, and by slow degrees

He told me of his readings in the Bible,

And gave me his interpretations. At last

Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach,

Which took him off. He sent for me, and said

He wished me to attend him, which I did.

He told me I could have his body and brain

To lecture on, dissect, since some had said

He was insane, he told me, and if so

I should find something wrong with brain or body.

And if I found a wrong then all his visions

Of God and archangels were just the fancies

That come to madmen. So he made provision

To give his brain and body for this cause,

And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing

On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic.

As I have said before, in making tests

And observations of the patient, have

His conversation taken stenographically,

In order to preserve his speech exactly,

And catch the flow if he becomes excited.

So we determine if he makes new words,

If he be incoherent, or repeats.

I took my secretary once to make

A stenographic record. Strange enough

He would not talk while she was writing down.

And when I asked him why, he would not tell.

So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel,

And put in it a dictaphone, and when

A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put

My hand among my bottles in the satchel,

As if I was compounding medicine,

Instead I'd put another cylinder on.

And thus I got his story in his voice,

Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all,

Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone

The students in the farthest gallery

Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me,

And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain

Here in this jar beside me. Listen now

To Jacob Groesbell's voice:

“Will you repeat

From the beginning connectedly the story

Of your religious life, illumination,

Vhat you have called your soul's escape?”

“I will,

Since I shall never tell it again.”

“I grew up

Timid and sensitive, not very strong,

Not understood of father or of mother.

They did not love me, and I never felt

A tenderness for them. I used to quote:

‘ Who is my mother and who are my brothers?’

At school I was not liked. I had a chum

From time to time, that's all. And I remember

My mother on a day put with my luncheon

A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came

I missed it, found some boys had taken it,

And when I asked for it, they made the cry:

‘ Bottle of milk, bottle of milk / and I

Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this hour

It hurts me to remember it. Such days,

All misery! For all my clothes were patched.

They hooted at me. So I lived alone.

At twelve years old I had great fears of death,

And hell, heard devils in my room. One night

During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains,

And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day

As I was walking on the village street

Close to the church I heard a voice which said

‘ Behold, my son’ — and falling on my knees

I prayed in ecstacy — but as I prayed

Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me.

A heat ran through me, I arose and fled.

Well, then I joined the church and was baptized.

But something left me in the ceremony,

I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back

Into the trap. I took to wandering

In solitary places, could not bear

To see a human face. I slept for nights

In still ravines, or meadows. But one time

Returning to my home, I found the room

Filled up with visitors — my heart stopped short,

And glancing at the faces of my parents

I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak,

Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So

I tell this just to illustrate my shyness,

Which cursed my youth and made me miserable,

Something I fought but could not overcome.

And pondering on the Scriptures I could see

How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even,

How even as my brothers called me mad

They called our Saviour so.

“At fourteen years

My father taught me carpentry, his trade,

And made me work with him. I seemed to be

The butt for jokes and laughter with the men —

I know not why. For now and then they'd drop

A word that showed they knew my secrets, knew

I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts

Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years,

God was not with me though I sought Him ever

And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain

Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights,

Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves,

Clouds, trunks of trees,— illusions of the devil.

I was turned twenty years when on an evening

Calm, beautiful in June, after a day

Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch,

The sun just sinking, at my left I heard

A voice of hollow clearness: “You are Christ.”

My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil

Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought,

So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy.

I ran into my room and seized a pistol

To end my life. God willed it otherwise.

I fainted and awoke upon the floor

After some hours. To heap my suffering full

A few days after this while in the village

I went into a store. The friendly clerk —

I knew him always — said‘ What will you have?

I wait first always on the little boys.’

I laughed and went my way. But in an hour

His saying rankled, I began to brood

On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last

His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin,

So devil tangled, tortured — which not prayer

Nor watching could deliver. So I thought

To save my soul from murder I must fly —

I felt an urging as one does in sleep

Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly

From terror, death, from blankness on the scene,

From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world

Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps

Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme

Impels all steps. So packing up my kit,

My Bible in my pocket, secretly

I disappeared. Next day took up my life

In Barrington, a village thirty miles

From all I knew, besides a lovely lake,

Reached by a road that crossed a bridge

Over a little bay, the bridge's ends

Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here

Night after night I fished, or stood and watched

The star-light on the water.

I grew calmer

Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived

Under a widow's roof, who was devout

And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor,

To every word: I was now twenty-five,

In perfect health, no longer persecuted,

At peace with all the world, if not my soul

Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell

It had an ache which sometimes I could feel,

And yet I had this soul awakening.

I know I have been counted mad, so watch

Each detail here and judge.

At four o'clock

The thirtieth day of June, my work being done,

My kit upon my back I walked this road

Toward the village.‘ Twas an afternoon

Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle

Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence

Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot

I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy

The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats

Along the bay, the blueness of the lake,

The ripple of the water at my feet,

The rythmic babble of the little boats

Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing,

Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds

Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down

Over the waters gloriously to rest.

So as I stared upon the sun on the water,

Some minutes, though I know not for how long,

Out of the splendor of the shining sun

Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth

Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow,

His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view,

And then he spake:‘ Jacob, my son, arise

And come with me.’

“And in an instant there

Something fell from me, I became a cloud,

A soul with wings. A glory burned about me.

And in that glory I perceived all things:

I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets

Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns

And I knew God, and knew all things as God:

The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom,

Truth, love and purity. And in that instant

Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces,

And how they are arranged order to order,

With no break in the order, one harmonious

Whole of universal life all blended

And interfused with universal love.

And as it was with Shelley so I cried,

And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose

And started back to climb the hill again,

Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did,

Nor where I went, and thinking if this be

A fancy only of the Saviour then

He will not follow me, and if it be

Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall

After the revelation. As I reached

The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me

And turned, and saw Him.‘ Thou hast faith, my son,

Who knowest me, when they who walked with me

Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told

All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses,

Who knew me not till I brake bread and then,

As after thought could say, Did not our heart

Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell,

Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed

With visions and my Father's love, this walk

Is your walk toward Emmaus.’ So he talked,

Expounding all the scriptures, telling me

About the race of men who live and move

Along a life of meat and drink and sleep

And comforts of the flesh, while here and there

A hungering soul is chosen to lift up

And re-create the race.‘ The prophet, poet

Must seek and must find God to keep the race

Awake to the divine and to the orders

Of universal and harmonious life,

All interfused with Universal love,

Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism,

Which sees no order, reason, no intent

Beat down the race to welter in the mire

When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God,

The leaders of the race from age to age

Are chosen for their separate work, each work

Fits in the given order. All who suffer

The martyrdom of thought, whether they think

Themselves as servants of my Father, or even

Mock at the images and rituals

Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize

The mystery they sensed, or whether they be

Spirits of laughter, logic, divination

Of human life, the human soul, all men

Who give their essence, blindly or in vision

In faith that life is worth their utmost love,

They are my brothers and my Father's sons.’

So Jesus told me as we took my walk

Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned

And walked through heading rye and purple vetch

Into an orchard where great rows of pears

Sloped up a hill. It was now evening:

Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west,

And a half moon was hanging just above

The pears’ white blossoms. O, that evening!

We came back to the boats at last and loosed

One of them and rowed out into the bay,

And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said

‘ Whatever they did with me you too shall do.’

A haziness came on me now. I seem

To find myself alone there in that boat.

At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk,

The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home

Back to the village in a silence, peace,

A happiness profound.

“And the next morning

I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet

With spiritual vision so intense I looked

Through things material as if they were

But shadows — old things passed away or grew

A lovelier order. And my heart was full.

Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved.

My landlady looked at me sharply, asked

What hour I entered, where I was so late.

I only answered fishing. For I told

No person of my vision, went my way

At carpentry in silence, in great joy.

For archangels and powers were at my side,

They led me, bore me up, instructed me

In mysteries, and voices said to me

‘ Write’ as the voice in Patmos said to John.

I wrote and printed and the village read,

And called me mad. And so I grew to see

The deepest truths of God, and God Himself,

The geniture of all things, of the Word

Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages,

Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness

Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained,

And how the search for something ( it is God )

Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts

Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries

Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth

At harvest time have praise or reverence.

I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God

Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains

Are but the wires in the bulb which stays,

Resists the current and makes human thought.

As the electric current is not light

But heat and power as well. Our little brains

Resist God and make thought and love as well.

But God is more than these. Oh I heard much

Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels,

Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still.

That is the axis of profoundest life

Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry

And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages,

The epochs of this earth as it were the feet

Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew

The agony of genius and the woe

Of prophets and the great.

“From that next morning

I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal

Than I had ever done. I could not open

Its pages anywhere but I could find

Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to.

I could not doubt my destiny was bound

With man's salvation. Jeremiah said

‘ Take forth the precious from the vile.’ Those words

To me were spoken, and to no one else.

And so I searched the scriptures. And I found

I never had a thought, experience, pang,

A state in human life our Saviour had not.

He was a carpenter, and so was I.

He had his soul's illumination, so had I.

His brethren called him mad, they called me mad.

He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph.

For I could, I can feel my way along

Death's stages as a man can reach and feel

Ahead of him along a wall. I know

This body is a shell, a butterfly's

Excreta pushed away with rising wings.

“I searched the scriptures. How should I believe

Paul's story, not my own? Did he not see

At mid-day in the way a light from heaven

Above the brightness of the sun and hear

The voice of Jesus saying to him‘ Saul,’

Why persecutest thou me?’ And did not Festus,

Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself,

Call Paul a mad man? Even while he spake

Such words as none but men inspired can speak,

As well as words of truth and soberness,

Such as myself speak now.

“And from the scriptures

I passed to studies of the men who came

To great illuminations. You will see

There are two kinds: One's of the intellect,

The understanding, one is of the soul.

The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh

To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men

In their illumination see the frame-work

Of life or see its spirit, so align

Themselves with Science, Satire, or align

Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy.

So being Aristotle, Rabelais,

Paul, Swedenborg.

“And as the years

Went on, as I had time, was fortunate

In finding books I read of many men

Who had illumination, as I had it. Read

Of Dante's vision, how he found himself

Saw immortality, lost fear of death.

Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect

At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven

Before he quitted life and saw behind

The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth.

Read Whitman who exclaimed to God:‘ Thou knowest

My manhood's visionary meditations

Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge.

Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable

Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.’

Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth

Who wrote of something‘ deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue skies, and in the mind of man —

A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought

And rolls through all things.’

“And at last they called me

The mad, and learned carpenter. And then —

I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold...”

At this point

He fainted, sank into a stupor. There

I watched him, to discover if‘ twas death.

But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke.

There was some other talk, but not of moment.

I had to change the cylinder — the talk

Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things,

Throws no light on the case, being sane enough.

He died next morning.

Students who desire

To examine the skull and brain may do so now

At their convenience in the laboratory.