CHAPTER II.
MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN AND NERVOUS SYSTEM.
Statement.—There are certain mental phenomena connected with the relation which the mind sustains to the nervous organism, and depending intimately on the state of that organism, which seem to require the notice of the psychologist, though often overlooked by him; I refer to the phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and insanity. So far as the activity of the mind is involved in these states or phenomena, they become proper objects of psychological inquiry. They present many problems difficult of solution, yet not the less curious and interesting, as phases of mental activity hitherto little understood.
View sometimes taken by Physiologists.—It becomes the more important for the psychologist to investigate these phenomena, inasmuch as views and theories little accordant with the true philosophy of the mind have sometimes been put forth by physiologists, in attempting to explain the phenomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena of thought, as self-acting, in the absence of the higher principle of intelligence which usually governs its operations, carrying on by a sort of automatic action, the processes usually ascribed to the mind or spiritual principle, while consciousness and volition are entirely suspended. Consciousness, in fact, is nothing but sensation, and thought a mere function of the brain. This is downright materialism, a doctrine utterly subversive of the very existence of that which we call mind or soul in man. If the cerebral organization is competent of itself during sleep to carry on those operations which in waking moments are ascribed to the spiritual element of our being, if thought is a function of the brain, as digestion is of the stomach, what need and what evidence of any thing more than merely cerebral action at any time? What, in fact, is the mind itself but cerebral activity, and what is man, with all his higher powers, but a mere animated organism?
It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena under consideration in some way more consistent with all just and true notions of the nature and philosophy of mind.
Distinction of normal and abnormal States.—Of these phenomena, while all may be regarded as intimately connected with and dependent on the state of the brain and nervous system, some seem to proceed from a normal, others from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, are sleep and dreams; of the latter, somnambulism, the mesmeric state, so called, and the various forms of disordered mental action, or insanity.
§ I.—Sleep.
Meaning of the Term.—What is sleep? Will the name itself afford any solution of this problem? Like most names of familiar things, we find the word descriptive of some particular circumstance or phase, some one prominent characteristic of the thing in question, rather than a definition—much less an explanation—of the thing itself.
The word sleep, from schlafen, as the Latin somnus from supinus, refers to the supine condition and appearance of the body when in this state; the relaxing of the muscles the falling back or sinking down of the frame, if unsupported. This is the first and most obvious effect to the eye of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards the body. Further than this the word gives us no light.
1. Sleep involves primarily Loss of Consciousness.—What then, further than this, is sleep? If we observe somewhat closely, and with a view to scientific arrangement, the different aspects or phenomena that present themselves as constituting that state of body and mind which we call sleep, the primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, is loss of consciousness, of the me. Not perhaps of all consciousness, for we seem still to exist, but of self-consciousness, of the me as related to time, and place, and external circumstance We lose ourselves, as a common but most exact expression describes it.
We are not at the Time aware of this Loss.—Of course, sleep consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are not conscious of the fact that we sleep, for this would be a consciousness that we were unconscious. Illustrations of this fact are of frequent occurrence. You are of an evening getting weary over your book. You are vaguely conscious of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness; you find it difficult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep the line, but have no idea that you are at length actually asleep for the moment, till the sudden fall of the book awakens you. Nay, one who has been vigorously nodding for five minutes will, on recovering himself, stoutly deny that he has really been asleep at all; the truth is, he was not conscious of it; we never are, directly.
This results from what?—This loss of consciousness results from the inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these that afford us the data for a knowledge of self in relation to external things. In sleep these avenues of communication with the external world are shut up, and we silently drop off, and, as it were, float away from all conscious connection with it. We no longer recognize our relations to time and space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as material, come under those relations; for it is by the senses alone that we get these ideas. So far as consciousness of these relations is concerned, we exist in sleep as in death, out of the laws and limits of time and space, and irrespective of the body and of all material existence. Mental action, however, doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of thought and of the feeling of the moment, but of nothing further. All self-consciousness is gone.
An Affection primarily of the nervous System.—Sleep, then, would seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous system; not of the reproductive—that goes on as usual, and even with increased vigor; nor yet of the muscular—that is still capable of action; but only of the nervous. That gets weary; by continued use, its vital active force is exhausted, it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off, and so there results this loss of consciousness, of which I have spoken. It is strictly, then, the nervous system, and not the whole body that sleeps.
Different Senses fall Asleep successively.—The different senses become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but successively. First, sight goes. The eye-lids droop, and close. Taste and smell probably next. Touch, and hearing, are among the last to give way. Hence, noises so easily disturb us, when falling asleep. Hence, too, we are most easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by some one touching us. These senses are also the first to waken. One sense may be asleep and another awake. You may still hear what one is saying that sits near you, when already the eye is asleep. So in death, one hears when no longer able to see or to speak.
2. Loss of personal Control.—Accompanying this loss of self-consciousness is the loss of personal control, i. e., the control of the will over the bodily organization. This follows from the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous system, for it is only through that, and not by direct agency of the will, that we, at any time, exert voluntary power over the body. When that system becomes exhausted, and its force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the motive power, nor execute the commands of the higher intelligence the will no longer maintains its empire over the physical organization, its little realm of matter, its control is suspended, its sceptre falls, and it realizes for the time the story of the enchanted palace on which a magic spell had fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life, and sealing up, on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and attendants, in the unbroken sleep of ages.
Indications of approaching Sleep.—One of the first indications, accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the relaxing of the muscles, the drooping of the eye-lid, the dropping of the head and of the arm, the sinking down of the body from an erect to a supine position. If in church, the head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front, fortunate if it can secure itself there from the still further demands of gravitation.
Analogous Cases.—In respect to the point now under consideration, the loss of control over the physical frame, the phenomena of sleep closely resemble those of intoxication, and of fainting; and for the same reason, in either case, i. e., the inactivity of the nervous system, which is the medium of voluntary power over the body. That inactivity of the nervous system is produced in the one case by natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct effect is the same as regards the loss of voluntary power. The same effects are also produced in certain diseases, and eventually by death.
3. Loss of Control over the Mind.—Analogous to this is the loss of voluntary control over the mental operations, which is in fact, so far as the mind is concerned, the essential feature and characteristic of sleep. Mental action still goes on, there is reason to suppose; in many cases we know that it does; but the thoughts come and go at their own pleasure, without regulation or control. It is not in our power to arrest a certain thought, and fix our minds upon it for the time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the waking moments, and which constitutes, in fact, the chief control and power we have over our thoughts, nor can we dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant train of thought, a disagreeable impression, however much we may desire to be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our own thoughts and casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, spontaneous play of the mind's own inherent energy, and guided only by its own native laws, produce the wildest and strangest phantasmagoria, having to us all the semblance of reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators of the scene.
Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep.—It has been supposed by some that the faculties of the mind are, in part or wholly, suspended in sleep, especially the higher faculties more immediately dependent on the will. So long as mental activity goes on, however,—and there is no evidence that it ever entirely ceases in sleep—so long there is thought, and so long must that thought and activity be exerted in some particular direction, and on some particular object. We cannot conceive of the mind as acting or thinking, and not exercising any of its faculties, for what is a faculty of the mind but its capacity of acting in this or that way or mode, and on this or that class of subjects. It may be perception, or conception, or memory, or imagination, or judgment, or reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the moment active; it must be some one of the known faculties of the mind, unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to be then developed, of whose existence we are at other times unconscious.
Mental Action modified by certain Causes in Sleep.—The faculties will, however, be materially modified in their action during sleep, by the causes already named; chiefly these two: 1st. the entire suspension of voluntary control over the train of thought; 2d. the loss of personal consciousness as regards especially the bodily organization, and its present relations to time, and space, and all sensible objects. In consequence of the former our thoughts will come and go all unregulated and disconnected; there will be no coherence; the slightest analysis will suffice for the associating principle; we shall be hurried on and borne away on the rushing tide of thought, as a frail passive leaf swept on the bosom of the rapids; we shall whirl hither and thither as in the dance of the witches; we shall waken in confusion, and seek to recover the reins of self-control, only to lose them again and be swept on in the fearful dance.
Want of Congruity owing to what.—In consequence of the latter cause—the loss of sensational consciousness and of our relations to sensible objects—there will be an entire want of fitness and congruity in our mental operations. The laws of time, and space, and personal identity, will be altogether disregarded, and we shall not be conscious of the incongruity, nor wonder at the strangest and most contradictory combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this and now that. The scene is in the valley of the Connecticut, and anon on the Ural mountains, or the desert of Arabia, and we do not notice the change as any thing at all remarkable. Now we are walking up the aisle of the church, in garments all too scanty for the proprieties of the occasion, and now it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and the transition from one to the other is instantaneous. Why should it not be, for it is by the senses alone that we are brought into conscious relation to the external world, and so made cognizant of the laws of time and space, and those senses being now locked in oblivion, what are time and space to us?
The Causes now named a sufficient Explanation of the Phenomena.—The causes already named will sufficiently account for the strange and distorted action of the various mental faculties as exercised in sleep. Memory, e. g., will give us the past with variations ad libitum; things will appear to us, and events will seem to transpire, and forms and faces familiar will look out upon us, not as they really are, or ever were. We talk with a former friend, without the thought once occurring to us that he has been dead these many years. Impression there is, feeling, idea, fancy, association of all these, but hardly memory, or even imagination, much less judgment or reasoning. So it would seem at first. A closer inspection, however, will show us that there is in reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the exercise of all these faculties, only so modified by causes now named as to present strange and uncouth results.
Mental Faculties not immediately dependent on the Will.—If any of the mental faculties can be shown to be entirely dependent on the will for their activity and operation, so as to have no power to act except by its order or permission, then it would follow that when the will is no longer in possession of the throne, when its sway is for the time suspended as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must lie inactive. But with regard to most if not all mental operations, we know the reverse to be true. They are capable of spontaneous, as well as voluntary action. Nay, some of them, it would seem, are not subject, in any case, directly to its control. It is not at our option whether to remember or forget, whether to perceive surrounding objects, whether such or such a thought shall, by the laws of association, follow next in the train of ideas and impressions. Some mental operations are more closely connected with and admit of a more direct interference on the part of the will than others, but it cannot be shown, I think, that any faculty is so far dependent on the will as not to be capable of action, irrespective of its demands. Indeed, facts seem to show that where once a train of mental action has been set in operation by the will, that action goes on, for a time, even when the will is withdrawn, or held in abeyance, as in sleep, or profound reverie.
Whence this Suspension of Power of the Will.—The question may occur, whence arises this suspension of the power of the will over the mental operations in sleep? What produces it? Does it, like the loss of voluntary power over the physical frame, result from the inactivity of the nervous apparatus? The fact that it always accompanies this, and is found in connection with it, that whatever produces the latter seems to be the occasion, also, of the former, as in the case of disease, delirium, mesmeric influence, stupefying drugs, inebriation, etc., and that the degree of the one, whether partial or complete, is in proportion to the degree of the other—these facts seem to me to favor the idea now suggested.
Summary of Results.—These, then, seem to be the principal phenomena of sleep: loss of sensational consciousness, loss of voluntary power over the body, loss of voluntary power over the operations of the mind.
Exhaustion of the nervous System.—Sleep, then, appears to be primarily an affection of the nervous system, the result of its exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot continue always active; repose must succeed to effort. Hence, the more rapid the exhaustion of the nervous system, from any cause, the more sleep is demanded. This we know to be the fact. The more sensitive the system, as in childhood, or with the gentler sex, as in men of great sensibility also, poets, artists, and others, the more sleep. On the other hand, those sluggish natures which allow nothing to excite or call into action the nervous system, sleep from precisely the opposite cause; not the exhaustion of nervous activity, but its absolute non-existence. If both our systems, the animal and the vegetative or nutritive, should sleep at once, says Rauch, there would be nothing to awaken us. That would be death. "In sleep, every man has a world of his own," says Heraclitus; "when awake, all men have one in common." Sleeping and waking, it has been beautifully said by another, are the ebb and flood of mind and matter on the ocean of our life.
§ II.—Dreams.
Resumè of previous Investigation.—It has been shown in the preceding section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly an affection of the nervous system, in which, through exhaustion, the senses become inactive, and, as it were, dead, while, at the same, the nutritive system and the functions essential to life go on; that in consequence of this inactivity of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of consciousness, so far, at least, as regards all connection with, and relation to, external things; 2. Loss of voluntary power over the physical and muscular frame; 3. Loss of voluntary control over the operations of the mind; the mind still remaining active, however, and its operations going on, uncontrolled by the will.
We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that specific form of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming; a state which admits of easy explanation on principles already laid down.
A Dream, what.—What, then, is a dream? I reply, it is any mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are afterward conscious. This is not the case with all, perhaps, with most mental action during sleep. Senses and the will are inactive, then, for the most part, and whatever thoughts and impressions may be wrought out in the laboratory of the mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous alchemy may there be going on, when the controlling principle that presides over and directs its operations is withdrawn, are, for the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the sensitivity be partially aroused, however, let some disturbing cause come in to prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let the conceptions of the mind present themselves with more than usual vividness and force of impression, and what we then think may afterward be remembered. This is the philosophy of dreams. What is thus remembered of our thoughts in sleep, we call a dream, more especially applying the term to such of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, as have some degree of coherence and connection between themselves, so as to constitute a sort of unity.
Sources of our Dreams.—Our dreams take shape and character from a variety of circumstances. They are not altogether accidental nor unaccountable; and even when we cannot trace the connection, there is reason to suppose that such connection exists between the dream, and the state of the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known, would account for the shape and complexion of the dream. The principal sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say, modifying influences of our dreams are, 1, Our present bodily sensations, and especially the internal state of the physical system, and, 2, Our previous waking thoughts, dispositions, and prevalent states of mind.
Illustrations of the first.—As to the first of these modifying causes, instances of its operation will probably occur to every one from his own experience. You find yourself on a hard bed, or, it may be, have thrown yourself into some uncomfortable position, and you dream of broken bones or of the rack. The band of your robe buttons tightly about the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a late supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in your dreams a black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats himself on your chest, or, as a military officer once dreamed, under similar circumstances, the prince of darkness sits cross-legged over your stomach, with the Bunker Hill monument in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart, of the gentleman, who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his feet, dreamed that he was walking along the burning crater of Mount Ætna, is in point here. Here the bodily sensation of heat upon the soles of the feet suggests the idea of a situation in which such a sensation would be likely to occur, and this idea blending with the sensation which is permanent and real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and the dream shapes itself accordingly. So when a window falls, or some sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken you so far as to make known the real cause, you hear the sound, the sensorium partially aroused, mistakes it, perhaps, for the sound of a gun, and instantly you are in the midst of a battle at sea, or a fight with robbers. To such an extent are our dreams modified by sensible impressions of this sort, that it is possible, by skillful management, to shape and direct, to some extent, at least, the dreams of another as you will. An instance is related of an officer who was made, in this way, in his sleep, to go through with all the minutia of a duel, even to the firing of the pistol which was placed in his hand, at the proper moment, the noise of which awoke him. This was simply an acted dream.
Latent Disease.—Not unfrequently, some physical disorder, incipient or latent, of which we may not be aware in our waking moments, makes itself felt in the state of sleep, when the system is more susceptible of internal impressions, and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases, the dreams may serve as a sort of index of the state of the physical system, and somewhat, doubtless, of the apparently prophetic character of certain dreams may be accounted for in this way.
The second Source.—A second source, if not of our dreams themselves, at least of the peculiar shape and character which they assume, is to be found in our previous thoughts, and prevalent mental occupations and dispositions. We fall asleep, and mental action goes on much as before, in whatever direction and channel it had already received an impulse. Whatever has made the deepest impression on us through the day, has longest or most intently occupied us, repeats itself the moment we lose our consciousness of surrounding objects. The mind goes on with the new and strange spectacle, or with the unfinished problem, and unsolved intricate study of the day or of the night hour; and not seldom is the train of thought resumed and pursued to some purpose. On waking in the morning, we find little difficulty in completing a demonstration or solving a difficulty which had appeared insurmountable when we left it the previous night. Now the truth is, we did not leave it the previous night. It occupied us in our sleep. The brain was busy with it, it may be, all the night. It is solved in the morning, not because the mind is fresher then, but because it has been at work upon it through the night. Sometimes we are conscious of this on waking, and can dimly recall the severe continuous mental toil which went on while we slept. Usually, I suppose, we have no consciousness of it, and our only evidence of it is the well-known law and habit of the mind, to run in its worn and latest channels, together with the often observed fact that the difficulty previously felt is, somehow, strangely solved.
Further Illustration of the same Principle.—Condorcet is not the only mathematician who has received, in sleep, suggestions which led to the right solution of a problem that he had been obliged to leave unfinished on retiring for the night; nor is Franklin the only statesman who has, in dreams, reached a satisfactory conclusion respecting some intricate political movement. However this may be, there can be no reasonable doubt that our previous mental occupation, our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our habits of thought and habits of feeling, determine and shape the complexion of our dreams. They have a subjective connection, are by no means so disconnected with us and our real history, so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one may suppose. It was not without reason that President Edwards took notice of his dreams as affording an index of the state of his heart, and his real native propensities. They are the vane that shows which way the mind is set. Who will say that the dreams of Lady Macbeth, those dreams of a guilty conscience, are not among the most truthful of the portraitures of the great master dramatist?
Native Talent then shows itself.—Not only our native disposition and prevalent cast of thought betray themselves in dreams, but, as a certain writer has remarked, our native talents show out in those moments of spontaneous mental action. Talents which have had no opportunity to develop themselves, owing to our education and professional pursuits, take their chance and their time when we sleep, and we are poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, whatever the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to be in our waking moments.
Incoherency of Dreams.—The incoherency of our dreams has been sufficiently accounted for in what I have previously said. It is not, I think, owing chiefly, as Upham supposes, to our loss of voluntary power and control over our thoughts during sleep, though it is quite true that we have no such control. The truth is, we are not at the time aware of any such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be owing then to our loss of voluntary power, since no increase of such power would enable us to repair a defect which we are unconscious of, but is owing entirely to another cause already mentioned, viz., that in sleep we lose our relation to things around us, lose our place, and our time, and hence, retain no standard of judging as to what is, and what is not, consentaneous and fit, self-consistent and coherent.
Apparent Reality.—Nothing is more remarkable in dreams than their apparent reality. The scenes, actions, and incidents, all stand out with peculiar distinctness, are projected as images into the air before us, and have not at all the semblance of any thing merely subjective. This has been, by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to distract or call off the attention from the conceptions of the mind in dreams; we are wholly in them, and hence they appear as realities. I do not find, however, that in proportion as my attention in waking moments is wholly absorbed in any train of thought, those conceptions manifest any such tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into objective reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid. I am inclined, therefore, to attribute the seeming reality of dreams to another source. We are accustomed to regard every thing as objective, which is out of the reach and control of our will, which comes and goes irrespective of us and our volition. Now, such we find to be the prime law of cerebral action in sleep. Of course, then, we are deceived into the belief that these conceptions over which we have no control, are not conceptions, but perceptions, realities.
Estimate of Time.—Nothing has seemed to some writers more mysterious than the entire disproportion between the real and apparent time of a dream. I refer to the fact that our dreams occupy frequently such very minute portions of time, while they seem to us to stretch over such long continued periods. An instance is related of an officer confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who was awakened by the call of the sentry changing guard, fell asleep again, witnessed, as he supposed, a very long and very horrible procession of armed and bloody warriors, defiling on horseback down a certain street of Paris, occupying some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in season to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the challenge given before the dream began. The mind in such cases, say some, operates more rapidly than at other times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart has suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams seem to us real, and we have no means of estimating time otherwise than by the apparent succession of events, the conceptions of the brain, that is, our dreams, seem to us to take up just so much time in passing as the events themselves would occupy were they real. This is perfectly a natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent anomaly in question.
Prophetic Aspect.—Are dreams sometimes prophetic, and how are such to be accounted for? Cicero narrates a remarkable instance of what would seem to be a prophetic dream. I refer to the account of the two Arcadians who came to Megara and occupied different lodgings. The one imploring help, then murdered, and informing his comrade that his body would be taken out of the city early in the morning, by a certain gate, in a covered wagon. Agitated by the dream, the other repairs at the designed time to the appointed place, meets the wagon, discovers the body, arrests the murderer, and delivers him to justice.
Other Instances of the like Nature.—Another instance, perhaps equally striking, is narrated in the London Times. A Mr. Williams, residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in the same night that he saw the Chancellor of England killed, in the vestibule of the House of Commons. The dream so deeply impressed him that he narrated it to several of his acquaintance. It was subsequently ascertained that on the evening of that day the Chancellor, Mr. Perceval, was assassinated according to the dream. Now, this was certainly a remarkable coincidence. Was it any thing more? Was it merely an accidental thing—a matter of chance—that the dream should occur as it did, and should tally so closely with the facts? But these are not singular instances. Many such are on record.
Case related by Dr. Moore.—Dr. Moore, author of an interesting work on the use of the body in relation to the mind, narrates the following, as coming under his own observation. A friend of his dreamed that he was amusing himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading the epitaphs in a country church-yard, when a newly made grave attracted his attention. He was surprised to find on the stone the name, and date of death, of an intimate friend of his, with whom he had passed that very evening in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream, however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to mind, had he not received intelligence, some months afterward, of the death of this friend, which took place at the very date he had, in his dream, seen recorded on the tombstone.
Case related by Dr. Abercrombie.—The case mentioned by Dr. Abercrombie is another of these remarkable coincidences. Two sisters sleeping in the same room adjoining that of a sick brother, the one awakens in affright, having dreamed that the watch had stopped, and that on mentioning it to her sister, the latter replied, "Worse than that has happened, for ——'s breath has stopped also." On examination the watch was found going and the brother in a sound sleep. The next night the dream was repeated precisely as before with the same result. The next morning as one of the sisters had occasion to take the watch from the writing-desk she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at the same moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired.
Additional Cases.—Another instance of a similar nature is related, but I know not on how good authority. The sister of Major Andrè, it is said, dreamed of her absent brother, one night, as arrested and on trial before a court martial. The appearance of the officers, their dress, etc., was distinctly impressed on her mind; the room, the relative position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed; the general nature of the trial, and its result, the condemnation of her brother. She woke deeply impressed. Her fears were shortly afterward confirmed by the sad intelligence of her brother's arrest, trial, and execution, and, what is remarkable, the facts corresponded to her dream, both as respects the time of occurrence, the place, the appearance of the room, position, and dress of the judges, etc. Washington and Knox were particularly designated, though she had never seen them.
Another instance is related of a man who dreamed that the vessel in which his brother was an officer, and, in part, owner of the cargo, was wrecked on a certain island, and the vessel lost, but the hands saved. He was so impressed that he went directly and procured an extra insurance of five thousand dollars on his brother's portion of the property. By the next arrival news came that the vessel was wrecked, at the time and place of which the man had dreamed, and the mariners saved.
Coincidences.—Now it is perfectly easy to call all these things coincidences. They certainly are. But is it certain, or it is probable, that they are mere coincidences? To call them coincidences, and pass them off as if they were easily and fully accounted for in that way, is but a shallow concealment of our ignorance under a certain show of philosophy. It is but a conjecture at the best; a conjecture, moreover, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery just as great as before; a conjecture which is by no means the most probable of all that might be made, but, on the contrary, one of the most improbable of all, as it seems to me. Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do not come under any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise or modification to our dreams. They are not suggested, so far as it appears, by any present bodily sensation on the part of the dreamer, nor was there any reason in the nature of the case why any such event, much less conjunction of events, should be apprehended by the dreamer in his waking moments. It was not the simple carrying out of his waking thoughts. Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, may be explained on these principles. They are the result of our present sensations or impressions, or of the excited and anxious state of mind and train of thought during the day. But not so in the cases now cited.
Not necessary to suppose them Supernatural.—Shall we believe, then, that dreams are sometimes prophetic? We have no reason to doubt that they may be so. Are they, in that case, supernatural events? No doubt the future may be supernaturally communicated in dreams. No doubt it has been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary supposition. A dream may be prophetic, yet not supernatural. Some law, not fully known to us, may exist, by virtue of which the nervous system, when in a highly excited state, becomes susceptible of impressions not ordinarily received, and is put in communication, in some way to us mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so as to become strangely cognizant of the coming future. Can any one show that this is impossible? Is it more improbable than that the cases recorded are mere chance coincidences? Is it not quite as likely to be so, as that the event should correspond, in so many cases and so striking a manner, with the previous dream, and yet there be no cause, whatever, for the correspondence? Is it not as reasonable, even, as to suppose direct divine interposition to reveal the future, the possibility of which interposition I by no means deny, but the reason for which does not become apparent? Is it not possible that there may be some natural law or agent of the sort now intimated, some as yet unexplained, but partially known, condition of the physical system, when in a peculiarly sensitive state, of which the modus operandi is not yet understood, but the existence of which is indicated in cases like those now described? That this is the true explanation, I by no means affirm; I make the suggestion merely to indicate what, it seems to me, may be a possible solution of the problem.
Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts.—Evidently there are only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny the facts themselves, i. e., that any such dreams occurred, or at least, that they were verified in actual result. 2. To call them accidental coincidences. 3. To admit a supernatural agency. 4. To explain them in the way suggested. Our choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and the last of these suppositions.
§ III.—Somnambulism.
Relation to the magnetic State.—Somnambulism or sleep-walking, is called, by some writers, natural magnetic sleep. They suppose it to differ from the state ordinarily called mesmeric, chiefly in this, that the former is a natural, and the latter an artificial process.
Resemblance of this to other cognate Phenomena.—We shall have occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close resemblance between dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism, and insanity, all, in fact, closely related to each other, characterized each and all by one and the same great law, and passing into each other by almost imperceptible gradations.
Method proposed.—It will be to the purpose, first to describe the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire whether they can be accounted for.
Description.—The principal phenomena of somnambulism are the following: The subject, while in a state of sound sleep, and perfectly unconscious of what he does, rises, walks about, finds his way over dangerous, and, at other times, inaccessible places, speaks and acts as if awake, performs in the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even bandaged, operations which require the closest attention and the best vision, perceives, indeed, things not visible to the eye in its ordinary waking state, perhaps even things absent and future, and when awakened from this state, is perfectly unconscious of what has happened, and astonished to find himself in some strange and unnatural position.
An Instance narrated.—A case which fell under the observation of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in the seminary, is narrated in the French Encyclopedia. A young minister, resident there, was a somnambulist, and to satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange disease, the Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink, and proceed to the composition of sermons. Having written a page in a clear legible hand, he would read it aloud from top to bottom, with a clear voice and proper emphasis. If a passage did not please him, he would erase it, and write the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased line or word. All this was done without any assistance from the eye, which was evidently asleep; a piece of pasteboard interposed between the eye and the paper produced no interruption or inconvenience. When his paper was exchanged for another of the same size, he was not aware of the change, but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he at once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of tact or feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense.
Other Cases of a similar Nature.—Similar cases, almost without number, are on record, in which much the same phenomena are observed. In some instances it is remarked that the subject, having written a sentence on a page, returns, and carefully dots the i's, and crosses the t's. These phenomena are not confined to the night. Persons have fallen into the magnetic state, while in church, during divine service, have gone home with their eyes closed, carefully avoiding obstacles in their way, as persons or carriages passing; and have been sent, in this state, of errands to places several miles distant, going and returning in safety.
An amusing incident is on record of a gentleman who found that his hen-roost was the scene of nightly and alarming depredations, which threatened the entire devastation of the premises, and what was strange, a large and faithful watch-dog gave no alarm. Determined to ascertain the true state of the case, he employed his servants to watch. During the night the thief made his appearance, was caught, after much resistance, and proved to be the gentleman himself, in a state of sound sleep, the author of all the mischief.
A remarkable Instance.—Another case is also related, which presents some features quite remarkable. In a certain school for young ladies, I think in France, prizes had been offered for the best paintings. Among the competitors was a young and timid girl who was conscious of her inferiority in the art, yet strongly desirous of success. For a time she was quite dissatisfied with the progress of her work, but by and by began to notice, as she resumed her pencil in the morning, that something had been added to the work since she last touched it. This was noticed for some time, and quite excited her curiosity. The additions were evidently by a superior hand, far excelling her own in skill and workmanship. Her companions denied, each, and severally, all knowledge of the matter. She placed articles of furniture against her door in such a way that any one entering would be sure to awaken her. They were undisturbed, but still the mysterious additions continued to be made. At last, her companions concluded to watch without, and make sure that no one entered her apartment during the night, but still the work went on. At length it occurred to them to watch her movements, and now the mystery was explained. They saw her, evidently in sound sleep, rise, dress, take her place at the table, and commence her work. It was her own hand that, unconsciously to herself, had executed the work in a style which, in her waking moments, she could not approach, and which quite surpassed all competition. The picture, notwithstanding her protestations that it was not her painting, took the prize.
The Question.—How is it now, that in a state of sleep, with the eye, probably, fast closed, and the room in darkness, this girl can use the pencil in a manner so superior to any thing that she can do in the day time, with her eyes open, and in the full possession and employment of her senses and her will?
Several Things to be accounted for.—Here are, in fact, several things to be accounted for. How is it that the somnambulist rises and moves about in a state of apparently sound sleep? How is it that she performs actions requiring often a high degree of intelligence, and yet without apparent consciousness? How is it that she moves fearlessly and safely, as is often the case, over places where she could not stand for a moment, in her waking state, without the greatest danger? How is it that she can see without the eye, and perform actions in utter darkness, requiring the nicest attention, and the best vision, and not only do them, but in such a manner as even to surpass what can be done by the same person in any other state, under the most favorable circumstances?
First, the Movement.—As to the first thing—the movement and locomotion in sleep—it may be accounted for in two ways. We may suppose it to be wholly automatic. This is the view of some eminent physiologists. The conscious soul, they say, has nothing to do with it, no knowledge of it. The will has nothing more to do with it, than it has with the contraction of a muscle, or irritation in an amputated limb.
Objection to this View.—For reasons intimated already, we cannot adopt the automatic theory. It seems to us subversive of all true science of the mind. The body is self-moved in obedience to the active energy of the nervous organism, and this organism again, acts only as it is acted upon by the mind that animates, pervades, and controls that organism. In the waking state, this mental action, and the consequent nervous and muscular activity, are under the control of the will. In sleep, this control is, for the time, suspended, and the thoughts come and go as it may chance, subject to no law but that of the associative principle. The mind, however, is still active, and the thoughts are busy in their own spontaneous movement. To this movement, the brain and nervous system respond. That the brain itself thinks, that the nerves and muscles act, and the limbs move automatically, without the energizing activity of the mind, is a supposition purely gratuitous, inconsistent with all the known facts and evident indications of the case, and at war with all just notions of the relation of body and mind.
Another Theory.—Another, and much more reasonable supposition is, that the will, which ordinarily in sleep loses control both over the mind and the body, in the state of somnambulism regains, in some way, and to some extent, its power over the latter, so that the body rises and moves about in accordance with the thought and feeling that happen, at the moment, to be predominant in the mind. There is no control of the will over those thoughts and suggestions: they are spontaneous, undirected, casual, subject only to the ordinary laws of association; but for the time, whether owing to the greater vividness and force of these suggestions and impressions, or to the disturbed and partially aroused state of the sensorial organism, the will, acting in accordance with these suggestions of the mind, so far regains its power over the bodily organism, that locomotion ensues. The dream is then simply acted out. The body rises, the hand resumes the pen, and the appropriate movements and actions corresponding to the conceptions of the mind in its dream, are duly performed.
The second Point of Inquiry.—This virtually answers the second question, how the somnambulist can perform actions requiring intelligence, yet without apparent consciousness.
There is, doubtless, consciousness at the time—there must be; the thought and feeling of the moment are known to us at the moment. Not to be conscious of thought and feeling, is, not to think and feel. That the acts thus performed are not subsequently remembered, is no evidence that they were not objects of consciousness at the time of their occurrence. This is absence of memory, and not of consciousness.
Not remembered.—Why they are not subsequently remembered, we may, or may not, be able to explain. Not improbably, it may be owing to the partial inactivity of the senses, and the consequent failure to perceive the actual relations of the person to surrounding objects. But to whatever it may be owing, it does not prove that the mind is, for the time, unconscious of its own activity, for that is impossible.
Third Question.—As to the third question, how the somnambulist can safely move where the waking person cannot, as along the edge of precipices, and on the roofs of houses, the explanation is simple and easy. The eye is closed. The sense of touch is the only guide. Now the foot requires but a space of a few inches for its support, that, given it knows nothing further, asks nothing beyond. It is the eye that informs us at other times of the danger beyond, and so creates, in fact, the present danger. You walk safely on a two-inch plank one foot from the ground. The same effort of the muscles will enable you to walk the same plank one hundred feet from the ground, if you do not know the difference. This the somnambulist, with closed eye, and trusting to the sense of feeling alone, does not recognize.
A Question still to be answered.—But the most difficult question remains. How is it that the sleep-walker in utter darkness, reads, writes, paints, runs, etc., better even than others can do, or even than he himself can do at other times and with open eyes. How can he do these things without seeing? and how see in the dark and with the organs of vision fast locked in sleep. The facts are manifest. Not so ready the explanation. I can see how the body can move and with comparative safety, and even how the cerebral action may go on in sleep, without subsequent remembrance. But to read, to write, to paint, to run swiftly when pursued through a dark cellar, without coming in contact with surrounding objects, are operations requiring the nicest power of vision, and how there can be vision without the use of the proper organ of vision, is not to me apparent. It does not answer this question to say that the action is automatic. That would account for one's seeing, but not without eyes. The movement from place to place, according to the same theory, is also automatic; that accounts for a person's walking in sleep, but not for his walking without legs. Nor does it solve the difficulty to say that in sleep the life of the soul is merged in that of the body; doubtless, but how can the body see without the eye, or the eye without light?
Theory of a general Sense.—The only theory that seems to offer even a plausible solution is that advanced by some German psychologists, and by Rauch in this country, of a general sense. The several special senses, they say, are all resolvable into one general sense as their source, viz., that of feeling. They refer us in illustration to the ear of the crab, to the eye of the fly and the snail, to the scent of flies, in which cases, respectively, we find no organ of hearing, or vision, or smell, but simply an expansion of the general nerve of sensation, or some filament from it, connecting with a somewhat thinner and more delicate membrane than the ordinary skin. This shows that our ordinary way of perceiving things is not the only way; that special organs of vision, etc., are not needed in order to all perception, much less to sensation. It has been found by experiment that bats, after their eyes have been entirely removed, will fly about as before, and avoid all obstacles just as before. In these cases, it is contended, perception is merely feeling heightened, the exercise of the general sense into which the special senses are severally merged. And this, it is said, may be the case with the somnambulist.
Remarks on this Theory.—There is doubtless truth in the general statement now advanced. I do not see, however, that it accounts for all that requires explanation in the case. It explains, perhaps, how, without the organ of vision, a certain dim, confused perception of objects might be furnished by the general sense, but not for a clearer vision and a nicer operation than the waking eye can give. This, to me, remains yet unexplained. Is there an inner consciousness, a hidden soul-life not dependent on the bodily organization, which at times comes forth into development and manifests itself when the usual relations of body and soul are disturbed and suspended? So some have supposed, and so it may be for aught we know to the contrary, but this is only to solve one mystery by supposing another yet greater.
Must admit what.—Whatever theory we adopt, or even if we adopt none, we must admit, I think, in view of the facts in the case, that in certain disordered and highly excited states of the nervous system, as, e. g., when weakened by disease, so that ordinary causes affect it more powerfully than usual, it can, and does sometimes, perceive what, under ordinary circumstances, is not perceptible to the eye, or to the ear; nay, even dispenses with the use of eye and ear, and the several organs of special sense. This occurs, as we have seen, in somnambulism, or natural magnetic sleep. We meet with the same thing also in even stranger forms, in the mesmeric state, and in some species of insanity.
The mental Process obvious.—So far as regards the purely mental part of the phenomena, the operations of the mind in somnambulism, there is nothing which is not easily explained. In somnambulism, as indeed in all these states so closely connected—sleep, dreams, the mesmeric process, and even insanity—the will loses its controlling power over the train of thought, and, consequently, the thought or feeling that happens to be dominant gives rise to, and entirely shapes, the actions that may in that state be performed. This dominant thought or feeling, in the case of the somnambulist, is, for the most part, probably, the result of previous causes; a continuation of the former mental action, which, when the influence of the will is suspended and the senses closed, by a sort of inherent activity keeps on in the same channel as before. Of such action, the soul is itself probably conscious at the moment, but afterward no recollection of it lingers in the mind.
§ IV.—Disordered Mental Action.
Relation to other mental Phenomena.—Closely allied to somnambulism, dreaming, etc., are certain forms of disordered mental condition commonly termed insanity; having this one element in common with the former, the loss or suspension of all voluntary control over the train of thought. This must be regarded as the characteristic feature and essential ground-work of the various phenomena in all these various states.
Classification.—The forms of disordered mental action are various, and admit of some classification. Some are transient, others permanent, arising from some settled disorder of the intellect, or the sensibilities.
I. Transient Forms.—Of these, some are artificially produced, as by exciting drugs, stimulants, intoxicating drinks, etc., others by physical and natural causes, as disease, etc.
Delirium, artificial.—The most common of these forms of disordered mental action is that transient and artificial state produced by intoxicating drugs and drinks. This is properly called delirium, and takes place whenever total or even partial inebriation occurs, whether from alcoholic or narcotic stimulants, as the opium of the Chinese, and the Indian hemp or hachish of the Hindoos. The same effects, substantially, are produced, also, by certain plants, as the deadly night-shade and others, and also by aconite. In all these cases the effect is wrought primarily, it would seem, upon the blood, which is brought into a poisonous state, and thus deranges the action of the nerves and the brain. The hachish or Indian hemp, which, in the East, is used for purposes of intoxication more generally, perhaps, than even opium, or alcoholic drinks, may serve as an illustration of the manner in which these various stimulants affect the senses. At first the subject perceives an increased activity of mind; thoughts come and go in swift succession and pleasing variety; the imagination is active—memory, fancy, reason, all awake. Gradually this mental activity increases and frees itself from voluntary control; attention to any special subject becomes difficult or even impossible; ideas, strange and wonderful, come and go at random with no apparent cause and by no known law of suggestion; these absorb the attention until the mind is at last given up to them, and there is no further consciousness of the external things, while, at the same time, the patient is susceptible, as in the magnetic state, of influence and impression from without. How closely, in many respects, this resembles the state of the mind in somnambulism, mesmerism, and ordinary dreaming, I need not point out. The mental excitement produced by opium is perhaps greater, and the images that throng the brain, and assume the semblance of reality, are more numerous and real. The subsequent exhaustion and reaction in either case are fearful. For illustration of this the reader is referred to the Confessions of an Opium Eater, by the accomplished De Quincey.
Delirium of Disease.—The ordinary delirium of disease is essentially of the same nature with that now described, differing rather in its origin, or producing cause, than in its effects. It comes on often in much the same way; increased mental activity shows itself; attention is fixed with difficulty; strange images, and trains of thought at once singular and uncontrolled by the will, come and go; the mind at last is possessed by them and loses all control over its own movements. Every thing now, which the mind conceives, assumes the form of reality. It has no longer conceptions but perceptions. Figures move along the walls and occupy the room. They are as really seen, that is, the sensation is the same, as in any case of healthy and actual vision; only the effect is wrought from within outward, from the sensorium to the optic nerve and retina, instead of the reverse, as in actual vision. Voices are heard also, and various sounds, in the same manner; the producing cause acting from within outward, and not from without inward.
Differs from Dreaming.—This state differs from dreaming in that the subject is not necessarily asleep, and that it involves a greater and more serious disorder of the faculties, as well as of longer continuance. The illusions are perhaps also more decided, and more vividly conceived as external and real entities. Like dreams, and unlike the conceptions of the magnetic state, these ideas and illusions may be subsequently recalled, and in many cases are so; the mind, however, finding it difficult still to believe that they were fictions, and not actual occurrences.
In dreaming, the things which we seem to see and hear are changes produced in the sensorium by cerebral or other influences. In delirium, the sensorium itself is disordered and produces false appearances, spectres, etc.
Mania.—That form of disordered mental action termed mania, differs from that already described in that, along with the derangement of the intellect, there is more or less emotional disorder. The patient is strongly excited on any thing that at all rouses the feelings. There may be much or little intellectual derangement accompanying this excitement. The two forms, in fact, pass into each by a succession of almost indefinable links. The main element is the same in each, i. e., loss of voluntary control over the thoughts and feelings. Each is produced by physical causes, and is of transient duration.
Power of Suggestion.—In all these forms of delirium now described, whether artificial or natural, the mind is open to suggestions from without, and these become often controlling ideas. Hence it is of imperative necessity that the attendant should be on his guard as to what he says or does in the presence of the patient. An instance in point is related by Dr. Carpenter, in which a certain eminent physician lost a number of his patients in fever by their jumping from the window, a fact accounted for at once, when we come to hear that he was stupid enough to caution the attendants, in the hearing of his patients, against the possibility of such an event.
II. Permanent Forms.—I proceed next to notice those more permanent forms of mental disorder, commonly termed insanity, a term properly applied to designate those cases of abnormal mental activity in which there seems to be either some settled disorder of the intellect, as, e. g., when the brain has been weakened by successive attacks of mania, epilepsy, etc., or else some permanent tendency to disordered emotional excitement.
Disorder of the Intellect.—Where the intellectual faculties are disordered, the chief elementary feature of the case is the same as in those already noticed, viz., Loss of voluntary control over the mental operations—the psychological ground-work, as we have seen, of all the various forms of abnormal mental action which have as yet come under our notice.
Memory affected.—In the cases now under consideration, the memory is the faculty that in most cases gives the first signs of failure, particularly that form of memory which is strictly voluntary, viz., recollection. In consequence of this, past experience is placed out of reach, cannot be made available, and therefore reasoning and judgment are deficient. The thoughts lose their coherency and connection, as they are thus cut loose from the fixtures of the past, to which the laws of association no longer bind them; they come and go with a strange automatic sort of movement, over which the mind feels that it has little power. Gradually this little fades away; the will no longer exercises its former and rightful control over the mental activities; its sway is broken, its authority gone; the mind loses control of itself, and, like a vessel broken from her moorings, swings sadly and hopelessly away into the swift stream of settled insanity. The mind still retains its full measure of activity, perhaps greatly increased; but it acts as in a dream. All its conceptions are realities to it, and the actually real world, as it mingles with the dream and shapes it, is but vaguely and imperfectly apprehended through the confused media of the mind's own conceptions. All this may be, and often is, realized, where there is entire absence of all emotional excitement.
Not easily cured.—The condition now described is much less open to medical treatment than the mental states previously mentioned. Indeed, where there is insanity resulting from settled cerebral disorder, there is very little hope of cure. Nature may in time recover herself; she may not. This depends on age, constitution, predisposing causes, and a variety of circumstances not altogether under human control.
Disordered Action of the Sensibilities.—Another form of insanity is that which consists in, or arises from, not any primary disorder of the intellectual faculties, but a tendency to disordered emotional excitement. Sometimes this is general, extending to all the emotions. These cases require careful treatment. The patient is like a child, and must be governed mildly and wisely, is open to argument and motives of self-control. In other cases, some one emotion is particularly the seat and centre of the disturbance, while the others are comparatively tranquil. In such cases the exaggerated emotion may prompt to some specific action, as suicide, or murder, etc. This is termed impulsive insanity. The predominant idea or impulse tyrannizes over the mind, and, by a sort of irresistible fatality, drives it on to the commission of crime. The patient may be conscious of this impulse, and revolt from it with horror; there may be no pleasure or desire associated with the deed, but he is unable to resist. He is like a boat in the rapids of Niagara. So fearful the condition of man when reason is dethroned, and the will no longer master.