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AN ANALYSIS of human his tory of the human brain. Everything that has really hap pened, first happened in the brain. Wherever brute force proves itself undeniably valuable, as in our late World War, or in great engineering undertakings, like the Panama canal, it is because of the watchful and di recting brain behind it. The motive personalities that have made the history of any race or nation have been the men and women of brain, and as brain, by aid of those elemental energies which its science discovered and now so considerably controls has made merely physical force a laughing stock and a ruin at the pressing of a button, as lightly tossing a city to the winds as once it would have taken a year to storm a tower. It becomes more and more evident that the brain of man is what man has to count with, as well as to count on. And, further, for the rea son that it seems to be our nearest point of contact with those mysteri ous powers that seem to govern our lives. Admitting, therefore, the impor tance of the brain in human affairs, its often whimsical selection of a phy sical lodging, not to say significant. As a general rule the old Latin pro verb,"rae/w Sana in corporc sano, ,J holds true, and in the great majority of cases the sound mind is found irf the healthy body, yet in proof of this rule there are some striking excep tions that set one thinking. Indeed, no little of the dynamic greatness that has brought man to his present state of being has been housed in bodies very frail and very unfit. As the greater the general, the less he trou bles about his quarters, satisfied with the barest necessity, so the brain seems to be able to make good with any ramshacle physical apparatus that will hold together, and all that appears to matter about a great man’s body in certain notable cases to, is there room enough in it to house his brain, and enough vitality to convey to it that slender victualing that it needs? There is no necessity to expire the byways of history to discover exam ples of this strange biological truth. We need only take a few of those names which immediately come to the tongue, or arrrest, so to speak, the historic eye, as one glances ever so casually over the field of human advancement. I I Of the body that housed perhaps the greatest brain in human history we have this description: “His presence was mean and his coun tenance grotesque. Short of stature, thick necked and somewhat corpulent, with prominent eyes, with nose up turned and nostrills outspread, with large mouth and coarse lips, he seemed the embodiment of sensuality and stupidity. Luch was the outer man of Socrates as he walked about the streets of Athens, always on the lookout for any fellow citizen who would talk or lis ten about the deep things of life. From a face like a comic mask came that inspired conversation which Plato has embodied in his “Dialo- gues,” from so earthen a vessel came our divinest discourse on the soul. Among philosophers of the modern world there are two that overshadow their respective periods like two rocks towering out of the plain. We have but to say Voltaire and Kant. Their history is in their names. The power of thought has never been more strikingly illustrated than by these two great men, and never has such dynamic thought been more para doxically domiciled. One of Voltaire’s opponents, now utterly forgotten, ex cept by association with the insult, said of him that his “leanness recalled his labors, and that his slight, bent body was only a thin, transparent veil through which one seemed to see his soul and genius.” The extraordi nary thinness” of this great man was remarked upon by another observer, “a mere skeleton, with a long nose and eyes of preternatural brilliancy peering out of his wig.” It is always perilous to think, and this skeleton with the bright eyes lived in a time when it was peculiarly perilous to think. He had only his brain to protect himself with against the staves of the lackeys of the Cheva lier de Rohan , only Voltaire’s brain. One laughs now to think of it, but, if one laughs, it is only because we have come to realize how much a pinch of that high explosive called brain means in the history of human ity and how little the well-fed, highly paid retinues of swollen aristocrats, or even plutocarts, can avail against it. As for Kant, his merely physical envelope seems to have been scarcely less flimsy than that of the mythical Greek philosopher who was so small and slight that it was neces sary for him to keep stones in his pockets lest the wind should blow him away, for all descriptions of Kant agree as to the pathetic fragility of the house thus mysteriously provided as the temporary lodging of his great brain. He was “scarcely five feet high,” said one, “and his body seemed to have received from nature the im press of feebleness as its characteris tics * * * His bones were small and weak, but proportionately his muscles were still weaker.” And “ever since I knew him,” relates one who had been acquainted with him for fifty years, “his body was extremely emaciated, and at last it was dried like a potsherd. But his dearest friend, Jackmann, adds one detail that means more than all the rest: “Where shall I find words to describe his eyes. Kant’s eye looked as if it had been formed of heavenly ether.” Yet one of Kant’s eyes had been blind for four years, without either himself or his friends knowing it. One other almost quaint detail of his fragility, again related by his friend Jackmann is that a news paper fresh from the press could give him a cold. Luch was “the physical man” of him who gave us that “Criti- OUR MOTTO—“IT IS NEVER TO LATE TO MEND” Stillwater, Minnesota, Thursday, June 10, 1920. HISTORY OF GREAT INTELLECTS By Mr. H. P. que of Pure Reason.” the significance of which in the history of the world no one need be told. The history of “crook backs” has perhaps, been written, but I have/iot come upon it. The idea of the super ior brain and higher spirituality of of the hunchback was one that fas cinated Balzac in more than one of his novels he attributed it to an en forced accumulation of the spinal marrrow, and writes like Charles Reade and George Eliot, not to speak of Hugo, have made no merely fan tastic but spiritually commanding and lovable heroes of our strange human drama. In fact, the hunchback is but the extreme illustration of my present thesis. Another great writer who owed little to his body, but whose tongue was at once the bitterest and the sweetest ever belonging to poet, was Heinrich Heine. Yet the lightning of his wit which kept his enemies in terror and the melody of those lyrics that have gone surging like birds around the world, emanated alike from a half paralyzed invalid, tor tured continually with pain, as he lay for years on his “mattress grave” in the Rue d’Amsterdam, Paris. “What does it avail me,” he cries in a famous passage, “that enthusias tic youths and Maidens crown my marble bust with laurel wreaths if, meanwhile, the shriveled fingers of an aged nurse press a blister of Span ish flies behind the ears of my actual body? Of what avail is it that all the roses of Shiraz so tenderly glow and bloom for me? Alas! Shiraz is two thousand miles away from the Rue D’Amsterdam, where, in the dreary solitude of my sick room, I have nothing to smell, unless it be the perfume of warmed napkins.” It is inspiring to think that Heine’s most memorable work was done un der these conditions, and that the poetry by which he is best known, iri descent and joyous as a fountain in the sun, was born in that sick room, amid “the perfume of warmed nap kins.” Indeed, nothing in human history is more inspiring than the evidence it is continually bringing that the race is not by any means always to the swift, or the battle to the strong. Even the great soldiers and statesmen of the world have not infrequently been men frail or deseased of body. Ceasar is said to have been an epilep tic, and, while France boasts perhaps, a greater number of distinguished names than any other modern coun try, yet it is questionable whether there would have been any France to boast of had it not been for the stern will and terrible political wisdom housed in the insignificant body of Louis XI. When the world is in difficulties it does not run to some thick-witted Lamson, whose strength the frailest slip of a girl can topple down, healthy and rude and splendid as the hills. yd. XXXIII: No. 45 On the contray, it is more likely to ask help of some mild, undersized, bald headed professor, gentle and probably timid, whose body may well seem to have acquired second hand for only one purpose, that of Lansing, for its necessary time, the combined searchlight and battery of his brain. “The soul is in its own place,” said a certain great man who, though he did not live to any great age, has not yet, so far as I know, been explained away by any disease, and he, of all men, understood what strange nests the soul may build for itself, in what * crazy skulls it may lay the eggs of the future, or through what half blind eyes it may behold the stars. I trust I shall not be misunder stood to have attempted here any ar gument on behalf of those melodra matic biologists and pathologists who would persuade us that genius is merely a product of disease, men who can predict your music from your liver, who would prescribe consump tion to poets and gout to historians, and who, generally speaking, accept epeleptic fits as the final explanation of all greatness, whether it be that of the saint, the soldier, the king, or the philosopher, the man who considers the dunghill a sufficiently explanation of the rose. As I said at the beginning, these great intellects with frail bodies are the exceptions, not the rule. Nature prefers, as a rule, to house her great intellects magnificiently, as in a Sophocles, or a Goethe, or a Nopo leon, and she but illustrates what one might term her indomitability, her capacity for achieving her ends in spite of all obstacles, and even through defective media, when she thus occasionally employs the imper fect vessel. Quaint Old Welsh Town Kidwelly is a quaint old town in Wales. It is a dreamy little com munity set in snugly between broad marshes and Carmarthen bay, and di vided by a curving river with an un pronounceable Welsh name. Old Kid welly lives largely in the past. It has been the scene of battles and seiges. It has a castle whose turrets and roundtowers still stand bravely, their age kindly hidden by the vines that enfold them. It pretends to remember well the occasion of the Welsh princess who stormed the town at the head of her army. It tells the story proudly, a little sadly at the end, for the warrior prin cess was executed by her enemies. It is a dusty, unromatic climb to the battlements, but the view from the castle top is worth the trip. The quaint, tumbledown houses at the foot of the walls are a mere skeleton of the old town as it was in its prime. Be yond them are marshy fields rolling away to the next village. Far below is the river once thronged with ships of trade that long ago deserted it for richer ports. Its streets are almost empty, and its old-fashioned residents, primly oblivious to new improve ments and styles of architecture.— Ex.