General Uniformity.—We are by no means disposed to admit, however, that the diversity in men's moral judgments is so great, as might, at first, appear. There is, on the contrary, a general uniformity. As to the great essential principles of morals, men, after all, do judge much alike, in different ages and different countries. In details, they differ,in general principles, they agree. In the application of the rules of morality to particular actions, they differ widely, according to circumstances; in the recognition of the right and the wrong, as distinctive principles, and of obligation to do the right as known, and avoid the wrong as known, in this they agree. It must be remembered, moreover, that men do not always act according to their own ideas of right. From the general neglect of virtue, in any age or community, and the prevalence of great and revolting crimes, we cannot safely infer the absence, or even the perversion, of the moral faculty.
Precisely in what the Diversity consists.—It is important to bear in mind, throughout this discussion, the distinction between theideaof right, in itself considered, and theperceptionof a given act as right; the one a simple conception, the other an act of judgment; the one an idea derived from the very constitution of the mind, connate, if not innate, the other an application of that idea, by the understanding, to particular instances of conduct. The former, theideaof moral distinctions, may be universal, necessary, absolute, unerring; the latter, theapplicationof the idea to particular instances, and the decision that such and such acts are, or are not, right, may be altogether an incorrect and mistaken judgment. Now it is precisely at this point that the diversity in the moral judgments of mankind makes its appearance. In recognizing the distinction of right and wrong, they agree; in the application of the same to particular instances in decidingwhatis right andwhatis wrong—a simple act of the judgment, an exercise of the understanding, as we have seen—in this it is that they differ. And the difference is no greater, and no more inexplicable, with respect to this, than in any other class of judgments.
Conscience not always a safe Guide.—I have admitted that conscience is not infallible. Is it, then, a safe guide? Are we, in all cases to follow its decisions? Since liable toerr, it cannot be, in itself, I reply, in all cases, a safe guide. We cannot conclude, with certainty, that a given course is right, simply because conscience approves it. This does not, of necessity, follow. The decision that a given act is right, or not, is simply a matter of judgment; and the judgment may, or may not, be correct. That depends on circumstances, on education partly, on the light we have, be it more or less. Conscientious men are not always in the right. We may do wrong conscientiously. Saul of Tarsus was a conscientious persecutor, and verily thought he was doing God service. No doubt, many of the most intolerant and relentless bigots have been equally conscientious, and equally mistaken. Such men are all the more dangerous, because doing what they believe to be right.
It is, nevertheless, to be followed.—What, then, are we to do? Shall we follow a guide thus liable to err? Yes, I reply, follow conscience; but see that it be a right and well-informed conscience, forming its judgments, not from impulse, passion, prejudice, the bias of habit, or of unreflecting custom, but from the clearest light of reason, and especially of the divine word. We are responsible for the judgments we form in morals, as much as for any class of our judgments; responsible, in other words, for the sort of conscience we have. Saul's mistake lay, not in acting according to his conscientious convictions of duty, but in not having a more enlightened conscience. He should have formed a more careful judgment; have inquired more diligently after the right way. To say, however, that a man ought not to do what conscience approves, is to say that he ought not to do what he sincerely believes to be right. This would be a very strange rule in morals.
Conscience not exclusively intellectual.—I have discussed, as I proposed, thenatureandauthorityof conscience. In this discussion I have treated of the moral faculty as an intellectual, rather than an emotional power I would not be understood, however, as implying thatconscience has not also an emotional character. Every intellectual act, and faculty of action, partakes more or less of this character, is accompanied by feeling, and these feelings are in some degree peculiar, it may be, to the particular faculty or act of mind to which they relate. The exercise of imagination involves some degree of feeling, either pleasurable or painful, and that often in a high degree; so also the æsthetic faculty. It is peculiarly so with the exercise of the moral faculty. As already stated, in our analysis of an act of conscience, it is impossible to view our past conduct as right or wrong, and to approve or condemn ourselves accordingly, without emotion; and these emotions will vary in intensity, according to the clearness and force of our intellectual conception of the merit or demerit of our conduct.
These feelings constitute an important part of the phenomena of moral action, and consequently of psychology; as they belong, however, to the department ofsensibility, rather than ofintellect, their further discussion is not here in place. They will be considered in connection with other emotions in the subsequent division of the work.
INSTINCT.—THE INTELLIGENCE OF THE BRUTE AS DISTINGUISHED FROM THAT OF MAN
Closely connected with the philosophy of human intelligence is the science ofinstinct, or the intelligence of the brute—a subject of interest not merely in its relations to psychology, but to some other sciences, as natural history, and theology.
We work at a Disadvantage in such Inquiries.—With regard to this matter, it must be confessed, at the outset, that we work, in some respects, in the dark, in our inquiries and speculations concerning it. It lies wholly removed from the sphere of consciousness. We can only observe, compare, and infer, and our conclusions thus derived must be liable, after all, to error. The operations of our own minds we know by the clearest and surest of all sources of knowledge, viz., our own consciousness; the operation of brute intelligence must ever be in great measure unknown and a mystery to us. How far the two resemble each other, and how far they differ, it is not easy to determine, not easy to draw the dividing line, and say where brute intelligence stops and human intelligence begins.
Method proposed.—Let us first define instinct, the term usually applied to denote brute intelligence, and ascertain, if possible, what are its peculiar characteristics; we may then be able to determine wherein it differs from intelligence in man.
Definition.—I understand, by instinct, a law of action, governing and directing the movement of sentient beings—distinct, on the one hand, from the mere blind forces of matter, as attraction, etc., and from reason on the other; a law working to a given end by impulse, yet blindly—the subject not knowing why he thus works; a law innate, inherent in the constitution of the animal, not acquired but transmitted, the origin of which is to be found in the intelligent author of the universe. These I take to be the principal characteristics of that which we term instinct.
Instinct a Law.—It is alaw of action. In obedience to it the bee constructs her comb, and the ant her chambers, and the bird her nest; and in obedience to it, the animal, of whatever species, seeks that particular kind of food which is intended and provided for it. These are merely instances of the operation of that law. The uniformity and universality which characterize the operations of this principle, show it to be a law of action, and not a merely casual occurrence.
Works by Impulse.—It is a lawworking by impulse, not mechanical or automatic, on the one hand, nor yet rational on the other. The impelling or motive force, in the case supposed, is not that of a weight acting upon machinery, or any like mechanical principle, nor yet the reflex action of a nerve when irritated, or the spasmodic action of a muscle. It is not analogous to the influence of gravitation on the purely passive forms of matter. Nor yet is it that higher principle which we term reason in man. The bird constructs her nest as she does, and the bee her cell, in obedience to some blind yet powerful and unfailingimpulseof her nature, guiding and directing her movements, prompting to action, and to this specific form of action, with a restless yearning, unsatisfied until the end is accomplished. Yet the creature does not herself understand the law by which she works. The bee does not know that she constructs her comb at that precise angle which will afford the greatest content in theleast space, does not know why she constructs it at that precise angle, could give no reason for her procedure, even were she capable of understanding our question. It is not with her a matter of reflection, nor of reason, at all, but merely of blind, unthinking, yet unerring impulse.
As innate.—This law isinnate,inherentin the constitution of the animal,not acquired. It is not the result of education. The bird does not learn to build her nest, nor the bee her comb, nor the ant her subterranean chambers, by observing how the parent works and builds. Removed from all opportunities of observation or instruction, the untaught animal still performs its mission, constructs its nest or cell, and does it as perfectly in solitude as among its fellows, as perfectly on the first attempt as ever after. Whatever intelligence there is involved in these labors and constructions, and certainly the very highest intelligence would seem, in many instances, to be concerned in them, is an intelligence transmitted, and not acquired, the origin of which is to be sought, ultimately, not in the creature itself, but in the Author of all intelligence, the Creator of the universe. The intelligence is that not of the creature, but of the Creator.
Manifests itself irrespective of Circumstance.—It is to be further observed, with respect to the principle under consideration, that it often manifests its peculiar tendencies prior to the development of the appropriate organs. The young calf butts with its head before its horns are grown. The instinctive impulse manifests itself, also, under circumstances which render its action no longer needful. The beaver caught and confined in a room, constructs its dam, as aforetime, with whatsoever materials it can command, although, in its present circumstances, such a structure is of no possible use. These facts evidently indicate the presence and action of an impulse working blindly, without reflection, without reason, without intelligence, on the part of the animal.
Indications of Contrivance.—On the other hand, thereare instances of brute action which seem to indicate contrivance and adaptation to circumstances. The bee compelled to construct her comb in an unusual and unsafe position, steadies it by constructing a brace of wax-work between the side that inclines and the nearest wall of the hive. The spider, in like manner, whose web is in danger, runs a line, from the part exposed to the severest strain or pressure, to the nearest point of support, in such a manner as to secure the slender fabric. A bird has been known, in like manner, to support a bough, which proved too frail to sustain the weight of the nest, and of her young, by connecting it, with a thread, to a stronger branch above.
These Facts do not prove Reason.—Facts of this nature, however interesting, and well authenticated, must be regarded rather as exceptions to the ordinary rule, the nearest approach which mere instinct has been known to make toward the dividing line that separates the brute from the human intelligence. They do not, in themselves, prove the existence of reason, of a discriminating and reflecting intelligence, on the part of the animal; for the same law of nature that impels the creature to build its nest or its comb, under ordinary circumstances, in the ordinary manner, may certainly be supposed to be capable of inducing a change of operation to meet a sudden exigency, and one liable at any time to occur. It is certainly not more wonderful, nor so wonderful, that the bee should be induced to brace her comb, or the spider her web, when in danger, as that either should be able to construct her edifice originally, at the precise angle employed. It must be remembered, moreover, that, in the great majority of cases, brute instinct shows no such capacity of adaptation to circumstances.
The Question before us.—We are ready now to inquire how far that which we call instinct in the brute, differs from that which we call intelligence in man. Is it a difference inkind, or only indegree? A glance at the history of the doctrine may aid us here.
Early Views.—From Aristotle to Descartes, philosophers took the latter view. They ascribed to the brute a degree of reason, such as would be requisite in man, were he to do the same things, and proceeding on this principle, they attributed to animals an intelligence proportioned to the wants of their nature and organization. This principle, it need hardly be said, is an assumption. It is not certain that the same action proceeds from the same principle in man, and in the brute; that whatever indicates and involves intelligence and reason, in the one case, as its source, involves the same in the other. This is a virtualpetitio principii. It assumes the very point in question. It may be that what man does by virtue of an intelligent, reflecting, rational soul, looking before and after, the brute does by virtue of entirely a different principle, a mere unintelligent impulse of his nature, a blind sensation, prompting him to a given course. This is the question to be settled, the thing to be proved or disproved. And if the view already given of the character of brute instinct, is correct, the position now stated as possible, may be regarded as virtually established.
View of Descartes.—Descartes, perceiving the error of previous philosophers, went to the opposite extreme, and resolved the instinct and action of the brute into mere mechanism, a principle little different from that by which the weight moves the hands of the clock. The brute performs the functions of his nature and organization, just as the puppet moves hither and thither by springs hidden within, of which itself knows nothing. The bird, the bee, the ant, the spider, are so organized, such is the hidden mechanism of their curious nature, that at the proper times, and under the requisite conditions, they shall build, each its own proper structure; and perform, each, its own proper work and office. So doing, each moves automatically, mechanically.
Locke and his Disciples.—Differing, again, from this view, which certainly ascribes too little, as the opposite theory ascribes too much to the brute, Locke, Condillac, andtheir disciples in France and England, took the ground that the actions of the brute which seem to indicate intelligence, are to be ascribed to the power of habit, and to the law of association. The faculties of the brute, as indeed of man, resolve themselves ultimately into impressions from without. Nothing is innate. The dog scents his prey, and the beaver builds his dam, and the bird migrates to a warmer clime, from the mere force of habit, unreflecting, unintelligent. But how, it may occur to some one to ask, happens such a habit to be formed in the first place? How happens the poor insect, just emerging from the egg, to find in himself all requisite appliances and instruments for capturing his prey? How happens the bee always, throughout all its generations, to hit upon the same contrivance for storing its honey, and not only so, but to select out of a thousand different forms, and different possible angles, always the same one? And so of the ant, the spider, etc. And if this is a matter of education, as it certainly is not, then how came the first bee, the first ant, spider, or other insect, to hit upon so admirable an expedient?
The Scotch Philosophers.—On the other hand, Reid, Stewart, and the Scotch philosophers generally, departing widely from the merely mechanical view, have ascribed to instinct some actions which are properly automatic and involuntary, as the shutting of the eyelid on the approach of a foreign body, the action of the infant in obtaining its food from the mother's breast, and certain other like movements of the animal organization, which, according to recent discoveries in physiology, are to be attributed, rather to the simple reflex action of the nerves and muscles. This is not properly instinct.
Question returns.—Among these several views, where then, lies the truth? Unable to coincide with the merely mechanical theory of Descartes, or with the view which resolves all into mere habit and association, with Locke and Condillac, shall we fall back upon the ancient, and for a longtime universally prevalent, view which makes instinct only a lower degree of that intelligence which, in man becomes reason and reflection? This we are hardly prepared to do. The well-known phenomena and laws of instinct, its essential characteristics as developed in the preceding pages, seem to point to a difference in kind and not merely in degree.
Reasons for this Opinion.—1. The Brute incapable of high Cultivation.—To recapitulate briefly the points of difference: If instinct in the brute were of the same nature with intelligence in man, if it were, properly speaking,intelligence, the same in kind, differing only in degree, then, it ought, as in man, to be capable of cultivation to an indefinite extent, capable of being elevated, by due process of training, to a degree very much superior to that in which it first presents itself. Now, with certain insignificant exceptions, such is certainly not the case. No amount of training or culture ever brings the animal essentially above the ordinary range of brute capacity, or approximates him to the level of the human species.
2. Brute does not improve by Practice.—On this theory the brute ought, moreover, to improve by practice, which, for the most part, certainly he does not. The spider lays out its lines as accurately and constructs its web as well, and the bee her comb, and the bird her nest, on the first attempt, as after the twentieth or the fiftieth trial. There is no progress, no improvement. Its skill, if such it may be called, is a fixture. There is nothing of the nature ofscienceabout it, for it is of the essential nature of all intelligent action to improve.
3. Does not adapt itself to Circumstances.—If it were of the nature of intelligence, it ought uniformly and invariably to adapt itself to changing circumstances, and not to keep on working blindly in the old way, when such procedure is no longer of use. It is not intelligence, but mere blind impulse, in the beaver, that leads him to build his dam on a dry floor or the pavement of a court-yard.
4. Opposite View proves too much.—It is furthermore to be noticed, that the theory under consideration, while it ascribes to the brute only a lower degree of intelligence, in reality places him, in some respects, far beyond man in point of intellect. If the instinct of the brute be intelligence at all, it is intelligence which leaves his prouder rival, man, in many cases, quite in the shade. No science of man can vie with the mathematical precision of the spider or the bee in the practical construction of lines and planes that shall enclose a given angle. The engineer must take lessons of the ant in the art of running lines and parallels. To the same humble insect belongs the invention of the arch and of the dome in architecture. Many of the profoundest questions and problems of science are in like manner virtually solved by those creatures that possess, it is claimed, only alower degreeof intelligence than man. The facts are inconsistent with the theory. The theory either goes too far, or not far enough. If instinct is intelligence at all, it is intelligence, in some respects at least,superiorto man's.
For reasons now stated, we must conclude that the intelligence of the brute differs inkind, and not indegreemerely, from that of man.
Faculties wanting in the Brute.—If now the inquiry be raised, what are the specific faculties which are wanting in the brute, but possessed by man, in other words, where runs the dividing line which marks off the domain of instinct from that of intellect, we reply, beginning with the differences which are most obvious, the brute is, in the first place, not amoralandreligiousbeing. He has no moral nature, no ideas of right and justice, none of accountability, and of a higher power. He is, moreover, not anæstheticbeing. He has no taste for beauty, nor appreciation of it. The horse, with all his apparent intelligence, looks out upon the most enchanting landscape as unmoved by its beauty as the carriage which he draws. He has no idea, no cognizance of the beautiful. The faculty of original conception, whichfurnishes man with ideas of this nature, seems to be wanting in the brute. He is, furthermore, not ascientificbeing. He does not understand the principles by which he himself works. He makes no progress or improvement, accordingly, in the application of those principles, but works as well first as last. He learns nothing by experience. Certain grand rules and principles do indeed lie at the foundation of his work, but they have nosubjectiveexistence in the brute himself. Now the faculties which constitute man a scientific being are those which, in the present treatise, we have grouped together under the title ofreflective. These seem to be wanting in the brute. He never classifies, nor analyzes, never forms abstract conceptions, never generalizes, judges, nor reasons, never reflects on what is passing around him; never, in the true sense of the word,thinks.
Further Deficiency.—Here many, perhaps most, who have reflected upon the matter at all, would place the dividing line between man and the brute, denying him the possession of reason and reflection, the higher intellectual powers, but allowing him the other faculties which man enjoys. We must go further, however, and exclude imagination from the list of brute faculties. Having no idea of the beautiful, nor any power of forming abstract conceptions, theideals, according to which imagination shapes its creations, are wholly wanting, and imagination itself, the faculty of the ideal, must also be wanting.
The Power to perceive and remember.—But has the brute the power of perception and memory, the only two distinct remaining faculties of the human mind? If we distinguish, as we must, the physical from the strictly intellectual element, in perception by the senses, the capacity to receive impressions of sense, from the capacity tounderstandandknowthe object, as such, from which the impressions proceed, while we must admit the former, we should question the existence of the latter in the brute. To know or understand the objects of sense, to distinguish them assuch, from each other, and from self as the perceiving subject, is an attribute of intelligence in its strict and proper sense, an attribute of mind. If the brute possesses it, he possesses as really a mind, though not of so high an order, as man.
The dividing Line.—Now it is just here that we are compelled to place the line of division between the brute and man, between instinct and intellect. The brute has senses, as man; in some respects, indeed, more perfect than his. Objects external make impressions upon his senses; his eye, his ear, his various organs of sense, respond to these impressions. In a word, he has sensations, and those sensations are accompanied, as all sensations in their nature are, and must be, with consciousness, that is, they are felt. But this does not necessarily involve what we understand by consciousness in its higher sense, orself-consciousness. The brute has, we believe, no knowledge of himself as such, noself-consciousness, properly speaking; does not distinguish between self as perceiving, and the object as perceived, has no conception of self as a separate existence distinct from the objects around him, has, strictly speaking, no ideas, no thoughts, no intelligent comprehension of objects about him; hassensations, but noperceptionsin the true sense of the word, since perception involves the distinction of subject and object, or self-consciousness. These distinctions are lost to the brute, blindly merged in the one simple consciousness of physical sensation. He feels, but does not think, does not understand. Sensation takes the place of understanding and reason with him. It is his guide. To the impressions thus received, his nature blindly responds, he knows not how or why. He is so constituted by his wise and benevolent Maker, that sensation being awakened, the impulses of his nature at once spring into play, and prompt irresistibly to action, and to such action as shall meet the wants of the being. There is no need for intelligence to supervene, as with man. The brute feels andacts. Man feels,thinks, andacts. The Creator has provided, for, the former, a substitute which takes the place of intellect, and secures by blind, yet unerring impulse, the simple ends which correspond to his simpler necessities, and his humbler sphere.
Man's Superiority.—Herein lies man's mastership and dominion over the brute. He has what the brute has not, intellect, mind, the power of thought, the power to understand and know. Just so far as he fails to grasp this high prerogative, just so far as he is governed by sensation and its corresponding impulses, rather than by intelligence and reason, just in such degree he lays aside his superiority, and sinks to the sphere of the brute. Thus, in infancy and early life, there is little difference. Thus, many savage and uneducated races never rise far above the brute capacity, are mere creatures of sensation, impulse, instinct.
In one Respect inferior.—In one respect, indeed, man, destitute of intelligence or failing to govern himself by its precepts, sinksbelowthe brute. He has not the substitute for intelligence which the brute has, has not instinct to guide him, and teach him the true and proper bounds of indulgence, but giving way to passion and inclination, without restraint, presents that most melancholy spectacle on which the sun, in all his course, ever looks down, a man under the dominion of his own appetites, incapable of self-government, lost to all nobleness, all virtue, all self-respect.
Memory in the Brute.—It may still be asked, does not the bruteremember? It is the office of memory to replace or represent what has been once felt or perceived. It simply reproduces, in thought, what has once passed before the mind. It originates nothing. Whatever, then, of intelligence was involved in the original act of perception and sensation, so much and no more is involved in the replacing those sensations and perceptions. If in the original act there was nothing but simple sensation, without intellectual apprehension of the object, without self-consciousness or distinction of subject from object, then, of course, nothing morethan this will be subsequently reproduced. Mere images or phantasms of sensible objects may reappear, as shadows flicker and dance upon the wall, or as such images flit before us in our dreams. The memory of the brute is, probably, of this nature, rather a sort of dream than a distinct conception of past events. What was not clearly apprehended at first, will not be better understood now. Failing, in the first instance, to distinguish self from the object external, as the source of impressions, there can be norecognitionof that distinction when the object reappears, if it ever should, in conception. The essential element of memory, which connects the object or event of former perception withselfas the percipient, must, in such a case, be wanting.
The Brute associates rather than remembers.—What is usually called memory in the brute, is not, however, so much his capacity of conceiving of an absent object of sense, as his recognition of the object when again actually present to his senses. The dog manifests pleasure at the appearance of his master, and the horse chooses the road that leads to his former home. This is not so much memory as association of ideas or rather of feelings. Certain feelings and sensations are associated, confusedly blended, with certain objects. The reappearance of the objects, of course, reawakens the former feelings. Thus, the whip is associated with the sensation experienced in connection with it. So, too, a horse which has once been frightened by some object beside the road, will manifest fear on subsequently approaching the same place, although the same object may no longer be there. The surrounding objects which still remain, and which were associated with the more immediate object of fear in the first instance, are sufficient to awaken, on their reappearance, the former unpleasant sensations.
A being endowed with intelligence and reason would connect the recurring object, in such a case, with his own former experience as the perceiving subject, would recall the time and the circumstances of the event and its connection withhis personal history. This would be, properly, an act of memory.
But there is no reason to suppose that such a process takes place with the brute. We have no evidence of any thing more, in his case, than the recurrence of the associated conception or sensation, along with the recurrence of the object which formerly produced it. Given, the objecta, accompanied with surrounding objectsb, c, d, and there is produced a given sensation,y. Given, again, at some subsequent time, the same objecta, or any one of the associate objectsb, c, d, and there is at once awakened a lively conception of the same sensationy.
Summary of Results.—This is, I think, all we can, with any certainty, attribute to the brute. He has sensations, and so far as mere sense is concerned, perceptions of objects, as connected with those sensations, but not perception in the true sense as involving intellectual apprehension. These sensations and confused perceptions recur, perhaps, as images or conceptions, in the absence of the objects that gave rise to them, and as thus reappearing, constitute what we may call the memory of the brute; but not, as with us, a memory which connects the object or event with his own former history, and the idea of a personal self as the percipient. Let the object, however, reappear, and the previous sensation associated therewith, is reawakened.
This, I am aware, is not the view most commonly entertained of brute intelligence. We naturally conceive of the brute as possessing faculties similar to our own. The brute, in turn, were he capable of forming such a conception, would, probably, conceive of man, as endowed with capacities like his own. In neither case is this the right conception.
MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN AND NERVOUS SYSTEM.
Statement.—There are certain mental phenomena connected with the relation which the mind sustains to the nervous organism, and depending intimately on the state of that organism, which seem to require the notice of the psychologist, though often overlooked by him; I refer to the phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and insanity. So far as the activity of the mind is involved in these states or phenomena, they become proper objects of psychological inquiry. They present many problems difficult of solution, yet not the less curious and interesting, as phases of mental activity hitherto little understood.
View sometimes taken by Physiologists.—It becomes the more important for the psychologist to investigate these phenomena, inasmuch as views and theories little accordant with the true philosophy of the mind have sometimes been put forth by physiologists, in attempting to explain the phenomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena of thought, asself-acting, in the absence of the higher principle of intelligence which usually governs its operations, carrying on by a sort of automatic action, the processes usually ascribed to the mind or spiritual principle, while consciousness and volition are entirely suspended. Consciousness, in fact, is nothing but sensation, and thought a mere function of the brain. This is downright materialism, a doctrine utterly subversive of the very existence of that which we call mind or soul in man. If the cerebral organization is competent of itself during sleep to carry on those operationswhich in waking moments are ascribed to the spiritual element of our being, if thought is a function of the brain, as digestion is of the stomach, what need and what evidence of any thing more than merely cerebral action at any time? What, in fact, is the mind itself but cerebral activity, and what is man, with all his higher powers, but a mere animated organism?
It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena under consideration in some way more consistent with all just and true notions of the nature and philosophy of mind.
Distinction of normal and abnormal States.—Of these phenomena, while all may be regarded as intimately connected with and dependent on the state of the brain and nervous system, some seem to proceed from a normal, others from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, are sleep and dreams; of the latter, somnambulism, the mesmeric state, so called, and the various forms of disordered mental action, or insanity.
§ I.—Sleep.
Meaning of the Term.—What is sleep? Will the name itself afford any solution of this problem? Like most names of familiar things, we find the word descriptive of some particular circumstance or phase, some one prominent characteristic of the thing in question, rather than adefinition—much less an explanation—of the thing itself.
The word sleep, fromschlafen, as the Latinsomnusfromsupinus, refers to the supine condition and appearance of the body when in this state; the relaxing of the muscles the falling back or sinking down of the frame, if unsupported. This is the first and most obvious effect to the eye of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards the body. Further than this the word gives us no light.
1.Sleep involves primarily Loss of Consciousness.—What then, further than this, is sleep? If we observe somewhat closely, and with a view to scientific arrangement, the different aspects or phenomena that present themselves as constituting that state of body and mind which we call sleep, the primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, isloss of consciousness, ofthe me. Not perhaps of all consciousness, for we seem still to exist, but of self-consciousness, of the me as related to time, and place, and external circumstance Welose ourselves, as a common but most exact expression describes it.
We are not at the Time aware of this Loss.—Of course, sleep consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are not conscious of the fact that we sleep, for this would be aconsciousnessthat we were unconscious. Illustrations of this fact are of frequent occurrence. You are of an evening getting weary over your book. You are vaguely conscious of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness; you find it difficult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep the line, but have no idea that you are at length actually asleep for the moment, till the sudden fall of the book awakens you. Nay, one who has been vigorously nodding for five minutes will, on recovering himself, stoutly deny that he has really been asleep at all; the truth is, he was notconsciousof it; we never are, directly.
This results from what?—This loss of consciousness results from the inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these that afford us the data for a knowledge of self in relation to external things. In sleep these avenues of communication with the external world are shut up, and we silently drop off, and, as it were, float away from allconsciousconnection with it. We no longer recognize our relations to time and space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as material, come under those relations; for it is by the senses alone that we get these ideas. So far as consciousness of these relations is concerned, we exist in sleep as in death,out of the laws and limits of time and space, and irrespective of the body and of all material existence. Mental action, however, doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of thought and of the feeling of the moment, but of nothing further. All self-consciousness is gone.
An Affection primarily of the nervous System.—Sleep, then, would seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous system; not of the reproductive—that goes on as usual, and even with increased vigor; nor yet of the muscular—that is still capable of action; but only of the nervous. That gets weary; by continued use, its vital active force is exhausted, it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off, and so there results this loss of consciousness, of which I have spoken. It is strictly, then, the nervous system, and not the whole body that sleeps.
Different Senses fall Asleep successively.—The different senses become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but successively. First, sight goes. The eye-lids droop, and close. Taste and smell probably next. Touch, and hearing, are among the last to give way. Hence, noises so easily disturb us, when falling asleep. Hence, too, we are most easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by some one touching us. These senses are also the first to waken. One sense may be asleep and another awake. You may still hear what one is saying that sits near you, when already the eye is asleep. So in death, onehearswhen no longer able to see or to speak.
2.Loss of personal Control.—Accompanying this loss of self-consciousness is the loss ofpersonal control,i. e., the control of the will over the bodily organization. This follows from the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous system, for it is only through that, and not by direct agency of the will, that we, at any time, exert voluntary power over the body. When that system becomes exhausted, and its force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the motive power, nor execute the commands of the higher intelligencethe will no longer maintains its empire over the physical organization, its little realm of matter, its control is suspended, its sceptre falls, and it realizes for the time the story of the enchanted palace on which a magic spell had fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life, and sealing up, on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and attendants, in the unbroken sleep of ages.
Indications of approaching Sleep.—One of the first indications, accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the relaxing of the muscles, the drooping of the eye-lid, the dropping of the head and of the arm, the sinking down of the body from an erect to a supine position. If in church, the head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front, fortunate if it can secure itself there from the still further demands of gravitation.
Analogous Cases.—In respect to the point now under consideration, the loss of control over the physical frame, the phenomena of sleep closely resemble those of intoxication, and of fainting; and for the same reason, in either case,i. e., the inactivity of the nervous system, which is the medium of voluntary power over the body. That inactivity of the nervous system is produced in the one case by natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct effect is the same as regards the loss of voluntary power. The same effects are also produced in certain diseases, and eventually by death.
3.Loss of Control over the Mind.—Analogous to this is the loss of voluntary control over the mental operations, which is in fact, so far as the mind is concerned, the essential feature and characteristic of sleep. Mental action still goes on, there is reason to suppose; in many cases we know that it does; but the thoughts come and go at their own pleasure, without regulation or control. It is not in our power to arrest a certain thought, and fix our minds upon it for the time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the waking moments, and which constitutes, in fact, the chiefcontrol and power we have over our thoughts, nor can we dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant train of thought, a disagreeable impression, however much we may desire to be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our own thoughts and casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, spontaneous play of the mind's own inherent energy, and guided only by its own native laws, produce the wildest and strangest phantasmagoria, having to us all the semblance of reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators of the scene.
Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep.—It has been supposed by some that the faculties of the mind are, in part or wholly, suspended in sleep, especially the higher faculties more immediately dependent on the will. So long as mental activity goes on, however,—and there is no evidence that it ever entirely ceases in sleep—so long there is thought, and so long must that thought and activity be exerted in some particular direction, and on some particular object. We cannot conceive of the mind as acting or thinking, and not exercising any of its faculties, for what is a faculty of the mind but its capacity of acting in this or that way or mode, and on this or that class of subjects. It may be perception, or conception, or memory, or imagination, or judgment, or reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the moment active; itmustbe some one of the known faculties of the mind, unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to be then developed, of whose existence we are at other times unconscious.
Mental Action modified by certain Causes in Sleep.—The faculties will, however, be materially modified in their action during sleep, by the causes already named; chiefly these two: 1st. the entire suspension of voluntary control over the train of thought; 2d. the loss of personal consciousness as regards especially the bodily organization, and its present relations to time, and space, and all sensible objects. In consequence of theformerour thoughts will come andgo all unregulated and disconnected; there will be no coherence; the slightest analysis will suffice for the associating principle; we shall be hurried on and borne away on the rushing tide of thought, as a frail passive leaf swept on the bosom of the rapids; we shall whirl hither and thither as in the dance of the witches; we shall waken in confusion, and seek to recover the reins of self-control, only to lose them again and be swept on in the fearful dance.
Want of Congruity owing to what.—In consequence of thelattercause—the loss of sensational consciousness and of our relations to sensible objects—there will be an entire want of fitness and congruity in our mental operations. The laws of time, and space, and personal identity, will be altogether disregarded, and we shall not be conscious of the incongruity, nor wonder at the strangest and most contradictory combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this and now that. The scene is in the valley of the Connecticut, and anon on the Ural mountains, or the desert of Arabia, and we do not notice the change as any thing at all remarkable. Now we are walking up the aisle of the church, in garments all too scanty for the proprieties of the occasion, and now it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and the transition from one to the other is instantaneous. Why should it not be, for it is by the senses alone that we are brought into conscious relation to the external world, and so made cognizant of the laws of time and space, and those senses being now locked in oblivion, what are time and space to us?
The Causes now named a sufficient Explanation of the Phenomena.—The causes already named will sufficiently account for the strange and distorted action of the various mental faculties as exercised in sleep. Memory,e. g., will give us the past withvariationsad libitum; things will appear to us, and events will seem to transpire, and forms and faces familiar will look out upon us, not as they really are, or ever were. We talk with a former friend, without the thoughtonce occurring to us that he has been dead these many years. Impression there is, feeling, idea, fancy, association of all these, but hardly memory, or even imagination, much less judgment or reasoning. So it would seem at first. A closer inspection, however, will show us that there is in reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the exercise of all these faculties, only so modified by causes now named as to present strange and uncouth results.
Mental Faculties not immediately dependent on the Will.—If any of the mental faculties can be shown to be entirely dependent on the will for their activity and operation, so as to have no power to act except by its order or permission, then it would follow that when the will is no longer in possession of the throne, when its sway is for the time suspended as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must lie inactive. But with regard to most if not all mental operations, we know the reverse to be true. They are capable ofspontaneous, as well as voluntary action. Nay, some of them, it would seem, are not subject, in any case, directly to its control. It is not at our option whether to remember or forget, whether to perceive surrounding objects, whether such or such a thought shall, by the laws of association, follow next in the train of ideas and impressions. Some mental operations are more closely connected with and admit of a more direct interference on the part of the will than others, but it cannot be shown, I think, that any faculty is so far dependent on the will as not to be capable of action, irrespective of its demands. Indeed, facts seem to show that where once a train of mental action has been set in operation by the will, that action goes on, for a time, even when the will is withdrawn, or held in abeyance, as in sleep, or profound reverie.
Whence this Suspension of Power of the Will.—The question may occur, whence arises this suspension of the power of the will over the mental operations in sleep? What produces it? Does it, like the loss of voluntary power overthe physical frame, result from the inactivity of the nervous apparatus? The fact that it always accompanies this, and is found in connection with it, that whatever produces the latter seems to be the occasion, also, of the former, as in the case of disease, delirium, mesmeric influence, stupefying drugs, inebriation, etc., and that the degree of the one, whether partial or complete, is in proportion to the degree of the other—these facts seem to me to favor the idea now suggested.
Summary of Results.—These, then, seem to be the principal phenomena of sleep: loss of sensational consciousness, loss of voluntary power over the body, loss of voluntary power over the operations of the mind.
Exhaustion of the nervous System.—Sleep, then, appears to be primarily an affection of the nervous system, the result of its exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot continue always active; repose must succeed to effort. Hence, the more rapid the exhaustion of the nervous system, from any cause, the more sleep is demanded. This we know to be the fact. The more sensitive the system, as in childhood, or with the gentler sex, as in men of great sensibility also, poets, artists, and others, the more sleep. On the other hand, those sluggish natures which allow nothing to excite or call into action the nervous system, sleep from precisely the opposite cause; not the exhaustion of nervous activity, but its absolute non-existence. If both our systems, the animal and the vegetative or nutritive, should sleep at once, says Rauch, there would be nothing to awaken us. That would be death. "In sleep, every man has a world of his own," says Heraclitus; "when awake, all men have one in common." Sleeping and waking, it has been beautifully said by another, are the ebb and flood of mind and matter on the ocean of our life.
§ II.—Dreams.
Resumè of previous Investigation.—It has been shown in the preceding section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly an affection of the nervous system, in which, through exhaustion, the senses become inactive, and, as it were, dead, while, at the same, the nutritive system and the functions essential to life go on; that in consequence of this inactivity of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of consciousness, so far, at least, as regards all connection with, and relation to, external things; 2. Loss of voluntary power over the physical and muscular frame; 3. Loss of voluntary control over the operations of the mind; the mind still remaining active, however, and its operations going on, uncontrolled by the will.
We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that specific form of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming; a state which admits of easy explanation on principles already laid down.
A Dream, what.—What, then, is adream? I reply, it is any mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are afterwardconscious. This is not the case with all, perhaps, with most mental action during sleep. Senses and the will are inactive, then, for the most part, and whatever thoughts and impressions may be wrought out in the laboratory of the mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous alchemy may there be going on, when the controlling principle that presides over and directs its operations is withdrawn, are, for the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the sensitivity be partially aroused, however, let some disturbing cause come in to prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let the conceptions of the mind present themselves with more than usual vividness and force of impression, and what we then think may afterward be remembered. This is the philosophy of dreams. What is thus remembered of our thoughts in sleep, we call a dream, more especially applying the term to such of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, as have somedegree of coherence and connection between themselves, so as to constitute a sort of unity.
Sources of our Dreams.—Our dreams take shape and character from a variety of circumstances. They are not altogether accidental nor unaccountable; and even when we cannot trace the connection, there is reason to suppose that such connection exists between the dream, and the state of the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known, would account for the shape and complexion of the dream. The principal sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say, modifying influences of our dreams are, 1, Our present bodily sensations, and especially the internal state of the physical system, and, 2, Our previous waking thoughts, dispositions, and prevalent states of mind.
Illustrations of the first.—As to the first of these modifying causes, instances of its operation will probably occur to every one from his own experience. You find yourself on a hard bed, or, it may be, have thrown yourself into some uncomfortable position, and you dream of broken bones or of the rack. The band of your robe buttons tightly about the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a late supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in your dreams a black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats himself on your chest, or, as a military officer once dreamed, under similar circumstances, the prince of darkness sits cross-legged over your stomach, with the Bunker Hill monument in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart, of the gentleman, who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his feet, dreamed that he was walking along the burning crater of Mount Ætna, is in point here. Here the bodily sensation of heat upon the soles of the feet suggests the idea of a situation in which such a sensation would be likely to occur, and this idea blending with the sensation which is permanent and real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and the dream shapes itself accordingly. So when a window falls, or some sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken you sofar as to make known the real cause, you hear the sound, the sensorium partially aroused, mistakes it, perhaps, for the sound of a gun, and instantly you are in the midst of a battle at sea, or a fight with robbers. To such an extent are our dreams modified by sensible impressions of this sort, that it is possible, by skillful management, to shape and direct, to some extent, at least, the dreams of another as you will. An instance is related of an officer who was made, in this way, in his sleep, to go through with all the minutia of a duel, even to the firing of the pistol which was placed in his hand, at the proper moment, the noise of which awoke him. This was simply anacteddream.
Latent Disease.—Not unfrequently, some physical disorder, incipient or latent, of which we may not be aware in our waking moments, makes itself felt in the state of sleep, when the system is more susceptible of internal impressions, and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases, the dreams may serve as a sort ofindexof the state of the physical system, and somewhat, doubtless, of the apparently prophetic character of certain dreams may be accounted for in this way.
The second Source.—A second source, if not of our dreams themselves, at least of the peculiar shape and character which they assume, is to be found in our previous thoughts, and prevalent mental occupations and dispositions. We fall asleep, and mental action goes on much as before, in whatever direction and channel it had already received an impulse. Whatever has made the deepest impression on us through the day, has longest or most intently occupied us,repeatsitself the moment we lose our consciousness of surrounding objects. The mind goes on with the new and strange spectacle, or with the unfinished problem, and unsolved intricate study of the day or of the night hour; and not seldom is the train of thought resumed and pursued to some purpose. On waking in the morning, we find little difficulty in completing a demonstration or solving a difficulty which hadappeared insurmountable when we left it the previous night. Now the truth is, we did not leave it the previous night. It occupied us in our sleep. The brain was busy with it, it may be, all the night. It is solved in the morning, not because the mind is fresher then, but because it has been at work upon it through the night. Sometimes we are conscious of this on waking, and can dimly recall the severe continuous mental toil which went on while we slept. Usually, I suppose, we have no consciousness of it, and our only evidence of it is the well-known law and habit of the mind, to run in its worn and latest channels, together with the often observed fact that the difficulty previously felt is, somehow, strangely solved.
Further Illustration of the same Principle.—Condorcet is not the only mathematician who has received, in sleep, suggestions which led to the right solution of a problem that he had been obliged to leave unfinished on retiring for the night; nor is Franklin the only statesman who has, in dreams, reached a satisfactory conclusion respecting some intricate political movement. However this may be, there can be no reasonable doubt that our previous mental occupation, our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our habits of thought and habits of feeling, determine and shape the complexion of our dreams. They have asubjectiveconnection, are by no means so disconnected with us and our real history, so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one may suppose. It was not without reason that President Edwards took notice of his dreams as affording an index of the state of his heart, and his real native propensities. They are the vane that shows which way the mind is set. Who will say that the dreams of Lady Macbeth, those dreams of a guilty conscience, are not among the most truthful of the portraitures of the great master dramatist?
Native Talent then shows itself.—Not only our native disposition and prevalent cast of thought betray themselves in dreams, but, as a certain writer has remarked, our nativetalents show out in those moments of spontaneous mental action. Talents which have had no opportunity to develop themselves, owing to our education and professional pursuits, take their chance and their time when we sleep, and we are poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, whatever the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to be in our waking moments.
Incoherency of Dreams.—Theincoherencyof our dreams has been sufficiently accounted for in what I have previously said. It is not, I think, owing chiefly, as Upham supposes, to our loss of voluntary power and control over our thoughts during sleep, though it is quite true that we have no such control. The truth is, we are not at the timeawareof any such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be owing then to our loss of voluntary power, since no increase of such power would enable us to repair a defect which we are unconscious of, but is owing entirely to another cause already mentioned, viz., that in sleep we lose ourrelationto things around us, lose our place, and our time, and hence, retain no standard of judging as to what is, and what is not, consentaneous and fit, self-consistent and coherent.
Apparent Reality.—Nothing is more remarkable in dreams than their apparentreality. The scenes, actions, and incidents, all stand out with peculiar distinctness, are projected as images into the air before us, and have not at all the semblance of any thing merely subjective. This has been, by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to distract or call off the attention from the conceptions of the mind in dreams; we are wholly in them, and hence they appear as realities. I do not find, however, that in proportion as my attention in waking moments is wholly absorbed in any train of thought, those conceptions manifest any such tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into objective reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid. I am inclined, therefore, to attribute the seeming reality of dreams to another source. We are accustomed to regardevery thing asobjective, which is out of the reach and control of our will, which comes and goes irrespective of us and our volition. Now, such we find to be the prime law of cerebral action in sleep. Of course, then, we are deceived into the belief that these conceptions over which we have no control, are not conceptions, butperceptions, realities.
Estimate of Time.—Nothing has seemed to some writers more mysterious than the entire disproportion between therealandapparenttime of a dream. I refer to the fact that our dreams occupy frequently such very minute portions of time, while they seem to us to stretch over such long continued periods. An instance is related of an officer confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who was awakened by the call of the sentry changing guard, fell asleep again, witnessed, as he supposed, a very long and very horrible procession of armed and bloody warriors, defiling on horseback down a certain street of Paris, occupying some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in season to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the challenge given before the dream began. The mind in such cases, say some, operates more rapidly than at other times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart has suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams seem to us real, and we have no means of estimating time otherwise than by the apparent succession of events, the conceptions of the brain, that is, our dreams, seem to us to take up just so much time in passing as theevents themselveswould occupy were they real. This is perfectly a natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent anomaly in question.
Prophetic Aspect.—Are dreams sometimesprophetic, and how are such to be accounted for? Cicero narrates a remarkable instance of what would seem to be a prophetic dream. I refer to the account of the two Arcadians who came to Megara and occupied different lodgings. The oneimploring help, then murdered, and informing his comrade that his body would be taken out of the city early in the morning, by a certain gate, in a covered wagon. Agitated by the dream, the other repairs at the designed time to the appointed place, meets the wagon, discovers the body, arrests the murderer, and delivers him to justice.
Other Instances of the like Nature.—Another instance, perhaps equally striking, is narrated in the LondonTimes. A Mr. Williams, residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in the same night that he saw the Chancellor of England killed, in the vestibule of the House of Commons. The dream so deeply impressed him that he narrated it to several of his acquaintance. It was subsequently ascertained that on the evening of that day the Chancellor, Mr. Perceval, was assassinated according to the dream. Now, this was certainly a remarkable coincidence. Was it any thing more? Was it merely an accidental thing—a matter of chance—that the dream should occur as it did, and should tally so closely with the facts? But these are not singular instances. Many such are on record.
Case related by Dr. Moore.—Dr. Moore, author of an interesting work on the use of the body in relation to the mind, narrates the following, as coming under his own observation. A friend of his dreamed that he was amusing himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading the epitaphs in a country church-yard, when a newly made grave attracted his attention. He was surprised to find on the stone the name, and date of death, of an intimate friend of his, with whom he had passed that very evening in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream, however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to mind, had he not received intelligence, some months afterward, of the death of this friend, which took place at the very date he had, in his dream, seen recorded on the tombstone.
Case related by Dr. Abercrombie.—The case mentionedby Dr. Abercrombie is another of these remarkable coincidences. Two sisters sleeping in the same room adjoining that of a sick brother, the one awakens in affright, having dreamed that the watch had stopped, and that on mentioning it to her sister, the latter replied, "Worse than that has happened, for ——'s breath has stopped also." On examination the watch was found going and the brother in a sound sleep. The next night the dream was repeated precisely as before with the same result. The next morning as one of the sisters had occasion to take the watch from the writing-desk she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at the same moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired.
Additional Cases.—Another instance of a similar nature is related, but I know not on how good authority. The sister of Major Andrè, it is said, dreamed of her absent brother, one night, as arrested and on trial before a court martial. The appearance of the officers, their dress, etc., was distinctly impressed on her mind; the room, the relative position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed; the general nature of the trial, and its result, the condemnation of her brother. She woke deeply impressed. Her fears were shortly afterward confirmed by the sad intelligence of her brother's arrest, trial, and execution, and, what is remarkable, the facts corresponded to her dream, both as respects the time of occurrence, the place, the appearance of the room, position, and dress of the judges, etc. Washington and Knox were particularly designated, though she had never seen them.
Another instance is related of a man who dreamed that the vessel in which his brother was an officer, and, in part, owner of the cargo, was wrecked on a certain island, and the vessel lost, but the hands saved. He was so impressed that he went directly and procured an extra insurance of five thousand dollars on his brother's portion of the property. By the next arrival news came that the vessel was wrecked,at the time and place of which the man had dreamed, and the mariners saved.
Coincidences.—Now it is perfectly easy to call all these thingscoincidences. They certainly are. But is it certain, or it is probable, that they aremerecoincidences? To call them coincidences, and pass them off as if they were easily and fully accounted for in that way, is but a shallow concealment of our ignorance under a certain show of philosophy. It is but a conjecture at the best; a conjecture, moreover, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery just as great as before; a conjecture which is by no means the most probable of all that might be made, but, on the contrary, one of the most improbable of all, as it seems to me. Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do not come under any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise or modification to our dreams. They are not suggested, so far as it appears, by any present bodily sensation on the part of the dreamer, nor was there any reason in the nature of the case why any such event, much less conjunction of events, should be apprehended by the dreamer in his waking moments. It was not the simple carrying out of his waking thoughts. Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, may be explained on these principles. They are the result of our present sensations or impressions, or of the excited and anxious state of mind and train of thought during the day. But not so in the cases now cited.
Not necessary to suppose them Supernatural.—Shall we believe, then, that dreams are sometimes prophetic? We have no reason to doubt that theymaybe so. Are they, in that case,supernaturalevents? No doubt the future may be supernaturally communicated in dreams. No doubt it has been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary supposition. A dream may be prophetic, yet not supernatural. Some law, not fully known to us, may exist, by virtue of which the nervous system, when in a highly excitedstate, becomes susceptible of impressions not ordinarily received, and is put in communication, in some way to us mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so as to become strangely cognizant of the coming future. Can any one show that this is impossible? Is it more improbable than that the cases recorded are mere chance coincidences? Is it not quite as likely to be so, as that the event should correspond, in so many cases and so striking a manner, with the previous dream, and yet there beno cause, whatever, for the correspondence? Is it not as reasonable, even, as to suppose direct divine interposition to reveal the future, the possibility of which interposition I by no means deny, but the reason for which does not become apparent? Is it not possible that there may be some natural law or agent of the sort now intimated, some as yet unexplained, but partially known, condition of the physical system, when in a peculiarly sensitive state, of which themodus operandiis not yet understood, but the existence of which is indicated in cases like those now described? That this is the true explanation, I by no means affirm; I make the suggestion merely to indicate what, it seems to me, may be apossiblesolution of the problem.
Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts.—Evidently there are only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny the facts themselves,i. e., that any such dreams occurred, or at least, that they were verified in actual result. 2. To call them accidental coincidences. 3. To admit a supernatural agency. 4. To explain them in the way suggested. Our choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and the last of these suppositions.
§ III.—Somnambulism.
Relation to the magnetic State.—Somnambulism or sleep-walking, is called, by some writers,natural magnetic sleep. They suppose it to differ from the state ordinarily calledmesmeric, chiefly in this, that the former is a natural, and the latter an artificial process.
Resemblance of this to other cognate Phenomena.—We shall have occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close resemblance between dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism, and insanity, all, in fact, closely related to each other, characterized each and all by one and the same great law, and passing into each other by almost imperceptible gradations.
Method proposed.—It will be to the purpose, first to describe the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire whether they can be accounted for.
Description.—The principal phenomena of somnambulism are the following: The subject, while in a state of sound sleep, and perfectly unconscious of what he does, rises, walks about, finds his way over dangerous, and, at other times, inaccessible places, speaks and acts as if awake, performs in the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even bandaged, operations which require the closest attention and the best vision, perceives, indeed, things not visible to the eye in its ordinary waking state, perhaps even things absent and future, and when awakened from this state, is perfectly unconscious of what has happened, and astonished to find himself in some strange and unnatural position.
An Instance narrated.—A case which fell under the observation of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in the seminary, is narrated in the French Encyclopedia. A young minister, resident there, was a somnambulist, and to satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange disease, the Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink, and proceed to the composition of sermons. Having written a page in a clear legible hand, he would read it aloud from top to bottom, with a clear voice and proper emphasis. If a passage did not please him, he would erase it, and write the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased line or word. All this was done without any assistance fromthe eye, which was evidently asleep; a piece of pasteboard interposed between the eye and the paper produced no interruption or inconvenience. When his paper was exchanged for another of the same size, he was not aware of the change, but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he at once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of tact or feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense.