This rapturous excitement is not unfrequently the province of the physician. Fortunately perhaps for the patient, it is an incurable malady, illustrating the lines of Dryden,

There is a pleasure, sure, in being mad,
Which none but madmen know.

If we admit this state of ecstasy to be a mental aberration, it is surely of an enviable nature, since it elevates the soul to a beatitude which is rarely the lot of man.

No definition of this state can equal that given by St. Theresa of her own feelings. By prayer she had attained what she calls a “celestial quietude,—a state of union, rapture, and ecstasy.” “I experienced,” she continues, “a sort of sleep of all the faculties of the soul—intellect, memory, and volition; during which, though they were but slumbering, they had no conception of their mode of operation. It was a voluptuous sensation, such as one might experience when expiring in raptures in the bosom of our God. The soul is unconscious of its actions; she (the soul) knows not if she speaks or if she remains silent, if she laughs or if she cries. It is, in short, a blessed extravagance, a celestial madness, in which she attains in the knowledge of true wisdom, an inconceivable consolation. She is on the point of merging into a state of languor; breathless, exhausted, the slightest motion, even of the hands, is unutterably difficult. The eyes are closed by a spontaneous movement; or, if they remain open, the power of vision has fled. In vain they endeavour to read: they can distinguish letters, but are unable to class them into words. Speak to a person in this absorbed condition, no answer will be obtained; although endeavouring to speak, utterance is impossible. Deprived of all external faculties, those of the soul are increased, to enjoy glorious raptures when conversing with the Deity and surrounding angels.” These conversations the blessed St. Theresa relates; and she further states, that after having remained about an hour in this joyous trance, she recovered her usual senses, and found her eyes streaming in tears, as though they were weeping for the loss she had experienced in being restored to earthly relations.

Now, with all due deference to St. Theresa, this state was most probably a hysteric condition. Zimmerman relates two cases somewhat of a similar kind. Madame M. experienced effusions of divine love of a peculiar nature. She first fell into a state of ecstasy, motionless and insensible, during which, she affirms, she felt this love penetrating her whole being, while a new life seemed to thrill through every fibre. Suddenly she started up, and seizing one of her companions, exclaimed, “Come, haste with me to follow and call Love, for I cannot sufficiently call upon his name!”—A French young lady was the second instance of this affection. She also frequently lost the power of speech and all external senses, animated with a love divine, spending whole nights in ecstatic bliss, and rapturously embraced by her mystic lover. It is difficult, perhaps, to separate this amorous feeling from physical temperament; and the following remarks of Virey on the subject of St. Theresa are most judicious:—“She possessed an ardent and sensitive disposition, transported, no doubt, by terrestrial affection, which she strove to exchange for a more exalted ardour for the Deity; for devotion and love are more or less of a similar character. Theresa was not fired by that adoration which is exclusively due to the infinite and invisible Intelligence which rules the universe; but she fancied a sensible, an anthropomorphous divinity; so much so, that she not unfrequently reproached herself with bitterness that these raptures were not sufficiently unconnected with corporeal pleasures and voluptuous feelings.”

St. Theresa was not the only beatified enthusiast who suspected that the evil spirit occasionally interfered in those ecstatic visions. St. Thomas Aquinas divides ecstasies into three classes;—the first arising from divine power, and enjoyed by the prophets, St. Paul, and various other saints. The second was the work of the devil, who bound down all external senses, suspended their action, and reduced the body to the condition of a corpse: such were the raptures in which magicians and sorcerers were frequently entranced, during which, according to Tertullian and other writers, the soul quitted the body to wander about the world, inquire into all its occurrences, and then returned with the intelligence it had obtained to its former abode. The third rapturous category of St. Thomas he simply attributes to physical causes, constituting mental alienation.

May not all these ecstatic raptures be considered as belonging to this third class? It has been observed that women, hysteric ones in particular, were the most subject to this supposed inspired affection; and amongst men it has also been remarked, that the enraptured individual was in general nervous, debilitated, and bald; and it is well known that the fall of the hair is frequently the result of moral and physical weakness, brought on by long studies, contemplation, grief, and illness, all of which may occasion mental aberration; for what other denomination can be given to the ecstatic state of the Monks of Mount Athos, who pretended or fancied that they experienced celestial joys when gazing on their umbilical region, in converse with the Deity? Hence were they called Omphalopsychians, whose notions in the matter are thus described by Allatius: “Elevate thy spirit above earthly concerns, press thy beard upon thy breast, turn thine eyes and all thy thoughts upon the middle of thine abdomen, hold thy breath, seek in thy bowels the abode of thy heart—then wilt thou find it unalloyed with dense and tenebral mists; persevere in this contemplation for days and nights, and thou shalt know uninterrupted joys, when thy spirit shall have found out thy heart and has illumined itself.”[4]

Bernier relates an act of supposed devotion amongst the Fakirs nearly as absurd, when, to seek the blessings of a new light, they rivet their eyes in silent contemplation upon the ceiling; then gradually looking down, they fix both eyes gazing, or rather squinting, at the tip of their nose, until the aforesaid light beameth on them.

St. Augustin mentions a priest who could at will fall into one of these ecstasies, during which his external senses were so totally suppressed that he did not experience the pangs of the torture. Cardanus affirms that he was possessed of the same faculty. “Quoties volo,” he says, “extra sensum quasi in exstasim transeo—sentio dÙm eam ineo, ac (ut veriÙs dicam) facio, juxta cor quandam separationem, quasi anima abscederet, totique corpori res hÆc communicatur, quasi ostiolum quoddam aperiretur. Et initium hujus est À capite, maximÈ cerebello, diffunditurque per totam dorsi spinam, vi magn continetur; hocque solÙm sentio, quad sum extra meipsum magnÂque quÂdam vi paululum me contineo.”

This state of mind is usually succeeded by contemplation, which has justly been considered one of the attributes of Genius. This contemplation, however, may be applied to positive relation, or to the workings of fiction. In the latter case it becomes to a certain degree mental, and beyond the control or the influence of our reason, although we cannot regulate the rationality of our mental pursuits by any given or acknowledged standard. The pseudo-philosopher, who searches for the elixir vitÆ or the power of transmuting metals, and the judicial astrologer, are in the eyes of society madmen: yet, do they reason on certain rational principles, and in many respects may be considered wise; one might figuratively say, that here the mind must have taken flight beyond its natural limits, if we can limit thought. In the wild wanderings of Theosophy man has fancied that by abstracting himself from the world, he might place himself in relation with the Divinity, and has so forcibly indulged the flattering illusion, that he actually believes that he is in converse with his Creator or his angels. Unquestionably this is a state of mania, yet is it founded upon a systematic train of ideas, that, strictly speaking, does not partake of mental aberration, but rather of enthusiasm. Although an indulgence in this may terminate in mania, still there is something delightful in these fond aberrations. A new world—a new condition is evoked—we are freed from the trammels of society and its prejudices—and perhaps encompassed by misery we burst from its shackles into another orb of our own creation, when the eyes closed in a vision of bliss—a meridian sunbeam, through the darkness of night. If the slumber of the visionary ushered in death, his destiny might be enviable—he had already quitted the world, seeking the presence of his God—his soul had already soared from its earthly tenement.

There is no doubt that such contemplation may lead us to a better knowledge of the Supreme Being, whose image and attributes have been distorted by ignorance and superstition. It has been truly said, that until the light of Christianity shone upon mankind, God was unknown. He had been represented as wrathful and revengeful—implacable in his anger—insatiable in his thirst for blood—when he was revealed to us upon the earth, gentle, forgiving, loving, humble, and charitable. The type of all excellence—and delivering doctrines so pure, so convincing, as to entitle him to the name of Saviour, even were his godhead doubted—for who could question the salvation of those who followed his laws. Until ambition swayed the church and polluted the altar with blood and rapine—how happy, how blessed were these followers—even in the midst of persecution and in agonies—pardoning their barbarous murderers and praying for their conversion.

Unfortunately according to the temperament of individuals their ecstasy has frequently led to an enthusiasm which knew no bounds, and induced the illuminated visionary to consider all men who did not coincide in his opinions the enemies of Divinity—hence arose fanaticism and persecution—yet did these murderous madmen conceive that they were wielding their hateful sword in the cause of an offended God; and, although we read of their excesses and cruelty with horror, they were not bad men, and many of them imagined that they were fulfilling a heavenly mission. I have known many worthy and amiable ecclesiastics in Spain and in Portugal who advocated the inquisition as a useful institution, although they readily admitted that it had too frequently been rendered instrumental to ambition and political intrigues.

This state of mental exaltation is not unfrequently within the province of a physician’s care. The treatment like that of all moral affections is a task of great difficulty. Perhaps the best curative means to be adopted is occupation of the body in active pursuits. St. Augustine was so convinced of this necessity of occupation to prevent ecstatic habits, that the monks of the Thebaid cultivated their ground with such industry, that they freighted several vessels with their produce. Priest has observed in his extensive practice in insanity that he never met with an insane naturalist. Travelling is also to be enjoined. Marriage has also been advised, although it is to be feared that the little charms men of this description may have to suit a woman’s fancy, might lead to contemplation of a nature widely different from beatitude. The Jewish Rabbi tell us, that as soon as Moses became contemplative and prophetic, his wife Marjarin left him. It is certain that enthusiasm produces a concentration of mind prejudicial to all other functions.[5]There is no doubt that melancholy or intense cogitation may bring on this morbid condition. Zimmerman relates that the mathematician Viote was sometimes so wrapped up in calculation, that he was known to remain three days and three nights without sleep or food: and Mendelsohn the philosopher, who was called the Plato of Germany, fell into a swoon the moment philosophy was talked of; and he was therefore ordered by his doctor not to think. Being asked one day what he contrived to do when not allowed thought, he replied, “Why, I go to the window and count the tiles on the roof of the opposite house.”

This morbid condition of our intellectual faculties has been admirably described by Johnson, in his Rasselas. “To indulge the power of fiction, and send imagination out upon the wing, is often the sport of those who delight too much in silent speculation. He who has nothing external that can divert him, must find pleasure in his own thoughts, and must conceive himself what he is not; for who is pleased with what he is? He then expatiates in boundless futurity, and culls from all imaginary conditions that which for the present moment he would most desire; amuses his desires with impossible enjoyments, and confers upon his pride unattainable dominion. The mind dances from scene to scene, unites all pleasures, in all combinations, and riots in delights which nature and fortune, with all their bounty cannot bestow. In time, some particular train of ideas fixes the attention: all other intellectual gratifications are rejected; the mind, in weariness or leisure, returns constantly to the favourite conception, and feasts on the luscious falsehood whenever she is offended with the bitterness of truth. By degrees the reign of fancy is confirmed; she grows first imperious, and in time despotic. Then fictions begin to operate as realities, false opinions fasten upon the mind, and life passes in dreams of raptures or of anguish.”

The celebrated physician Boerhaave was once engaged in so profound a meditation that he did not close his eyes for six weeks. Any fixity of idea may be considered as a monomania. Pascal, being thrown down on a bridge, fancied ever after that he was standing on the brink of a terrific precipice, which appeared to him an abyss ever ready to ingulf him. So immutable was this dread, that when his friends conversed with him they were obliged to conceal this ideal peril with a chair, on which they seated themselves, to tranquillize his perturbed mind. This is an instance of a painful fixity of thought, the result of which is melancholic mania; whereas ecstatic exultation is the enjoyment of a delicious sensation unknown in our habitual earthly enjoyments, and beautifully expressed by Shakspeare, when Pericles thus addresses Helicamus—

O Helicanus! strike me, honoured sir;
Give me a gash,—put me to present pain,
Lest this great sea of joy, rushing upon me,
O’erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness.

Archimides was heedless of the slaughter around him. Father Castel, the inventor of the ocular harpsichord, spent an entire night in one position, ruminating on a thought that struck him as he was retiring to rest. And it is related of an arduous student, that he was reflecting so deeply on some interesting and puzzling subject, that he did not perceive that his feet were burnt by the fire near which he was seated.