PERORATION ON THE MIND THROUGH
THE SYMPATHETIC NERVOUS SYSTEM
It is called "Sympathetic" because of
its intimate relationship with every part of the body. It superintends
and energizes all of the processes of growth, repair, tissue building,
respiration, circulation, and elimination of the waste material
from the tissues.
The MIND is that sleepless sentinel who stands at
the gates of life as long as we live, though it be a hundred years
or more; it never slumbers nor sleeps for a single moment, night
nor day. Nothing short of lethal doses of narcotic or anesthetic
drugs can wrap it round in slumber-robes or stretch it on its
dreamy couch; this only because its tenement of clay is no longer
fit for its temporary abode.
It is that body servant of ours who never deserts
us nor quits our service night nor day, for a single moment; a
friend that truly sticketh closer than a brother, watching every
heart-throb and every breath we draw.
It is that butler of ours, who, without orders from
us, looks after the nourishment of every bone, muscle, nerve and
tissue of our body, and provides us with every well-spring of
thought and emotion.
It is that deft artisan who sees to the oiling of
every joint in our frame, and keeps it from cracking and rasping
with friction and the loss of mobility; who lubricates all of
the surface of our body, internal and external, so that it does
not dry up and crack to pieces, nor drip with excessive unction.
Sympathetic Nerve Centers, to Obtain, from Peripheral Influences.
The Salient Points of Impression.
It is that faithful servant, who, without murmuring
or complaint, controls our breathing, superintends, the pumping
of our blood through the long hours of the night, and through
the busy hours of the day, when we have no time to think of breath
It is that janitor of the temple of our soul who
keeps the fires in our bodily frame and maintains a temperature
of 98 1/2 degrees throughout every department of the "house
not made with hands," through the summer's heat or winter's
cold, whether we live on Greenland's icy mountains, or dwell in
Afric's sunny clime.
It is that cunning servitor who always superintends
the opening and closing of the iridescent curtains of the eye
so as to let in just so much light as to enable us, in the glare
of noon, or the shadows of twilight, to see with pleasure all
of the beauties of the world around us.
It is that faithful warden who stands at the gateway
of our stomach and reports instantly to the brain, whether we,
in our ignorance and stupidity, put into our mouth a delicious
morsel or a corrosive poison.
It is that cunning mechanician who sees to it, always,
that our blood, as it courses furiously through its channels,
is composed of so many white and so many red corpuscles, and that
each corpuscle contains so many atoms of lime, sulphur, phosphorus,
carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen, and all of the other sixty-five
or more primal elements of our bodies, in exact proportions, and
sees to it that, when each lays down its burden at the gateway
of life, each atom thus carried into the economy of unerring selection,
is built up into frame, muscle and tissue of our body, always
renewing life in the midst of death throughout the term of our
And that same wise warden looks to it that every
corpuscle or atom on its return journey, through other channels,
is loaded with worn-out materials, to be carried out of the great
temple of life, to again mingle with the clods of the valley.
The mind, through the great sympathetic nervous
system, is the invincible defender of the fortress, who, amid
the havoc of shot and shell, of saber stroke and leaden ball,
the shock of concussion, the delirium of typhoid, the wreck of
insanity, still guards, protects and repairs the breached fortifications
Through all the vicissitudes of life, the great
sympathetic nerve is still our best earthly friend and benefactor.
It is the great clock in the temple's tower that calls for every
passing change of life, wound up to run a hundred years or more;
and as it ticks the allotted time of life, it marks the age of
speechless, puling infancy, when it can neither understand nor
tell its own wants; it measures off our youth and strikes the
hour of manhood; it calls us to the mystery and mating time of
love; it rings the dinner bell each day of our earthly life, and
calls the hour of sleep and rest; it changes the epoch of gray
hairs and slower gait, of waning vision, of shrunken shanks and
biceps; it sets our voice in piping tones to prating of the times
that were, the deeds of former days, and youthful prowess, and
when these deeds are told, we sigh, and say, "We are growing
And then, some day, when we are ripe and ready for
the change, it will ring the curtain down and close our mortal
gaze, and as one who quits a tenement long kept, and gives it
over to worms and mold and dust, to cobwebs and bats and flies,
its wheels will turn slowly round, and the hammer fails to strike;
the hours will then be tolled, and this same friend will go out
from long control to terminate a long career, lie down to sleep
- that sleep that knows no waking.
Then swift decay will come and cover us with mold,
and order us with dispatch to assimilate with the clods that heap
the valley, and leave us there, with time, the elements and God.
Who can comprehend its greatness, its countless
capabilities, the vastness of its service, or the infinitude of
the mind that planned and constructed it?