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.