rational--any more just than the others? It is doubtful if it is.
There are rare dreams in which everything proceeds in a regular and
natural way; and, on the other hand, reality is not always exempt from
capriciousness and improbability. But to me the capital objection to
the distinction is that it is illusory, and the contrast between the
disorder of dreams and the coherence of the real is only apparent. The
dream, it is true, appears disordered to us, but that is when we are
awake. An essential point which we always ignore is that _while we are
dreaming_ everything seems simple and normal and regular to us. We are
not at all astonished at what happens. We find it all right to be in two
countries at the same time, and we understand very well how one person
can be changed into another. The conversations we have--those which are
utterly unthinkable when we are awake--usually appear to us marvelously
lucid, and we admire the ease, the _verve_, and the luminous continuity
of our words. We enjoy that moving with so much suppleness and precision
among ideas; our demonstrations are infinitely convincing; and it is
perhaps in the dream that we have the most perfect sense of evidence.
Everything, then, that passes in the dream is--to the dreamer--as
natural as events in the waking condition. When awake, events seem,
without exception, natural and regular; they also seem natural and
regular in the dream. It is true that we find them absurd when we wake,
but what of that? They are absurd only by comparison, as looked at from
the point of view of the waking man, who is no longer the same that he
was when dreaming. Who can tell if we shall not awake some day from what
we now call our waking condition, and that we shall not then find the
events absurd that we now consider rational and real? Who can tell that
we shall not be stupefied at having been so firmly attached to invisible
phantoms and disordered combinations?
In setting up a fourth distinction it is said that real life forms a
continuous whole, while dreams are not connected with one another. The
series of my days forms a single life, which holds together. I resume
to-day my life of yesterday, and shall resume to-morrow my life of
to-day. While I am asleep, the course of it is only suspended. I begin
again in the morning at the very point where I stopped in the evening.
I find myself in the same medium, occupied with the same thoughts,
subject to the same cares, involved in the same routine of events, the
same storm of passions. The same thread runs through it all. On the
other hand, it is said, our dreams do not form a consecutive existence.
The dream of one night has no connection with the dream of the previous
night. On going to sleep to-night I have no assurance that I shall find
the landscapes or the personages or the circumstances of my last dream.
The most diabolical nightmare may succeed a most delightful romance.
In short, not only is the form of the same dream incoherent, but our
successive dreams are incoherent as to one another. This was what struck
Pascal when he wrote: "If we dreamed the same dreams every night, we
should be affected by them as we are by things we see every day; and
if an artisan was sure to dream every night, for twelve hours, that he
was a king, I believe he would be nearly as happy as a king who dreamed
every night, for twelve hours, that he was an artisan.... But because
dreams are all different, and the same one is so diversified, what we
see in one affects us much less than what we see when awake, because of
the continuity of the waking life, which is not so continuous and even,
however, but that it changes, too, though less abruptly, if only rarely,
as when we travel; and then we say, 'It seems like a dream to me,' for
life is a somewhat less inconstant dream."
What are we to say to this distinction? I do not believe it is necessary
to take it seriously, any more than the others. When is it that we pass
judgment on the discontinuity and incoherence between our successive
dreams? Not while we are dreaming them. When I am dreaming, I seem to
be pursuing a life that has always been the same. I have no sort of an
impression that the present dream has been preceded by different dreams
having no connection with it. I have, on the contrary, exactly as I have
when awake, the impression of an indefinite and single series of events,
of an unrolling of them without arrest and without break. There is,
therefore, on this point, no difference, but another resemblance between
the dream and the reality, and the same impression of continuity and
unity prevails in both. It is true that the aspect changes in waking,
and our several dreams then appear detached from one another. But what
of that? Are we sure that we shall not awake some day from what we now
call the waking state, and find then that that state, continuous in
appearance, was in reality composed of a series of separate, incoherent,
and incongruous fragments?
Thus we are all the time coming upon the same illusion. We judge of
the dream, not by what it is, but by what it seems to have been after
we have waked. Instead of observing the impressions of the dreaming
man while he is dreaming, we take notice of what he thinks about them
after he has waked up. This is to falsify the comparison of the normal
and dream life by regarding the normal life while we are in it, and the
dream life when we have come out of it. The several other difficulties
on which psychologists have insisted are capable of solution by the
application of the same principle: the seeming suspension of the will;
the want of correspondence of the moral standards of the dream with
those of the waking condition; the confusion of temporal duration
and sequence; and the transformations of personality and character,
concerning which I would ask, however, if the eccentricities betrayed
are not rather in the nature of more complete exposure. I have sometimes
been surprised at the psychological revelations of dreams; faults and
weaknesses that we do not avow when in the normal condition reveal
themselves then with inexorable frankness; we yield to temptations that
we evaded when awake, though inclined to them; to wickednesses which
we kept closely shut up within us; reveal antipathies which we had
dissimulated. Base desires break out, latent loves declare themselves,
and things take place which, as in a play, bring the farthest depths of
our hearts into the light; and when we wake we say: "That is true; it
is just what I should have done under like circumstances. I had never
thought of it, and I am not proud of it, but it is so."
There is this real distinction between the dream and the waking state:
that when awake I know there is another condition, while in the dream
I take no thought of the waking state. Awake, I know that I have been
living the fantastic dream life, and have come out of it into a real
life completely distinct from the other. I am in a first state, and know
there is a second. But when I am dreaming I have no thought of another
state that I have come out of and must return to; I do not feel that
there is another existence, radically separated from this one; and I
never compare the visions of my dreams with my waking world, for I know
nothing of it. I have the impression of having always lived the life I
am in, which seems natural; and even if I ask whether I am not dreaming,
it is a merely verbal expression, with no accompanying sense of the
meaning of it. Another distinction, and the only absolutely clear one,
is that while we always wake from the dream, we never wake from the
reality. This is why we believe in the reality and not in the dream.
These two differences are differences in degree, but they do not
necessarily indicate differences in nature. Similar facts are frequent
among hypnotics. We may plunge them into a condition of somnambulism
which we will call a second state; and then, from that, magnetize them
over again into another somnambulism, which we call the third state.
Now the curious fact comes to pass that the subject in the third state
recollects the second state, but when in the second state again, knows
nothing of having been in the third state. "Lucie 3," says M. Pierre
Janet, "recollected her normal life perfectly; she also recollected
previous somnambulisms, and all that Lucie 2 had said.... It was a
long and hard task to awaken this subject after she had passed a few
minutes in the syncope already described. She then returned to ordinary
somnambulism, but Lucie 2 could not tell me a word of what had happened
to Lucie 3, and supposed she had been asleep and said nothing." Thus we
have the same difference between two successive stages of somnambulism
as between the dream and the waking state. But as the stages 2 and 3 are
evidently of the same nature, so we have a right to suppose that the
dream and the waking, whose phenomena as to each other are similar, are
likewise of the same nature.
In the ordinary experience of mankind we do not awake from our normal
condition; but is it proved that there is never any awakening, any
third state into which we may pass? The supposition of some such state
into which we pass by death is one of the fundamentals of nearly all
religions; and in this sense we might contemplate the possibility of an
awakening in which we shall be astonished at having given ourselves up
go completely to the world of sense, at having taken a passing state for
the definite one, an ephemeral world for the sole and absolute world, a
provisional existence for the real one.
Even among men as we find them, we see some making an approach to a
third state, if not living in it. What is science but the revelation
of a new world, different from the visible one? When we see light and
colors, they tell us of an invisible ether with particles vibrating with
almost incalculable rapidity; when we hear faint or loud sounds, sharp
or grave, they tell of the more or less ample and rapid vibrations of
matter. When we perceive a multiple or varied reality, it shows us the
single phenomenon of motion. These formulas do not, however, signify, as
some mistake, that light, color, and sound do not exist, but that there
is something else; and that if we could gain new senses, a new universe
would open out to us. This means, simply, that the scientific man is
already half waked up from his ordinary life, and has half entered a new
world.
Metaphysics is a waking up of this kind. A metaphysician who really
believes his doctrines, like Plato or Spinoza, is already living in a
new world and contemplating the supposed reality in which we are still
immersed as a matter of indifference away off in the dim twilight. To
him, what we regard as reality is only appearance, while the eternal
rain of atoms or the play of immaterial forces, or whatever he supposes
the world to be made of, is the true reality.
Religion is another such awakening, and to the devout man this life
is only a provisional one, a trial, the prelude to the true life; and
while he may regard the world of sense as real too, he looks forward
to the superior reality, which it is the privilege of the elect to
contemplate; and it is some feeling of this kind that has sustained
martyrs and has incited men of all ages and all faiths to suffer and
endure, and die for what they believe.--_Translated for the Popular
Science Monthly from the Revue des Deux Mondes._
A PRACTICAL DUTCH CHARITY.
BY J. H. GORE.
Holland, Scotland, and Switzerland, quite unlike physically, have in
their institutions many points of similarity, and the impulses and
character of their people are almost identical. In religious matters the
resemblance is also striking, even though the creed professed be known
by different names.
In Scotland the struggle for existence demands something more assertive
than the doctrine of _laissez faire_; the terrible sweep of the
avalanche in Switzerland, without any apparent cause for its starting,
suggests an acceptance of the belief that "it is, because it must be";
while Holland, in its incessant war with the sea, is continually bidding
defiance to natural laws, and protesting against their unrestrained
action.
Calvinism found its strongest adherents in the two countries first
named, and the faith of Luther answering to the active instincts of
the Batavian race was at once adopted by it. In Holland as well as in
Switzerland man is ever reminded of life's realities by the watchful
care necessary for his very existence, and the material obstacles which
must be conquered at every step. Patriotism never becomes dormant
because the face of the land shows in its scars its history, and love
for home grows with each reckoning of the cost of its retention. The
possessions of one day are in many instances no guarantee of the wealth
of the next, and the hand now extended in giving assistance may on the
morrow be held out to receive. Thus we find the charitable instincts
always awake, and societies for the relief of the needy thoroughly
organized.
The conditions under which Holland began its geographic formation and
the processes afterward employed to hold or enlarge her boundaries,
together with the social unrest of the time, caused thoughtful men to
put in operation every agency that could direct the innate desire to do
good and to give direction to the forces within the kingdom, as well as
those which came from without. In Holland, therefore, we find numerous
societies for the relief of suffering humanity, and people ever ready
to give due attention to the complaints and necessities of the laboring
classes. No other country offers such an excellent field for the study
of charitable institutions. The Dutch are eminently practical; they made
an early beginning in the work of alleviating distress, and this relief,
from the nature of things, as pointed out, is not spasmodic as in other
countries where nothing short of famine, earthquakes, or floods can
awaken the people to a realization of the duty they owe to mankind. Here
the call for aid may come at any time, so that those charitably inclined
must be ever ready to respond, and the organizations for relief can
never become lax or inefficient.
Then, too, the population of the Netherlands is very homogeneous, and
the leaders in all good works are not only administering to their own
people, but are unbiased by prior experiences under other auspices.
Consequently, this country furnishes institutions organized under normal
conditions, with an entire absence of external influences, and where the
helped and the helpers are of the same race.
England, France, and Germany have sent commissions to Holland to study
its organized charity, its school system, workingmen's societies, and
like institutions. These countries have but little in common, even
though their forms of government are, or have been, outwardly similar,
while on the other hand we have always found in the Dutchman "a friend
and a brother," and an example well worthy of following. And since it
is only after examining remedies for evils found without complications,
that we can prescribe for abnormal conditions, the study of Dutch
institutions is the best possible preparation for arriving at the means
for meeting the necessities in our own country.
In Holland the general awakening to the demands of the people came in
the eighteenth century, when the social life was lacking in strength,
when the rich were largely given over to extravagance, while the poor
were neglected, uneducated, and exposed to want. Everything seemed to
separate the two classes--nothing emphasized their interdependence. The
citizen class was restive under these oppressive conditions, and needed
only the successful example of some neighboring people to start the
revolution within their own country.
There was in the Netherlands at this time at least one thoughtful man
who foresaw the approaching social revolution and realized the danger
which threatened his native land if unaccustomed rights and powers
should become the possession of those who heretofore had felt the power
of others. This man was Jan Nieuwenhuizen, the founder of the Society
of General Welfare. It is impossible to estimate the good which has
been accomplished by this organization. It instituted free schools, and
gave to the state the scheme on which the present public-school system
rests; it established savings banks, and the Postal Savings Bank--now
the model of the world--was glad to copy after them; it conducts a sort
of neighborhood loaning banks, and it is likely that its plans will be
incorporated in the agricultural banks now under consideration. Through
its instrumentality people of different classes are brought together in
periodical meetings, when the lower can learn by observation from the
higher, and lose much of the prejudice and envy which is so often felt,
while the higher will become more tolerant toward the lower as they
realize the burdens which the latter carry, and appreciate the obstacles
which mar their progress, thus leveling many of the artificial class
distinctions.
What this society has done for Holland, "Ons Huis" is trying to
accomplish in Amsterdam; and though the latter is occupying a more
limited field, its energies are more concentrated and its methods are
such as to warrant its characterization as a practical charity.
The founder of "Our House," Mr. Janssen, fully realized that outright
giving while blessing the giver is of questionable value to the
recipient, and alms once accepted suggested in the ease with which it
was obtained that a second be asked for, and the feeling of dependence
soon calls into existence the belief that the uncontracted debt of a
living must be collected. We therefore find a charitable organization
in which everything must be purchased, but at cost so slight as to be
within the reach of all, yet being a charge, no benefit is esteemed for
naught because it was obtained for nothing.
We find this unique society in a sort of "people's palace" in the very
center of Amsterdam's working population. The building, which is the
gift of Mr. Janssen, is on Rozen Street, Nos. 12, 14, and 16, extending
through to Rozen Gracht, and contains a board room, reading room,
library, gymnasium, lecture room, assembly rooms, large hall, kitchen,
quarters for the janitor's family, and a restaurant.
The purpose is declared to be "to promote the moral and material
development of the people--poor as well as rich--both in giving and
receiving by inducing those who are blessed with knowledge or money to
assist their fellow-beings whose lives are monotonous and devoid of
comforts and pleasures." The very name--"Our House"--is intended to show
that within its walls all enjoy equal rights, that the less learned are
the younger members of the family whom the less ignorant will gladly
instruct, and that the purposes and aims of all classes should be the
same. Both sexes have equal privileges, and the religious and political
views of those who attend the meetings or enjoy the benefits offered are
never inquired into. The adherents of all faiths are treated with equal
deference, and the only condition imposed is the observance of such
principles of etiquette as should find favor in every home.
Since the day of rest of the various religious sects is not the
same, all days are regarded as of equal importance, but, to meet the
objections of the Protestant clergy that the exercises here kept
people away from the church services, it has been decided not to open
the building on Sundays until noon. But as the hours of employment of
many persons are so long that their evenings are not free, the reading
room is open on this day after the hour named, and certain instructive
lectures are given during the afternoon. At these the average attendance
is about five hundred. A strong effort was made to have the building
closed during the whole of Sunday, however. The argument was made that
as long as beer gardens and places of amusement were open on this day,
the people should not be restricted on the only holiday of the week to
those places where money is spent for trifling pleasures. The large
number of persons who spend Sunday afternoon in the reading room proves
that the opportunity to make good use of their time is fully appreciated.
Before giving in detail the plan of work in hand, it should be said that
the director has secured the assistance of about one hundred and fifty
men and women who are willing to contribute their time to the furthering
of the purposes as outlined. They are divided into fourteen groups,
or committees, each looking after a single interest. The means as at
present constituted for attaining the ends in view may be classified as
follows:
1. Reading room for men and women not under eighteen years of age; open
daily.
2. Wednesday evening lectures on literature, history, physics, pedagogy,
political economy, and travel. These lectures are open for debate.
3. Courses of lectures on different topics for men and women separately,
or for both together. These discussions are marked by an intimate tone.
4. Sunday evening meetings: musical or theatrical performances,
magic-lantern pictures, tableaux, etc. These are given in the large
hall, which accommodates five hundred and twenty-five persons.
5. Legal advice.
6. Clubs for boys, girls, men, and women. Friendly intercourse.
Discussions on scientific subjects. Chess club. Travel club.
7. Lessons in Dutch, French, English, and German, bookkeeping, reading
and writing for adults, needlework, mending, making and cutting of one's
own clothes, cooking, drilling for boys and girls, fencing, acting,
chorus singing.
The reading room is provided with a large number of daily and weekly
papers, magazines, and technical journals, together with such books as
could be purchased or obtained as donations. The user of the reading
room pays ten cents a quarter, with the privilege of bringing one friend
a week as a guest. Every conceivable device is employed to induce
visitors to make use of the books; for example, the lecturers frequently
choose a literary topic, and refer to the books in the library, or one
of the members of certain manual-training classes read aloud while
the others work. Then some of the social evenings are given up to the
discussion of a new or popular author, and persons skilled in reading
aloud are asked to read or recite choice extracts. To accommodate those
who feel that three months' subscription is for too long a period, the
regular admission fee of two Dutch cents--equivalent to eight tenths of
a cent of our money--gives the right to make use of the library during
the visit. It now looks as though the impulse to secure a shortening of
the work day would come from this organization in its desire to secure
for its beneficiaries a longer time in which to profit by the use of the
books and special opportunities for study here placed at the disposal
of the workingmen. The reading room is looked after by a committee of
twenty, some of whom are always present to give aid and advice to the
readers, to answer such questions as may arise, and to keep the books
and papers in place.
The lectures conducted in Our House are of a twofold
character--individual discourses and a series of discussions of a given
topic. Every Wednesday evening between November and April is provided
with a speaker by the lecture committee, who treats in a popular manner
a subject of his own choice, and allows the auditors at the close of his
talk to ask questions regarding the topic in hand. The average number of
persons attending these lectures last winter was about three hundred,
and the charge for a single admission is two cents, with a considerable
reduction when four or six tickets are purchased for one family. In the
course lecture the most popular topic so far has been natural science,
especially botany, physics, and chemistry. In this connection it is
interesting to note that the luxuriant flora of the East Indies, with
which the Dutch became acquainted long ago, gave an impetus in Holland
to the study of botany. The people of all classes are fond of plants and
flowers, and it is not surprising to learn that twenty persons followed
a course of instruction in botany. A prominent physician of Amsterdam
gave a course of ten lectures upon "The First Aid to the Injured,"
and eighty men and women profited by the practical discussion of this
subject. The cost of these lectures is four cents apiece.