“_Iago._ Nay, this was but his dream.
_Othello._ But this denoted a _foregone conclusion_;
’Tis a shrewd doubt, tho’ it be but a dream.”
OTHELLO.
ASTR. We looked for more from you, Evelyn, than these _proofs of a
negative_.
I presume still to think your philosophy is very weak in controversion
of the _inspiration_ of a dream, and its supernatural causes. _I_ cannot
but believe, with Baxter, that dreams may be “spirits in communion with
us.”
EV. And you will define these shadowless ministers in the fashion of
Master Richard Burthogge, Medicinæ Doctor, (in his book, printed by
Raven, in the Poultry, in 1694.) I have a smack, you see, of medical
bibliomania, Astrophel. Burthogge, although one of the most rational
interpreters of dreams and spectres, thinks their internal causes
_purely metaphysical_; and then refutes his own opinion point blank by
this sophistry,—that “there are things _incorporated_, but _invisible_,
which we call spirits;” as who should say, with Shakspere’s fairies, “We
have the gift of fern seed; we are invisible.”
No; we will account for the causes of dreams, Astrophel, without the
ministry of spirits.
Analyzing, then, the notions of all, it is clear that the essence of the
dream is _recurrence of ideas_. In the words of Walpole,—“The memory
retains the colouring of the day.”
Now memory is the first faculty to fail in age, and you know old people
seldom dream: the same objects are applied, but there is little or no
association, for the brain is dull and feeble; imbecility, indeed, is
_mad memory_.
The two common periods associated with the dream, are the past and the
future, involving memory and prognostication; the latter being but the
_memory of an intention_,—an image excited in the mind by analogy. Even
when _present_ sensations excite the dream, it is ever associated, as
you remember, with something _before seen or felt_.
The waking thought will thus again modify the dream; and Dr. Abercrombie
has a curious illustration of this combining of two minds,—one waking
subject, one dream, and one disturbing cause.
The French invasion was the universal topic in Edinburgh; and the city
was, indeed, one company of volunteers. It was decided that the tocsin
of alarm on the approach of the enemy, was to be the firing of the
castle guns, followed by a chain of signals. At two, an officer was
awoke from a vivid dream of guns and signals, and reviews of troops, by
his lady, who herself was affrighted by a similar dream, with a few
associations of a _different_ nature. And whence all this alarm?—_the
falling of a pair of tongs on the hearth_, the noise of which was quite
sufficient for the production of their dreaming associations.
ASTR. It would seem to me that Evelyn was too anxious to find employment
for the brain, in thus imputing so much to _substantial_ causes.
There is a funny scrap, I remember to have read, and of which I may
shrewdly suspect my friend to be the scribbler. “Whence we may compare
the powers of mind to a court of judicature:—the outward senses being
as the solicitors that bring the causes; the common sense, as the master
of requests, who receives all their informations; and phantasy (or
imagination), like the lawyers and advocates that bandy the business to
and fro in several forms, with a deal of noise and bustle; reason, as
the judge, that having calmly heard each party’s pretensions, pronounces
an upright sentence; and memory, as the clerk, records the whole
proceedings.” But say, if the dream is but the memory of an impression,
are metaphysics to be counted as a _cypher_, in our discussion of the
nature of intellect?
EV. Nay, the psychologist must ever call metaphysics to his aid,
especially when speaking of the health or disorder of mind: there is an
intimate blending of metaphysics and philosophy. But believe not,
Astrophel, that I presume to develope that mysterious influence which is
going on between mind and matter, so essential to the manifestation of
the former, _during its earthly condition_. The mystery will ever be a
sealed letter to the intellect. It is enough that we have evidence of
its existence without yearning for deeper insight of _final causes_. I
have assured you that I do not believe thought or reflection, or any act
of mind to be _material_, and speak even with all due courtesy to the
abstract metaphysician, and the divine who, doubtless from pure and holy
motives, would seek to cut the Gordian knot of this sublime enigma.
Even Dr. Abercrombie is content with observing that the correction of
illusions by the sane mind is by the comparing power of reason, but he
leaves the _illusion itself unexplained_. Indeed, the most luminous of
pathologists have ever feared to touch organization; Sir Humphrey Davy
leaves his beautiful imaginings vague and inconclusive, because he stops
short of the brain.
The mere psychologist will ever persevere in placing even the _palpable_
causes of illusion beyond the reach of our inquiries.
Thus the rhapsodies of Lucretius were a series of professed fables, and
the theories of Macrobius a tissue of capricious distinctions, as you
may learn from his classification.
1st. ονειρος, _somnium_, dream. A figurative vision to be interpreted.
2nd. οραμα, _vision_. A vision which has afterwards been exactly
fulfilled.
3rd. χρηματισμος, _oraculum_. An intimation in sleep of what we ought to
do.
(I suppose as the shade of Hector appeared to Æneas, warning him, the
night before, to escape from the flames of Troy.)
4th. ενυπνιον, _insomnium_. A sort of night-mare.
5th. φαντασμα, _visus_ and _incubus_.
Here is a perfect jumble of classification, the first three only being
vaunted as prophetic, or inspired; the fourth a night-mare; and the
fifth, if it be any thing, a spectral illusion.
Others have deemed themselves mighty wise in discovering dreams to be
the “action of intellect on itself.”
Abercrombie, the most learned analyst of the mind since Reid and
Stewart, has four varieties of the dream:
1st. From wrong association of new events.
2nd. Trains of thought from bodily association.
3rd. Revival of old associations.
4th. Casual fulfilment of a dream!
You perceive the first and third are merely memory, with right and wrong
arrangements; the second, excitement of ideas from present sensations;
the fourth, if it be not a mere coincidence, is the result, as I have
explained, of imparted impetus, or deep thinking on _subjects presented
to the mind_. The eccentricities of dreaming are not more curious than
those of the reminiscent faculty when _awake_; indeed, memory itself may
seem to be sometimes dreaming, and at others even _fast asleep_. Those
who survived the plague in Athens (as we read in Thucydides), lost for a
time the recollection of names, their own and those of their friends,
and did not regain it until their health was re-established.
Mori, during his frequent moods of excitement, quite lost his memory of
music, so that, for many minutes, he could neither read a note nor play
from memory.
There have been persons who have very suddenly forgotten their own
names, which they were about to announce on a visit to a friend.
“Mr. Von B——, envoy to Madrid, and afterwards to Petersburg, a man of
a serious turn of mind, yet by no means hypochondriacal, went out one
morning to pay a number of visits. Among other houses at which he
called, there was one where he suspected the servants did not know him,
and where he consequently was under the necessity of giving in his name,
but this very name he had at that moment entirely forgotten. Turning
round immediately to a gentleman who accompanied him, he said, with much
earnestness, ‘For God’s sake, tell me who I am.’ The question excited
laughter, but as Mr. Von B—— insisted on being answered, adding that
he had entirely forgotten his own name, he was told it; upon which he
finished his visit.”
The eccentric impressions of this faculty will be often _intermittent_,
or marked by sudden yet regular remissions.
There is a very curious case on record, of a lady whose “memory was
capacious, and well stored with a copious stock of ideas. Unexpectedly,
and without any forewarning, she fell into a profound sleep, which
continued several hours beyond the ordinary term. On waking, she was
discovered to have lost every trait of acquired knowledge; her memory
was a blank. All vestiges, both of words and things, were obliterated
and gone; it was found necessary for her to learn every thing again. She
even acquired by new efforts the art of spelling, reading, writing, and
calculating, and gradually became acquainted with the persons and
objects around, like a being for the first time brought into the world.
In these exercises she made considerable proficiency; but, after a few
months, another fit of somnolency invaded her. On rousing from it, she
found herself restored to the state she was in _before the first
paroxysm_; but she was wholly ignorant of every event and occurrence
that had befallen her afterwards. The former condition of her existence
she now calls the _old_ state, and the latter the _new_ state; and she
is as unconscious of her double character as two distinct persons are of
their respective natures. For example, in her old state, she possesses
all her original knowledge; in her new state, only what she acquired
since. If a lady or gentleman be introduced to her in the old state, and
_vice versâ_ (so indeed of all other matters), to _know them_
satisfactorily she must learn them in both states. In the old state she
possesses fine powers of penmanship, while in the new she writes a poor
awkward hand, not having had time or means to become expert! During four
years and upwards, she has had periodical transitions from one of these
states to the other. The alterations are always consequent upon a long
and sound sleep. Both the lady and her family are now capable of
conducting the affair without embarrassment; by simply knowing whether
she is in the old or new state, they regulate the intercourse, and
govern themselves accordingly!”
Other instances are more protracted; the impressions _previous to a
certain moment_ only being capable of renewal.
Mrs. S——, an intelligent lady, belonging to a respectable family in
the state of New York, some years ago undertook a piece of fine
needle-work. She devoted her time to it almost constantly for a number
of days; but before she had completed it she became suddenly delirious.
In this state, without experiencing any material abatement of her
disease, she continued for about seven years, when her reason was
suddenly restored. One of the first questions which she asked on this
convalescence _related to her needle-work_. It is a remarkable fact
that, during the long continuance of her delirium, she said nothing, so
far as was recollected, about her needle-work, nor concerning any such
subjects as usually occupied her attention when in health.
We read in Dr. Abercrombie, of a lady reduced by disease, in whose mind
the _memory of ten years was lost_. “Her ideas were consistent with each
other, but they referred to things as they stood before her removal (to
Edinburgh).”
In these instances it is probable that the fault may be referred to the
_original_ impression, some disorder or state of the brain causing it to
be only _superficially_ impressed during these ten years of oblivion.
There is a curious story in the history of the Royal Academy of
Sciences, which Beattie has recorded in these words:—
“A nobleman of Lausanne, as he was giving orders to a servant, suddenly
lost his speech and all his senses. Different remedies were tried,
without effect, for six months; during all which time he appeared to be
in a deep sleep or deliquium, with various symptoms at different
periods, which are particularly specified in the narration. At last,
after some chirurgical operations, at the end of six months his speech
and senses were suddenly restored. When he recovered, the servant to
whom he had been giving orders when he was first seized with the
distemper, happening to be in the room, he asked whether he had executed
his commission; not being sensible, it seems, that any interval of time,
except, perhaps, a very short one, had elapsed during his illness.”
IDA. I have read two stories of melancholy romance, which are not
_mal-à-propos_ to your arguments, Evelyn, in which the memory of one
intense impression has “gone into a being,” influencing the current of
every after-thought, and the mind seeming ever after unconscious of all
past or present, _but the incident of one moment_.
A gentleman, on the point of marriage, left his intended bride for a
short time. He usually travelled in the stage-coach to the place of her
abode; but the last journey he took from her was the last of his life.
Anxiously expecting his return, she went to meet the vehicle, when an
old friend announced to her the death of her lover. She uttered an
involuntary scream, and one piteous exclamation, “He is dead!” From this
fatal moment, for _fifty years_, has this unfortunate female daily, in
all seasons, traversed the distance of a few miles to the spot where she
expected her future husband to alight from the coach, uttering, in a
plaintive tone, “He is not come yet; I will return to-morrow.”
A young clergyman, on the eve of marriage, received a severe injury.
During his future life of celibacy, which was protracted to the 80th
year, this one idea only possessed his mind, that his hour of happiness
was approaching, and to the last moment he talked of his marriage with
all the passion of a devoted lover.
EV. Thanks to your _own_ memory, Ida, for these incidents. That the
possession of the faculty of this _impression_ of memory can be
demonstrated, we might doubt, were _verbal_ description _only_ employed;
but when we see the artist trace the features of a person long lost to
us _from memory_, we know that such ideas existed, and were then
_re-excited_ in his mind.
The power of the intellect in retaining these impressions is wonderful.
Cyrus is said to have remembered the names of all his soldiers, and
Themistocles those of two thousand Athenians.
We have records from Seneca and others, that some will remember, after
one perusal or hearing, very long poems; and even have repeated, word
for word, the unconnected jumble of a newspaper. Pascal, as we are told
by Locke, _never forgot anything_. Almost equally retentive was the
memory of my excellent teacher, Sir Astley Cooper, and hence his nearly
unexampled accumulation of facts. The memory of Ben Jonson was retentive
to perfection, until the fortieth year of his age. In his youth, he
could repeat an entire volume after its perusal; nay, even the _whole_
of his own works, or as he quaintly writes, “All that ever I made.” We
know that Bloomfield composed his “Farmer’s Boy” in the bustle of a shoe
manufactory, and wrote from his memory.
ASTR. I have heard that the particles of the body are constantly
changing: if so, how can memory _exist_ in the brain?
EV. The answer is easy. Because particles of exact similarity are
deposited as others are removed. The parts thus regenerated, of whatever
_structure_ they may be, still being identical and unchanged in
function.
If the dream _be_ an inspiration, Astrophel, it is like “a spirit of the
past,” and does not “speak like sybils of the future.”
But ere I offer some analogies of _waking_ memory, in illustration of
the causes of the dream, I must again fatigue you by a glance at the
physiology of memory; the origin or mode of impression of a sense, and
the mode of recurrence of such impression, _i.e._ the _excitement of the
dream_.
Aristotle has asserted that senses cannot receive material objects, but
only their _species_, or ειδωλον; and Mr. Locke entertained the same
idea. For this effect, however, matter must have _touched a sense_, and
its impression, as Baron Haller thought, must have been mechanical. For
instance, the rays emanating from a body, and impinging on the retina,
or an undulation of sound on the labyrinth of the ear, _stamp an image
on the brain_, by which, (in accordance with a prior observation on
illusion,) some minute change is inevitably effected; some minute
_cerebral atoms_ are displaced.
If you propose to me that curious physiological question,—in what
consists the function of a nerve—in oscillation, or in undulation of a
fluid, in electricity, or in magnetism? or how the nerve carries this
impression to the brain? or if you desire me to meet the subtle
objection, which Dr. Reid advanced against the opinion of Aristotle and
of the more modern psychologists,—I might weary you with conjectures
like those of Newton and Hartley, that some ethereal fluid was, by the
impulse of peculiar stimulus to its nerve, the cause of the senses; or
that the mental phenomena are an imparting, or influence of the
immaterial soul by corporeal vibration; or that dreams are “_motions of
fibres_:” and at length, with humility confess this to be a mystery we
cannot yet fathom. And this I do the more willingly, as it may prove my
devotion to the _proper limits of our study_; moreover, the question
itself is not essential to my argument.
Yet it is certain that external impressions of every object or subject,
reach the brain through the medium of a nerve; and when the _same
fibrils_ of those nerves, or _that spot_ of brain on which the original
image rested, are _again_ irritated by their proper stimulus, or by the
same or a similar body, _an association is produced, and memory is the
result_.
For the insurance of this sense of touch, and feeling, and perception,
it is essential that the impression at the end of a nerve shall be
perfectly transmitted along its course to the brain, so that the brain
shall be _conscious_, or sensible of this impression. For if a nerve be
cut asunder, or a ligature be placed on any portion of it between the
skin and the brain, _the sensation instantly ceases_. It is not
essential, however, that the contact should take place at the moment of
the perception; and the explanation of this involves one of the most
curious phenomena of the body’s feeling; and, indeed, the metaphysical
mystery of the nature of memory, which is too abstruse a point to be
touched by us here. After amputation, the patient may still complain of
pain, and heat, and cold, _in the dissevered limb_; he experiences the
memory of a sensation; he feels, as it were, the ghost of his arm or
leg. On the night succeeding the operation, the groaning patient has
often cried out to me, with pain in the toe or finger of that limb; and
when he is moved or shifts his position, he will attempt to hold his
leg, or will beg his nurse to take care that she does not touch or run
against it. Nay, I have frequently, on asking a patient how he felt,
even after the lapse of many months from the operation, been answered,
that he was well, but had not lost the pain in his leg; or that his leg
or his arm were lying by his side, when perhaps the limb was undergoing
the process of maceration in the dissecting-room, or the bones were
bleached and dangling in the museum.
The pain, or common feeling of the limb, has stamped an image or
_eidōlon_ on the brain, which is not easily effaced; there remains an
_internal sensibility_ on this point of memory. If the subject be
subsequently presented to the mind by a touch at the end of the stump,
or even by a thought, the idea of the limb that had lain dormant, will
be re-excited by that wondrous sympathy of brain and nerve, and the
result will be a consciousness of having once possessed, or of having
experienced a pain in this leg.
And, on this principle of the force of memory, we may explain many of
our excited feelings: those which remain after we have been wafted in a
boat, or rolled along in a carriage, or whirled aloft in a swing; the
nervous impression in the brain is re-excited ere it was exhausted.
Now, an image may be stamped on the brain, _in a tumult_, without our
cognizance or perception, and then revived in slumber;—we wake in
wonder at having seen what we never saw or thought of before. Such is
the dream of Lovel, in the “Antiquary;” and such the _rationale_ of that
tale of mystery, respecting the £6. in the Glasgow bank, which a dream
seems certainly to have developed.
And it is evident that these impressions may recur the easier in
slumber, because there is no _fresh_ impression on the senses to produce
confusion. But then all these images may be presented at _one_ time; so
that we may have either a chaos, or a correct concatenation,—an
incident, which Hobbes and other early metaphysicians confess to be
inexplicable to _them_.
In the words of Spurzheim, “Memory is the reproduction of a perception;”
and Gall believed that “Remembrance is the faculty of recollecting _that
we have perceived_ impressions; and memory, the recollection of the
_impressions themselves_.”
I read, that Esquirol has drawn a distinction between hallucination and
illusion,—the first is from within, the second from without. The
argument I have adduced of memory and impression,—the one at the
beginning, the other at the end, of nerves,—will, I think, illustrate
this perfectly. Hallucination, being _internal_, is of the _past_;
illusion, _external_,—of the _present_.
Another metaphysician, Bayle, it is clear, was not ignorant of the basis
of phrenology, or of this difference, when he alludes to “certain places
on the brain, on which the image of an object, which has no real
existence _out of_ ourselves, might be excited.”