THE PHYSIOLOGY OF DREAMS.
The subject of the foregoing chapter is so intimately connected with the
phenomena of dreaming, and I have expressed my views in regard to it at
such length, that but few psychological points remain to be considered in
the present discussion. What I have to say, therefore, in regard to the
physiology of dreaming must be read in connection with the chapter on
“_The State of the Mind during Sleep_,” in order that the whole matter may
be fully understood.
It is contended by some writers that the mind is never at rest, and that
even during the most profound sleep dreams take place, which are either
forgotten immediately, or which make no impression on the memory. That
this view is erroneous is, I think, very evident. If it were correct, the
first object of sleep--rest for the brain--would not be attained. We all
know how fatigued we are, and how indisposed to exertion the brain is,
after a night of continued dreaming, and we can easily imagine what would
be the consequences if such a condition were kept up night after night. To
say that we really do dream not only every night, but every instant of
the night, in fact always and continually when we sleep, but that we
forget our dreams as soon as they are formed, remembering solely those
which are most vivid, is making assertions which not only are without
proof, but which are impossible of proof. For if, as Locke[65] remarks,
the sleeping man on awaking has no recollection of his thoughts, it is
very certain that no one else can recollect them for him.
The observations of Locke on this point are extremely appropriate, and, to
my mind, very philosophical and logical. After insisting that, sleeping or
waking, a man cannot think without being sensible of it, he says:[66]
“I grant that the soul of a waking man is never without thought, because
it is the condition of being awake; but whether sleeping without dreaming
be not an affection of the whole man, mind as well as body, may be worth a
waking man’s consideration, it being hard to conceive that anything should
think and not be conscious of it. If the soul doth think in a sleeping man
without being conscious of it, I ask, whether during such thinking it has
any pleasure or pain, or be capable of happiness or misery? I am sure the
man is not, any more than the bed or earth he lies on, for to be happy or
miserable without being conscious of it seems to me utterly inconsistent
and impossible. Or if it be possible that the soul can, while the body is
sleeping, have its thinkings, enjoyments, and concerns, its pleasure or
pain, about which the man is not conscious of nor partakes in, it is
certain that Socrates asleep and Socrates awake is not the same person;
but his soul when he sleeps and Socrates the man, consisting of body and
soul when he is waking, are two persons, since waking Socrates has no
knowledge of or concernment for that happiness or misery of his soul which
it enjoys alone by itself while he sleeps without perceiving anything of
it, any more than he has for the happiness or misery of a man in the
Indies whom he knows not; for if we take wholly away all consciousness of
our actions and sensations, especially of pleasure and pain, and the
concernment that accompanies it, it will be hard to know wherein to place
personal identity.”
In a subsequent section of the same chapter, Locke asserts that most men
pass a great part of their lives without dreaming, and that he once knew a
scholar who had no bad memory, who told him he had never dreamed in his
life till after the occurrence of a fever in the twenty-fifth or
twenty-sixth year of his age.
Examples of persons who have not ordinarily dreamed are adduced by the
ancient writers. Pliny[67] refers to men who never dreamed. Plutarch[68]
alludes to the case of Cleon, who, in living to an advanced age, had yet
never dreamed; and Suetonius[69] declares that before the murder of his
mother he had never dreamed.
A lady who was under my care for a serious nervous affection declared to
me that she never had had but one dream in her life, and that was after
receiving a severe fall in which she struck her head.
And yet, notwithstanding the experience of every one that sleep often
happens without the accompaniment of dreams, the great majority of writers
hold the view that the brain is never at rest. Doubtless this opinion has
its origin partly in the doctrine that the mind is a something altogether
independent of and superior to the brain. They appear to be incapable of
appreciating the fact that when the brain is in a state of complete repose
there can be no mental manifestation, and that all intellectual phenomena
are the results of cerebral activity. Another cause for their belief is
the fact that they make no distinction between dreaming and thinking,
whereas it is very evident that the two are not to be placed in the same
category. Thinking is an _action_ which requires cerebral effort, and
which is undertaken with a determinate purpose. We will to think, and we
think what we please; but it is very different with our dreams, which
come and go without any power on our part to regulate or direct them. To
think requires all the faculties of the mind; to dream necessitates only
the memory and the imagination. In thinking, the brain is active in all
its parts; in dreaming, it is nearly entirely quiescent.
Writers who contend for the doctrine of constant mental activity regard
the brain as the organ or tool of the mind, a structure which the mind
makes use of in order to manifest itself. Such a theory is certain to lead
them into difficulties, and is contrary to all the teaching of physiology.
The full discussion of this question would be out of place here; I will,
therefore, only state that this work is written from the stand-point of
regarding the mind as nothing more than the result of cerebral action.
Just as a good liver secretes good bile, a good candle gives good light,
and good coal a good fire, so does a good brain give a good mind. When the
brain is quiescent there is no mind.
Lemoine[70] begins his chapter “_On the State of the Mind during Sleep_”
with the assertion that “there is no sleep for the mind.” He is obliged,
however, to admit that “when the organs of the body are benumbed by sleep,
the mind appears to be in a particular state; it seems to be submitted to
other laws than those which govern it during wakefulness; it seems to
have lost for a time its most precious faculties.”
During sleep the mind is, as he supposes, in a particular state, for, as
has been shown in the previous chapter, it has lost many of its chief
parts. The laws which govern it are, however, the same which always
regulate it. The body upon which their power is primarily exercised--the
brain--is not in the same condition during sleep as during wakefulness,
and hence the differences in the evidences of cerebral activity.
Sir William Hamilton[71] is generally considered to have determined
affirmatively the question of the continuance of the action of the brain
during sleep. He caused himself to be aroused from sleep at intervals
through the night, and invariably found that he was disturbed from a
dream, the particulars of which he could always distinctly recollect. But
a full knowledge of the subject he was investigating would have sufficed
to convince Sir William that the conclusion he drew from his experiments
was altogether fallacious. It is well known that dreams are excited by
strong impressions made upon the senses, or by irritations arising in the
internal organs. Thus Baron Trenck relates that when confined in his
dungeon he suffered the pangs of hunger almost continually, and that his
dreams at night were always of delicate meats and sumptuous repasts,
spread before him on luxuriously-furnished tables. The mere excitation of
waking a sleeping person is generally sufficient to give rise to a dream.
Maury, in his very interesting work, to which reference has already been
made, and which will hereafter be more specifically considered, adduces
many examples of dreams produced by sensorial impressions. I have myself
performed many experiments with reference to this point, and have
generally found ample confirmation of Maury’s investigations. It may
therefore, I think, be assumed, without any violence to the actual facts
of the cases, that the brain is not always in action, and that there are
times when we sleep without dreaming.
In the previous chapter the idea is sought to be conveyed that we
originate nothing in our dreams. We may conceive of things which never
existed, or of which we have heard or read, but the images we make of them
are either composed of elements familiar to us, or else are based upon
ideal representations which we have formed in our waking moments. Thus,
before the discovery of America no Europeans ever dreamed of American
Indians, for the reason that nothing existed within their knowledge which
could give any idea of the appearance of such human beings. It is possible
that Columbus and his companions may have dreamed of the continent of
which they were in search and of its natives, but the images formed of the
latter must necessarily have resembled other beings they had seen, or
which they had heard described. After the discovery, however, it was no
unusual thing for the Spaniards and others to have correct images of
Indians appear to them in their dreams.
Dreams, therefore, must have a foundation, and this is either impressions
made upon the mind at some previous period, or produced during sleep by
bodily sensations. These impressions, however they may be formed, are
subjected to the unrestrained influence of the imagination.
At first sight it may seem that we often have dreams not excited by actual
sensations, and which have no relation to any events of our lives, or any
ideas which have passed through our minds, but thorough investigation will
invariably reveal the existence of an association between the dream and
some such ideas or events. For instance, a few nights ago I dreamed that a
gentleman, a friend of mine, had invented what he called a “dog-cart
ambulance,” a vehicle which he declared was the best ever made for the
transportation of sick or wounded men. On awaking, all the particulars
were fresh in my mind, but I could not for some time perceive why I had
had such a dream. At last I recollected that the morning before a
gentleman had given me a very full description of Prospect Park, in
Brooklyn. The friend of whom I dreamed has charge of the construction of
this Park. His presence was, therefore, fully explained, and as dog-carts
are driven in parks, this link was also accounted for. The ambulance part
was due to the fact that I had that same morning found the card of a
gentleman upon my table who really had invented an ambulance. The
imagination had, therefore, taken these data supplied by the memory, and
had combined them into the incongruous web constituting my dream.
Dreams are also frequently built upon circumstances which have transpired
many years previously, and which have long since apparently passed from
our recollection. A very striking instance of this kind is related by
Abercrombie,[72] on the authority of Sir Walter Scott.
“Mr. R. J. Rowland, a gentleman of landed property in the vale of Gala,
was prosecuted for a very considerable sum, the accumulated arrears of
teind (tithe), for which he was said to be indebted to a noble family the
titulars (lay impropriators of the tithe). Mr. R. was strongly impressed
with the belief that his father had, by a form of process peculiar to the
law of Scotland, purchased these teinds from the titular, and, therefore,
that the present prosecution was groundless. But after an industrious
search among his father’s papers, an investigation of the public records,
and a careful inquiry among all persons who had transacted law business
for his father, no evidence could be discovered to support his defense.
The period was now near at hand when he conceived the loss of his lawsuit
to be inevitable, and he had formed his determination to ride to Edinburgh
next day, and make the best bargain he could in the way of compromise. He
went to bed with this resolution, and, with all the circumstances of the
case floating upon his mind, had a dream to the following purpose. His
father, who had been many years dead, appeared to him, he thought, and
asked him why he was disturbed in his mind. In dreams men are not
surprised at such apparitions. Mr. R. thought that he informed his father
of the cause of his distress, adding that the payment of a considerable
sum of money was the more unpleasant to him, because he had a stray
consciousness that it was not due, though he was unable to recover any
evidence in support of his belief. ‘You are right, my son,’ replied the
paternal shade; ‘I did acquire right to these teinds, for payment of which
you are now prosecuted. The papers relating to the transaction are in the
hands of Mr. ----, a writer (or attorney), who is now retired from
professional business, and resides at Inveresk, near Edinburgh. He was a
person whom I employed on that occasion for a particular reason, but who
never, on any other occasion, transacted business on my account. It is
very possible,’ pursued the vision, ‘that Mr. ---- may have forgotten a
matter which is now of a very old date; but you may call it to his
recollection by this token--that when I came to pay his account there was
difficulty in getting change for a Portugal piece of gold, and that we
were forced to drink out the balance at a tavern.’
“Mr. R. awaked in the morning with all the events of the vision impressed
on his mind, and thought it worth while to ride across the country to
Inveresk, instead of going straight to Edinburgh. When he came there he
waited on the gentleman mentioned in the dream, a very old man; without
saying anything of the vision, he inquired whether he remembered having
conducted such a matter for his deceased father. The old gentleman could
not at first bring the circumstance to his recollection, but, on mention
of the Portugal piece of gold, the whole returned upon his memory; he made
an immediate search for the papers and recovered them, so that Mr. R.
carried to Edinburgh the documents necessary to gain the cause which he
was on the verge of losing.”
A friend has related to me some circumstances in his own case similar to
the above, and illustrating the same points. In the course of his practice
as a lawyer, it became necessary for him to ascertain the exact age of a
client, who was also his cousin. Their grandfather had been a rather
eccentric personage, who had taken a great deal of notice of both his
grandsons--his only direct descendants. He died when they were boys. My
friend often told his cousin that if his grandfather were alive there
would be no difficulty at getting at the desired information, and that he
had a dim recollection of having seen a record kept by the old gentleman,
and of there being some peculiarity about it which he could not recall.
Several months elapsed, and he had given up the idea of attempting to
discover the facts of which he had been in search, when, one night, he
dreamed that his grandfather came to him and said: “You have been trying
to find out when J---- was born; don’t you recollect that one afternoon
when we were fishing I read you some lines from an Elzevir Horace, and
showed you how I had made a family record out of the work by inserting a
number of blank leaves at the end? Now, as you know, I devised my library
to the Rev. ---- ----. I was a d----d fool for giving him books which he
will never read! Get the Horace, and you will discover the exact hour at
which J---- was born.” In the morning all the particulars of this dream
were fresh in my friend’s memory. The reverend gentleman lived in a
neighboring city; my friend took the first train, found the copy of
Horace, and at the end the pages constituting the family record, exactly
as had been described to him in the dream. By no effort of his memory,
however, could he recollect the incidents of the fishing excursion.
Dr. Macnish,[73] in stating his opinion that dreams are uniformly the
resuscitation or re-embodiment of thoughts which have formerly, in some
shape or other, occupied the mind, relates the following example from his
own experience:
“I lately dreamed that I walked upon the banks of the great canal in the
neighborhood of Glasgow. On the side opposite to that on which I was, and
within a few feet of the water, stood the splendid portico of the Royal
Exchange. A gentleman whom I knew was standing upon one of the steps, and
we spoke to each other. I then lifted a large stone and poised it in my
hand, when he said that he was certain I could not throw it to a certain
spot, which he pointed out. I made the attempt, and fell short of the
mark. At this moment a well-known friend came up, whom I knew to excel at
_putting_ the stone; but, strange to say, he had lost both his legs, and
walked upon wooden substitutes. This struck me as exceedingly curious, for
my impression was that he had only lost one leg, and had but a single
wooden one. At my desire he took up the stone, and, without difficulty,
threw it beyond the point indicated by the gentleman upon the opposite
side of the canal. The absurdity of this dream is extremely glaring, and
yet, on strictly analyzing it, I find it to be wholly composed of ideas
which passed through my mind on the previous day, assuming a new and
ridiculous arrangement. I can compare it to nothing but to cross reading
in the newspapers, or to that well-known amusement which consists in
putting a number of sentences, each written on a separate piece of paper,
into a hat, shaking the whole, then taking them out, one by one, as they
come, and seeing what kind of medley the heterogeneous compound will make
when thus fortuitously put together. For instance, I had, on the above
day, taken a walk to the canal along with a friend. On returning from it,
I pointed out to him a spot where a new road was forming, and where, a few
days before, one of the workmen had been overwhelmed by a quantity of
rubbish falling upon him, which fairly chopped off one of his legs, and so
much damaged the other that it was feared amputation would be necessary.
Near this very spot there is a park, in which, about a month previously, I
practiced throwing the stone. On passing the Exchange, on my way home, I
expressed regret at the lowness of its situation, and remarked what a fine
effect the portico would have were it placed upon more elevated ground.
Such were the previous circumstances, and let us see how they bear upon
the dream. In the first place, the canal appeared before me. 2. Its
situation is an elevated one. 3. The portico of the Exchange occurring to
my mind as being placed too low became associated with the elevation of
the canal, and I placed it close by on a similar altitude. 4. The
gentleman I had been walking with was the same whom in the dream I saw
standing upon the steps of the portico. 5. Having related to him the story
of the man who lost one limb and had a chance of losing another, this idea
brings before me a friend with a pair of wooden legs, who, moreover,
appears in connection with patting the stone, as I knew him to excel at
that exercise. There is only one other element in the dream which the
preceding events will not account for, and that is the surprise at the
individual referred to having more than one wooden leg. But why should he
have even one, seeing that in reality he is limbed like other people? This
also I can account for. Two years ago he slightly injured his knee while
leaping a ditch, and I remember jocularly advising him to get it cut off.
I am particular in illustrating this point with regard to dreams, for I
hold that if it were possible to analyze them all, they would invariably
be found to stand in the same relation to the waking state as the above
specimen. The more diversified and incongruous the character of a dream,
and the more remote from the period of its occurrence the circumstances
which suggested it, the more difficult does its analysis become; and, in
point of fact, this process may be impossible, so totally are the elements
of the dream often dissevered from their original sense, and so
ludicrously huddled together.”
A dream which Professor Maas,[74] of Halle, relates as having occurred to
himself, affords an excellent example of the dependence of dreams upon
actual events, and shows how these latter are distorted and perverted by
the imagination of the sleeper.
“I dreamed once,” he says, “that the Pope visited me. He commanded me to
open my desk, and he carefully examined all the papers it contained. While
he was thus employed, a very sparkling diamond fell out of his triple
crown into my desk, of which, however, neither of us took any notice. As
soon as the Pope had withdrawn I retired to bed, but was soon obliged to
rise on account of a thick smoke, the cause of which I had yet to learn.
Upon examination I discovered that the diamond had set fire to the papers
in my desk, and burned them to ashes.”
In analyzing the circumstances which gave rise to this dream, Professor
Maas relates the following events, which constituted its basis:
“On the preceding evening I was visited by a friend with whom I had a
lively conversation upon Joseph II.’s suppression of monasteries and
convents. With this idea, though I did not become conscious of it in the
dream, was associated the visit which the Pope publicly paid the Emperor
Joseph, at Vienna, in consequence of the measures taken against the
clergy; and with this again was combined, however faintly, the
representation of the visit which had been paid me by my friend. These two
events were, by the subreasoning faculty, compounded into one, according
to the established rule--that things which agree in their parts also
correspond as to the whole; hence the Pope’s visit was changed into a
visit paid to me. The subreasoning faculty, then, in order to account for
this extraordinary visit, fixed upon that which was the most important
object in my room--namely, the desk, or rather the papers which it
contained. That a diamond fell out of the triple crown was a collateral
association, which was owing merely to the representation of the desk.
Some days before, when opening the desk, I had broken the crystal of my
watch, which I held in my hand, and the fragments fell among the papers;
hence no further attention was paid to the diamond being a representation
of a collateral series of things. But afterwards the representation of the
sparkling stone was again excited, and became the prevailing idea; hence
it determined the succeeding association. On account of its similarity it
excited the representation of fire, with which it was confounded; hence
arose fire and smoke. But in the event the writings only were burned, not
the desk itself, to which, being of comparatively little value, the
attention was not directed.”
Feuchtersleben[75] takes the same view of dreaming as that enunciated in
this chapter. Thus he says:
“Dreaming is nothing more than the occupation of the mind in sleep with
the pictorial world of fancy. As the closed or quiescent senses afford it
no materials, the mind, ever active, must make use of the store which
memory retains; but as its motor influence is likewise organically
impeded, it cannot independently dispose of this store. Thus arises a
condition in which the mind looks, as it were, on the play of the images
within itself, and manifests only a faint or partial reaction.”
Locke[76] contends that “the dreams of a sleeping man are all made up of
the waking man’s ideas oddly put together.”
Observation and reflection show us that the mind originates nothing during
sleep; it merely remembers--and often in the most chaotic manner--the
thoughts, the fancies, the impressions which have been imagined or
received by the individual when awake. Sometimes ideas are reproduced in
dreams exactly as they have occurred to us in our waking moments, and this
may take place night after night with scarcely the alteration of a single
circumstance. A friend informs me that he is very subject to dreams of
this character, and that on some occasions the repetition has taken place
as many as a dozen times.
A very striking instance of this kind occurred to me a few years since,
and made a deep impression on my mind. I had just read Schiller’s ode to
Laura, as translated by Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, beginning,
“Who and what gave to me the wish to woo thee?”
and admired it as a striking piece of versification conveying some noted
philosophical ideas in a forcible and beautiful manner. The following
night I had a very vivid dream of a condition of pre-existence, in which I
imagined myself to be. The connection between the dream and the poem I had
been reading was sufficiently well marked, and did not astonish me. I was,
however, surprised to find that the next night I had exactly the same
dream, and that it was repeated three times subsequently on consecutive
nights.
The dependence of dreams upon ideas which we have had when awake was well
known to the ancients. Thus Lucius Accius,[77] a poet who lived more than
a hundred and fifty years before the Christian era, says:
“Quae in vita usurpant homines, cogitant, curant, vident
Quaeque agunt vigilantes, agitantque casi cui in somno accidant,
* * * * * * Minus mirum est.”
Lucretius[78] declares that during sleep we are amused with things which
have made us weep when awake; that circumstances which have pleased us are
recalled to our minds; that objects are presented to us which occupied our
thoughts long before; and that recent events appear still more vividly
before us.
Petronius Arbiter[79] cites Epicurus to the same effect. Tryphæna having
declared that she had had a dream in which there appeared to her the image
of Neptune she had seen at Baiæ, “Hence you may perceive,” observed
Eumolpus, “what a divine man is Epicurus, who so ingeniously ridiculed
these sports of fancy.
“When in a dream presented to our view
Those airy forms appear so like the true,
No prescient shrine, no god the vision sends,
But every breast its own delusion lends.
For when soft sleep the body wraps in ease,
And from the inactive mass the fancy frees,
What most by day affects, at night returns;
Thus he who shakes proud states, and cities burns,
Sees showers of darts, forced lines, disordered wings,
Blood-reeking fields, and deaths of vanquished kings;
He that by day litigious knots untied,
And charmed the drowsy bench to either side,
By night a crowd of cringing clients sees,
Smiles on the fools and kindly takes their fees;
The miser hides his wealth, new treasure finds;
Through echoing woods his horn the huntsman winds;
The sailor’s dream wild scenes of wreck describes;
The wanton lays her snares; the adultress bribes;
Hounds in full cry, in sleep, the hare pursue;
And hapless wretches their old griefs renew.”[80]
It is related of an ancient tyrant that one of his courtiers described to
him a dream in which the courtier had assassinated his master. “You could
not,” exclaimed the tyrant, “have dreamed this without having previously
thought of it,” and then ordered his immediate execution.
Now besides this foundation of dreams upon circumstances which have
transpired during our waking moments, they may arise, as has already been
intimated, from impressions made upon the mind during sleep. Sensations
may be so intense as to be partially appreciated by the brain, and yet not
strong enough to cause sleep to be interrupted. In such cases the
imagination seizes the imperfect perception and weaves it into a tissue of
incongruous fancies, which, however, generally bear a more or less
definite relation to the character of the sensorial impression. Many
examples of dreams thus produced are on record, and many others have come
under my own observation. The interest which attaches to phenomena of this
character must be my excuse for quoting some of the more remarkable
instances of this kind which have been brought to my attention.
The following are related by Abercrombie:[81]
During the alarm excited in Edinburgh by the apprehension of a French
invasion almost every man was a soldier, and all things had been arranged
in expectation of the landing of the enemy. The first notice was to be
given by the firing of a gun from the Castle, and this was to be followed
by a chain of signals calculated to arouse the country. The gentleman to
whom the dream occurred was a zealous volunteer, and, being in bed between
two and three o’clock in the morning, dreamt of hearing the signal gun. He
imagined that he went at once to the Castle, witnessed the proceeding for
displaying the signals, and saw and heard all the preparations for the
assemblage of the troops. At this time he was roused by his wife, who
awoke in a fright, in consequence of a similar dream. The origin of both
dreams was ascertained in the morning to be the noise produced by the
falling of a pair of tongs in the room above.
A gentleman dreamt that he had enlisted as a soldier, joined his regiment,
deserted, was apprehended, carried back, condemned to be shot, and at last
led out to execution. At this instant a gun was fired, and he awoke, to
find that a noise in the adjoining room had both produced the dream and
awakened him.
The next is a very extraordinary case.
The subject was an officer in the expedition to Louisburg, in 1758. During
his passage in the transport his companions were in the habit of amusing
themselves at his expense. They could produce in him any kind of dream by
whispering in his ear, especially if this was done by a friend with whose
voice he was familiar. Once they conducted him through the whole process
of a quarrel which ended in a duel, and when the parties were supposed to
have met a pistol was put into his hand, which he fired, and was awakened
by the report. On another occasion they found him asleep on the top of a
locker in the cabin, when they made him believe he had fallen overboard,
and exhorted him to save himself by swimming. Then they told him that a
shark was pursuing him, and entreated him to dive for his life. He
instantly did so, and with so much force as to throw himself from the
locker upon the cabin floor, by which he was much bruised, and awakened of
course. After the landing of the army at Louisburg, his friends found him
one day asleep in his tent, and evidently much annoyed by the cannonading.
They then made him believe that he was engaged, when he exhibited great
fear, and showed a decided disposition to run away. Against this they
remonstrated, but at the same time increased his fears by imitating the
groans of the wounded and the dying; and when he asked, as he often did,
who was hit, they named his particular friends. At last they told him that
the man next himself in his company had fallen, when he instantly sprang
from his bed, rushed out of his tent, and was roused from his danger and
his dream by falling over the tent-cords.
A friend informs me that he has a brother who will carry on a conversation
with any person who whispers to him in his sleep, and that his emotions
are then very readily excited by any pitiful story that may be told him.
Upon awaking, he has a distinct recollection of his dreams, which are
always connected with the ideas communicated.
I recollect very distinctly the particulars of a dream which I had several
years since, and which was due to an impression conveyed to the brain
through the ear. The dream also illustrates the point previously brought
forward, that a definite conception of time does not enter into the
phenomena of dreams.
I dreamed that I had taken passage in a steamboat from St. Louis to New
Orleans. Among the passengers was a man who had all the appearance of
being very ill with consumption. He looked more like a ghost than a human
being, and moved noiselessly among the passengers, noticing no one, though
attracting the attention of all. For several days nothing was said between
him and any one, till one morning, as we approached Baton Rouge, he came
to where I was sitting on the guards and began a conversation by asking me
what time it was. I took out my watch, when he instantly took it from my
hand and opened it. “I, too, once had a watch,” he said; “but see what I
am now.” With these words he threw aside the large cloak he habitually
wore, and I saw that his ribs were entirely bare of skin and flesh. He
then took my watch, and, inserting it between his ribs, said it would make
a very good heart. Continuing his conversation he told me that he had
resolved to blow up the vessel the next day, but that as I had been the
means of supplying him with a heart he would save my life. “When you hear
the whistle blow,” he said, “jump overboard, for in an instant afterward
the boat will be in atoms.” I thanked him, and he left me. All that day
and the next I endeavored to acquaint my fellow-passengers with the fate
in store for them, but discovered that I had lost the faculty of speech. I
tried to write, but found that my hands were paralyzed. In fact I could
adopt no means to warn them. While I was making these ineffectual efforts,
I heard the whistle of the engine; I rushed to the side of the boat to
plunge overboard, and awoke. The whistle of a steam saw-mill near my house
had just begun to sound, and had awakened me. My whole dream had been
excited by it, and could not have occupied more than a few seconds.
The following account[82] shows how a dream may be set in action by the
sense of smell.
“On one occasion during my residence at Birmingham I had to attend many
patients at Coventry, and for their accommodation I visited that place one
day in every week. My temporary residence was at a druggist’s shop in the
market-place. Having on one occasion, now to be mentioned, a more than
usual number of engagements, I was obliged to remain one night, and a bed
was provided for me at the residence of a cheesemonger in the same
locality. The house was very old, the rooms very low, and the street very
narrow. It was summer-time, and during the day the cheesemaker had
unpacked a box or barrel of strong old American cheese; the very street
was impregnated with the odor. At night, jaded with my professional
labors, I went to my dormitory, which seemed filled with a strong, cheesy
atmosphere, which affected my stomach greatly, and quite disturbed the
biliary secretions. I tried to produce a more agreeable atmosphere to my
olfactory sense by smoking cigars, but did not succeed. At length, worn
out with fatigue, I tried to sleep, and should have succeeded, but for a
time another source of annoyance prevented me doing so; for in an old wall
behind my head, against which my ancient bed stood, there were numerous
rats gnawing away in real earnest. The crunching they made was indeed
terrific, and I resisted the drowsy god from a dread that these voracious
animals would make a forcible entrance, and might take personal liberties
with my flesh.
“But at length ‘tired nature’ ultimately so overpowered me that I slept in
a sort of fever. I was still breathing the cheesy atmosphere, and this,
associated with the marauding rats, so powerfully affected my imagination
that a most horrid dream was the consequence. I fancied myself in some
barbarous country, where, being charged with a political offense, I was
doomed to be incarcerated in a large cheese. And although this curious
prison-house seemed most oppressive, it formed but part of my sufferings;
for scarcely had I become reconciled to my probable fate than to my horror
an army of rats attacked the monster cheese, and soon they seemed to have
effected an entrance, and began to fix themselves in numbers upon my naked
body. The agony I endured was increased by the seeming impossibility to
drive them away, and, fortunately for my sanity, I awoke, but with a hot
head and throbbing temples, and a sense of nausea from the extremely
strong odor of the cheese.”
I have on two occasions that I recollect had dreams which were due to
odors. On one of them the smell of gas escaping in the room excited the
dream of a chemical laboratory; on the other the smell of burning cloth
caused me to dream of a laundry, and of one of the women ironing a
blanket, which she scorched with a hot iron. A lady informs me that a
similar odor produced in her a dream of the house being on fire and the
impossibility of her escaping by reason of all her clothes being burned
up.
Dreams are very readily excited through impressions made on the special
nerves of sensation. Instances are given of persons sleeping with bottles
of hot water applied to their feet dreaming of walking on burning lava, or
some other hot substance. A patient related to me the particulars of a
dream which occurred to him while he was asleep with a vessel of hot water
applied to the soles of his feet. He had, just before going to sleep,
read in the evening paper an account of the capture of an English
gentleman by Italian brigands. He dreamt that while crossing the Rocky
Mountains he had been attacked by two Mexicans, who, after a long fight,
had succeeded in taking him alive. They conveyed him very hurriedly to
their camp, which was situated in a deep gorge. Here they told him that
unless he revealed to them the means of making gold from copper they would
submit him to torture. In vain he plead ignorance of any such process.
Pulling off his boots and stockings they held his naked feet to the fire
till he shrieked with agony, and awoke to find that the blanket which was
wrapped around the tin vessel containing the hot water had become
disarranged, and that his feet were in direct contact with the hot metal.
In another case, that of a lady whose lower limbs were paralyzed,
artificial heat was applied during the night to her feet. Frequently her
dreams had reference to this circumstance. On one occasion she dreamed
that she was transformed into a bear, and was being taught to dance by
being made to stand on hot plates of iron. On another, that the house was
on fire, and that the floors were so hot as to burn her feet in her
efforts to escape. Again, that she was wading through a stream of water
which came from a hot spring in the Central Park.
Another patient, a lady, subject to neuralgic attacks of great severity,
frequently had the lancinating pains give rise to dreams in which she was
stabbed with daggers, cut with knives, torn with pincers, etc.
Not long since I had an attack of erysipelas, in which the disease
included the head and face. The pain was not severe, and yet it was
sufficient to give rise to the following dream:
I dreamed that I was taking a cold bath, and that while thus engaged a
Turk, armed with a pair of long pincers, came into the room and began to
pull the hair out of my head. I remonstrated, but was unable to offer any
material resistance, for the reason that the water in which I was lying
suddenly froze, leaving me imbedded in a solid cake of ice. In order to
facilitate his operations, the Turk sponged my head with boiling water,
and then, finding the use of the pincers rather slow work, shaved the hair
off with a red-hot razor. He then rubbed an ointment on the naked scalp,
composed of sulphur, phosphorus, and turpentine, to which he immediately
applied fire. Taking me in his arms he rushed down stairs into the street,
lighting his way with the flame from my burning head. He had not gone far
before he fell down in a fit, and in his struggles gave me a severe blow
between the eyes which instantly deprived me of sight.
When I awoke in the morning I had a very distinct recollection of this
dream. The incidents were in part due to the fact that I had, two or three
days previously, been reading an account of the insanity of Mohammed, and
of his being subject to attacks of epilepsy.
The sense of taste is not, for obvious reasons, so productive of dreams as
the other senses, but the experiments of M. Maury and myself, to which
fuller reference will presently be made, show that strong excitations made
upon it are transmitted to the brain; and the following instance, which
has recently come under my immediate observation, is an interesting case
in point.
A young lady had, in her early childhood, contracted the habit of going to
sleep with her thumb in her mouth. She had tried for several years to
break herself of the practice, but all her attempts were in vain, for even
when by strong mental effort she succeeded in getting to sleep without the
usual accompaniment, it was not long before the unruly member was in its
accustomed place. Finally she hit upon the plan of covering the offending
thumb with extract of aloes just before she went to bed, hoping that if
she put it into her mouth she would instantly awake. But she slept on
through the night, and in the morning found her thumb in her mouth and all
the extract of aloes sucked off. During the night, however, she dreamed
that she was crossing the ocean in a steamer made of wormwood, and that
the vessel was furnished throughout with the same material. The plates,
the dishes, tumblers, chairs, tables, etc. were all of wormwood, and the
emanations so pervaded all parts of the ship that it was impossible to
breathe without tasting the bitterness. Everything that she ate or drank
was likewise, from being in contact with wormwood, so impregnated with the
flavor that the taste was overpowering. When she arrived at Havre she
asked for a glass of water for the purpose of washing the taste from her
mouth, but they brought her an infusion of wormwood, which she gulped down
because she was thirsty, though the sight of it excited nausea. She went
to Paris and consulted a famous physician, M. Sauve Moi, begging him to do
something which would extract the wormwood from her body. He told her
there was but one remedy, and that was ox gall. This he gave her by the
pound, and in a few weeks the wormwood was all gone, but the ox gall had
taken its place, and was fully as bitter and disagreeable. To get rid of
the ox gall she was advised to take counsel of the Pope. She accordingly
went to Rome, and obtained an audience of the Holy Father. He told her
that she must make a pilgrimage to the plain where the pillar of salt
stood, into which Lot’s wife was transformed, and must eat a piece of the
salt as big as her thumb. During her journey in search of the pillar of
salt she endured a great many sufferings, but finally triumphed over all
obstacles, and reached the object of her journey. What part to take was
now the question. After a good deal of deliberation she reasoned that as
she had a bad habit of sucking her thumb, it would be very philosophical
to break off this part from the statue, and thus not only get cured of
the bitterness in her mouth, but also of her failing. She did so, put the
piece of salt into her mouth, and awoke to find that she was sucking her
own thumb.
It might be supposed that the brain during sleep is not excitable through
the sense of sight. Many examples, however, are on record of dreams being
thus produced, and several very interesting cases have come under my own
observation. Among them are the following:
A gentleman of a nervous and irritable disposition informed me that he had
dreamed of being in heaven and being dazzled by the brilliancy of
everything around him. So great was the light that he hastened to escape
from the pain which it caused in his eyes. In the efforts which he made he
struck his head against the bedpost, and awoke to find that the fire which
he had left smouldering on the hearth had kindled into a bright flame, the
light from which fell full in his face.
Another, who had been under my care for epilepsy, dreamed that his room
was entered by burglars, and that with lighted candles in their hands they
were searching his drawers and trunks. He related his dream the following
morning, and was told by his mother that she had gone into his room the
previous night, and had held a lighted candle close to his face in order
to see whether or not he was sound asleep.
No one has more philosophically studied the mode of production of dreams
than M. Maury[83] in his remarkable work to which reference has already
been made. I propose, therefore, to place a brief outline of his
experiments and views before the reader.
Just before falling asleep, and immediately before becoming fully awake,
many persons are subject to hallucinations partaking of many of the
characteristics belonging to dreams. To them the name of hypnagogic
(ῦπνος, _sleep_, and ἀγωγεύς, _leader_) hallucinations has been given,
_i.e._ hallucinations which lead to sleep. Previous to M. Maury’s
investigations, the phenomena in question had attracted some attention
from German and French physiologists, but M. Maury’s investigations, many
of which were performed upon himself, throw more light upon the subject
than it has hitherto received.
According to M. Maury, the persons who most frequently experience these
hypnagogic hallucinations are those who are of an excitable constitution,
and are generally predisposed to hypertrophy of the heart, pericarditis,
and cerebral affections. This may be true, but in two most remarkable
instances which have come under my observation, the type of organization
was the very reverse of this.
In M. Maury’s own case he finds that the hallucinations are more numerous
and more vivid when he experiences, as is frequent with him, a disposition
to cerebral congestion. Thus, when he has headache, nervous pains in the
eyes, the ears, and the nose, and vertigo, the hallucinations make their
appearance as soon as he closes his eyelids. Loss of sleep and severe
intellectual exertions invariably produce them, as do also _cafe noir_ and
champagne, which, by causing headache and insomnia, strongly predispose
him to the hypnagogic hallucinations. On the contrary, calmness of mind,
rest, and country air lessen his liability to them. From the inquiries
made of others by M. Maury, the results of his own experience, as well as
from my own observations, I am well convinced that the hypnagogic
hallucinations are directly the result of an increase in the amount of
blood circulating through the brain rather than to actual congestion as he
supposes. They therefore indicate the existence of a condition unfavorable
to sound sleep. In the chapter devoted to the consideration of wakefulness
the phenomena accompanying cerebral hyperæmia will be more fully
considered.
The theory which M. Maury proposes in order to account for the existence
of hypnagogic hallucinations further presupposes that as the power of the
attention immediately before sleep begins to be diminished, and the mind
cannot therefore voluntarily and logically arrange its thoughts, it
abandons itself to the imagination, and that thus fancies arise and
disappear unchecked by the other mental faculties. This absence of the
attention need not be of long duration, a second, or even a shorter period
being sufficient. Thus he lay down, and the attention which had been
fully aroused soon became weakened; images appeared, and these partially
reawakened the attention, and the current of his thoughts was resumed, to
be replaced again by hallucinations, and this continued till he was fully
asleep. As an example, he states that on the 30th of November, 1847, he
was reading aloud the _Voyage dans la Russie Méridionale_, by M. Hommaire
de Hell. He had just finished a line when he closed his eyes
instinctively. In this short instant of sleep he saw hypnagogically, but
with the rapidity of light, the figure of a man clothed in a brown robe,
and with a hood on his head like a monk. The appearance of this image
reminded him that he had shut his eyes and ceased reading. He immediately
opened his eyelids and resumed his book. The interruption was practically
nothing, for the person to whom he was reading did not perceive it.
M. Maury gives numerous examples of these hypnagogic hallucinations, all
tending to show that they are induced by a congested condition of the
cerebral vessels, and that thus, according to the views I have set forth
relative to the condition of the brain in sleep, they are not to be
regarded as precursors of that state, but of stupor.
In two very interesting cases of these hallucinations, which have come
under my notice, they were brought about by any cause which increased the
quantity of blood in the brain, or retarded the flow of blood from this
organ. Thus, a glass of champagne, or a few drops of laudanum, would
induce them, as also would the recumbent posture, with the head rather
low.
As showing how readily dreams can be excited by impressions made upon the
senses, M. Maury caused a series of experiments to be performed upon
himself when asleep, which afforded very satisfactory results, and which
are interesting in connection with the points already discussed in the
present chapter.
1st Experiment. He caused himself to be tickled with a feather on the lips
and inside of the nostrils. He dreamed that he was subjected to a horrible
punishment. A mask of pitch was applied to his face, and then torn roughly
off, taking with it the skin of his lips, nose, and face.
2d Experiment. A pair of tweezers was held at a little distance from his
ear, and struck with a pair of scissors. He dreamed that he heard the
ringing of bells; this was soon converted into the tocsin, and this
suggested the days of June, 1848.
3d Experiment. A bottle of eau de Cologne was held to his nose. He dreamed
that he was in a perfumer’s shop. This excited visions of the East, and he
dreamed that he was in Cairo in the shop of Jean Marie Farina. Many
surprising adventures occurred to him there, the details of which were
forgotten.
4th Experiment. A burning lucifer match was held close to his nostrils. He
dreamed that he was at sea (the wind was blowing in through the windows),
and that the magazine of the vessel blew up.
5th Experiment. He was slightly pinched on the nape of the neck. He
dreamed that a blister was applied, and this recalled the recollection of
a physician who had treated him in his infancy.
6th Experiment. A piece of red-hot iron was held close enough to him to
communicate a slight sensation of heat. He dreamed that robbers had got
into the house, and were forcing the inmates, by putting their feet to the
fire, to reveal where their money was. The idea of the robber suggested
that of the Duchess d’Abrantes, who he supposed had taken him for her
secretary, and in whose memoirs he had read some account of bandits.
7th Experiment. The word _parafagaramus_ was pronounced in his ear. He
understood nothing, and awoke with the recollection of a very vague dream.
The word _maman_ was next used many times. He dreamed of different
subjects, but heard a sound like the humming of bees. Several days after,
the experiment was repeated with the words _Azor_, _Castor_, _Léonore_. On
awaking, he recollected that he had heard the last two words, and had
attributed them to one of the persons who had conversed with him in his
dream.
Another experiment of the same kind showed like the others that it was the
sound of the word and not the idea it conveyed which was perceived by the
brain. Then the words _chandelle_, _haridelle_, were pronounced many times
in rapid succession in his ear. He awoke suddenly, saying to himself,
_c’est elle_. It was impossible for him to recall what idea he had
attached to this dream.
8th Experiment. A drop of water was allowed to fall on his forehead. He
dreamed that he was in Italy, that he was very warm, and that he was
drinking the wine of Orvieto.
9th Experiment. A light, surrounded with a piece of red paper, was
repeatedly placed before his eyes. He dreamed of a tempest and lightning,
which suggested the remembrance of a storm he had encountered in the
English Channel in going from Merlaix to Havre.
These observations are very instructive. They show conclusively that one
very important class of our dreams is due to our bodily sensations. I have
frequently performed analogous experiments on others, and had them
practiced on myself, and have rarely failed in obtaining decided results.
They strongly inculcate the truth of the conclusions arrived at in the
foregoing chapter, and they serve as important data in enabling us to
understand the division of the subject next to be considered.
In regard to the immediate cause of dreams the opinions of authors are
very diverse. The older writers ascribe them to the rise of vapors from
the stomach, to the visitation of demons, and other fanciful causes.
Bishop Bull[84] declares that he knows from his own experience that
dreams are to be ascribed “to the ministry of those invisible instruments
of God’s providence that guide and govern our affairs and concerns, viz.,
the angels of God;” and Bishop Ken held a similar view.
It would neither be possible nor profitable to refer at greater length to
views which positive physiology has overturned. Observation and experiment
have aided us greatly in arriving at definite conclusions on this subject,
and the instances quoted on page 30 of this treatise, even if standing
alone uncontradicted, would go far toward guiding us in the right path. On
page 37 I have referred to the case of a man who, some time after
receiving a severe injury of the head by which a considerable portion of
the skull was lost, came under my professional care. Standing by his
bedside one evening, just after he had gone to sleep, I observed the scalp
slightly rise from the chasm in which it was deeply depressed. I was sure
he was going to awake, but he did not, and very soon he became restless
and agitated, while continuing to sleep. Presently he began to talk, and
it was evident that he was dreaming. In a few minutes the scalp sank down
to its ordinary level when he was asleep, and he became quiet. I called
his wife’s attention to the circumstance, and desired her to observe this
condition thereafter when he slept. She subsequently informed me that she
could always tell when he was dreaming from the appearance of the scalp.
My opinion, therefore, is that dreams are directly caused by an increased
activity of the cerebral circulation over that which exists in profound
sleep. This activity is probably sometimes local and at others general,
and never equals that which prevails in the condition of wakefulness, when
the functions of the brain are at their maximum of energy. This view is
further supported by a consideration of the state of the brain in sleep
and wakefulness, the condition of dreaming being, in a measure, an
intermediate one. Illustrations of the effects produced by a notable
increase in the quantity of blood circulating through the brain will be
given in the chapter on wakefulness. All of these, it will be perceived,
have a direct bearing on the question now under consideration.