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protoplasmic processes; the other fibre was named, after its
discoverer, the axis cylinder of Deiters. It was a natural
inference, though not clearly demonstrable in the sections, that
these filamentous processes are the connecting links between the
different nerve cells and also the channels of communication
between nerve cells and the periphery of the body. The white
substance of brain and cord, apparently, is made up of such
connecting fibres, thus bringing the different ganglion cells
everywhere into communication one with another.
In the attempt to trace the connecting nerve tracts through this
white substance by either macroscopical or microscopical methods,
most important aid is given by a method originated by Waller in
1852. Earlier than that, in 1839, Nasse had discovered that a
severed nerve cord degenerates in its peripheral portions. Waller
discovered that every nerve fibre, sensory or motor, has a nerve
cell to or from which it leads, which dominates its nutrition, so
that it can only retain its vitality while its connection with
that cell is intact. Such cells he named trophic centres.
Certain cells of the anterior part of the spinal cord, for
example, are the trophic centres of the spinal motor nerves.
Other trophic centres, governing nerve tracts in the spinal cord
itself, are in the various regions of the brain. It occurred to
Waller that by destroying such centres, or by severing the
connection at various regions between a nervous tract and its
trophic centre, sharply defined tracts could be made to
degenerate, and their location could subsequently be accurately
defined, as the degenerated tissues take on a changed aspect,
both to macroscopical and microscopical observation. Recognition
of this principle thus gave the experimenter a new weapon of
great efficiency in tracing nervous connections. Moreover, the
same principle has wide application in case of the human subject
in disease, such as the lesion of nerve tracts or the destruction
of centres by localized tumors, by embolisms, or by traumatisms.
All these various methods of anatomical examination combine to
make the conclusion almost unavoidable that the central ganglion
cells are the veritable “centres” of nervous activity to which so
many other lines of research have pointed. The conclusion was
strengthened by experiments of the students of motor
localization, which showed that the veritable centres of their
discovery lie, demonstrably, in the gray cortex of the brain, not
in the white matter. But the full proof came from pathology. At
the hands of a multitude of observers it was shown that in
certain well-known diseases of the spinal cord, with resulting
paralysis, it is the ganglion cells themselves that are found to
be destroyed. Similarly, in the case of sufferers from chronic
insanities, with marked dementia, the ganglion cells of the
cortex of the brain are found to have undergone degeneration. The
brains of paretics in particular show such degeneration, in
striking correspondence with their mental decadence. The position
of the ganglion cell as the ultimate centre of nervous activities
was thus placed beyond dispute.
Meantime, general acceptance being given the histological scheme
of Gerlach, according to which the mass of the white substance of
the brain is a mesh-work of intercellular fibrils, a proximal
idea seemed attainable of the way in which the ganglionic
activities are correlated, and, through association, built up, so
to speak, into the higher mental processes. Such a conception
accorded beautifully with the ideas of the associationists, who
had now become dominant in psychology. But one standing puzzle
attended this otherwise satisfactory correlation of anatomical
observations and psychic analyses. It was this: Since, according
to the histologist, the intercellular fibres, along which
impulses are conveyed, connect each brain cell, directly or
indirectly, with every other brain cell in an endless mesh-work,
how is it possible that various sets of cells may at times be
shut off from one another? Such isolation must take place, for
all normal ideation depends for its integrity quite as much upon
the shutting-out of the great mass of associations as upon the
inclusion of certain other associations. For example, a student
in solving a mathematical problem must for the moment become
quite oblivious to the special associations that have to do with
geography, natural history, and the like. But does histology give
any clew to the way in which such isolation may be effected?
Attempts were made to find an answer through consideration of the
very peculiar character of the blood-supply in the brain. Here,
as nowhere else, the terminal twigs of the arteries are arranged
in closed systems, not anastomosing freely with neighboring
systems. Clearly, then, a restricted area of the brain may,
through the controlling influence of the vasomotor nerves, be
flushed with arterial blood while neighboring parts remain
relatively anaemic. And since vital activities unquestionably
depend in part upon the supply of arterial blood, this peculiar
arrangement of the vascular mechanism may very properly be
supposed to aid in the localized activities of the central
nervous ganglia. But this explanation left much to be desired—in
particular when it is recalled that all higher intellection must
in all probability involve multitudes of widely scattered
centres.
No better explanation was forthcoming, however, until the year
1889, when of a sudden the mystery was cleared away by a fresh
discovery. Not long before this the Italian histologist Dr.
Camille Golgi had discovered a method of impregnating hardened
brain tissues with a solution of nitrate of silver, with the
result of staining the nerve cells and their processes almost
infinitely better than was possible by the methods of Gerlach, or
by any of the multiform methods that other workers had
introduced. Now for the first time it became possible to trace
the cellular prolongations definitely to their termini, for the
finer fibrils had not been rendered visible by any previous
method of treatment. Golgi himself proved that the set of fibrils
known as protoplasmic prolongations terminate by free
extremities, and have no direct connection with any cell save the
one from which they spring. He showed also that the axis
cylinders give off multitudes of lateral branches not hitherto
suspected. But here he paused, missing the real import of the
discovery of which he was hard on the track. It remained for the
Spanish histologist Dr. S. Ramon y Cajal to follow up the
investigation by means of an improved application of Golgi’s
method of staining, and to demonstrate that the axis cylinders,
together with all their collateral branches, though sometimes
extending to a great distance, yet finally terminate, like the
other cell prolongations, in arborescent fibrils having free
extremities. In a word, it was shown that each central nerve
cell, with its fibrillar offshoots, is an isolated entity.
Instead of being in physical connection with a multitude of other
nerve cells, it has no direct physical connection with any other
nerve cell whatever.
When Dr. Cajal announced his discovery, in 1889, his
revolutionary claims not unnaturally amazed the mass of
histologists. There were some few of them, however, who were not
quite unprepared for the revelation; in particular His, who had
half suspected the independence of the cells, because they seemed
to develop from dissociated centres; and Forel, who based a
similar suspicion on the fact that he had never been able
actually to trace a fibre from one cell to another. These
observers then came readily to repeat Cajal’s experiments. So
also did the veteran histologist Kolliker, and soon afterwards
all the leaders everywhere. The result was a practically
unanimous confirmation of the Spanish histologist’s claims, and
within a few months after his announcements the old theory of
union of nerve cells into an endless mesh-work was completely
discarded, and the theory of isolated nerve elements—the theory
of neurons, as it came to be called—was fully established in its
place.
As to how these isolated nerve cells functionate, Dr. Cajal gave
the clew from the very first, and his explanation has met with
universal approval.
In the modified view, the nerve cell retains its old position as
the storehouse of nervous energy. Each of the filaments jutting
out from the cell is held, as before, to be indeed a transmitter
of impulses, but a transmitter that operates intermittently, like
a telephone wire that is not always “connected,” and, like that
wire, the nerve fibril operates by contact and not by continuity.
Under proper stimulation the ends of the fibrils reach out, come
in contact with other end fibrils of other cells, and conduct
their destined impulse. Again they retract, and communication
ceases for the time between those particular cells. Meantime, by
a different arrangement of the various conductors, different sets
of cells are placed in communication, different associations of
nervous impulses induced, different trains of thought engendered.
Each fibril when retracted becomes a non-conductor, but when
extended and in contact with another fibril, or with the body of
another cell, it conducts its message as readily as a continuous
filament could do—precisely as in the case of an electric wire.
This conception, founded on a most tangible anatomical basis,
enables us to answer the question as to how ideas are isolated,
and also, as Dr. Cajal points out, throws new light on many other
mental processes. One can imagine, for example, by keeping in
mind the flexible nerve prolongations, how new trains of thought
may be engendered through novel associations of cells; how
facility of thought or of action in certain directions is
acquired through the habitual making of certain nerve-cell
connections; how certain bits of knowledge may escape our memory
and refuse to be found for a time because of a temporary
incapacity of the nerve cells to make the proper connections, and
so on indefinitely.
If one likens each nerve cell to a central telephone office, each
of its filamentous prolongations to a telephone wire, one can
imagine a striking analogy between the modus operandi of nervous
processes and of the telephone system. The utility of new
connections at the central office, the uselessness of the
mechanism when the connections cannot be made, the “wires in use”
that retard your message, perhaps even the crossing of wires,
bringing you a jangle of sounds far different from what you
desire—all these and a multiplicity of other things that will
suggest themselves to every user of the telephone may be imagined
as being almost ludicrously paralleled in the operations of the
nervous mechanism. And that parallel, startling as it may seem,
is not a mere futile imagining. It is sustained and rendered
plausible by a sound substratum of knowledge of the anatomical
conditions under which the central nervous mechanism exists, and
in default of which, as pathology demonstrates with no less
certitude, its functionings are futile to produce the normal
manifestations of higher intellection.
X. THE NEW SCIENCE OF ORIENTAL ARCHAEOLOGY
HOW THE “RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX” WAS READ
Conspicuously placed in the great hall of Egyptian antiquities in
the British Museum is a wonderful piece of sculpture known as the
Rosetta Stone. I doubt if any other piece in the entire exhibit
attracts so much attention from the casual visitor as this slab
of black basalt on its telescope-like pedestal. The hall itself,
despite its profusion of strangely sculptured treasures, is never
crowded, but before this stone you may almost always find some
one standing, gazing with more or less of discernment at the
strange characters that are graven neatly across its upturned,
glass-protected face. A glance at this graven surface suffices to
show that three sets of inscriptions are recorded there. The
upper one, occupying about one-fourth of the surface, is a
pictured scroll, made up of chains of those strange outlines of
serpents, hawks, lions, and so on, which are recognized, even by
the least initiated, as hieroglyphics. The middle inscription,
made up of lines, angles, and half-pictures, one might surmise to
be a sort of abbreviated or short-hand hieroglyphic. The third or
lower inscription is Greek—obviously
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