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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
notion of ‘self’ that has insinuated itself into a thousand turns of
familiar speech. An observer, describing a particular experience, may
say, quite naturally, ‘I find no trace of self-reference!’—and there is
no harm done, if we realise that the I of his remark is the traditional
self-concept of language, and the self the psychological experience
of self; but there may be very great harm, if likeness of words leads
us to confound the personal with the impersonal, common sense
with science. Only by an unreadable pedantry can we avoid the I-
phrases and the other personal sentences; but we must always bear
in mind that language, the very form and structure of it, embodies a
theory, an explanation or interpretation of the self; and that, if we
reject this theory, we have to couch our criticism in terms of the
theory we reject.
There is another danger. Language has many words which begin
with self: self-possession, self-assurance, self-consciousness, and the
like; and the implication is that the corresponding mental processes
represent self-experiences, in the sense of p. 315. But do they? Let
us take self-consciousness as an example. A young lecturer stands
for the first time upon the platform, and a kindly soul in the
audience may murmur: ‘Poor young man! he is dreadfully self-
conscious!’ Truly, the signs are there: parched throat, burning
cheeks, gasping breath, hoarse and broken voice, moist and
trembling hands, uncertainty of all coordinated movements;
everything that indicates what the audience, from their external
standpoint (p. 313), must regard as self-consciousness; and yet
there may be nothing whatever of self-reference in the lecturer’s
own experience. He feels timid, excited, heartily uncomfortable; but
it is very unlikely that he is thinking of himself; he has too many
other things to think of! Suppose that his lecture is a success, and
that he steps from the lecture-room in a mood of self-congratulation;
he feels relief, relaxation; he ‘glows’ with satisfaction and pride; but,
again, there need be no sort of self-reference in his experience. Yet,
in writing to a friend about the eventful lecture, he may very well
say: ‘I felt terribly self-conscious when I began, but afterwards I
really was a bit pleased with myself!’ The personal forms are so
natural as to be almost inevitable. How often, when a conversation
has languished, do two or three persons with a simultaneous
impulse try to revive it—by uttering a long-drawn ‘I’! and how often
are we surprised, when we read over a letter just written, to see
that every paragraph begins with the same ‘I’! Not by any means
necessarily because we are thinking at the time of ourselves, but
very likely because we have nothing urgent to say, and so slip
instinctively into the commonest and most stereotyped pattern of
speech. Language, therefore, is no more than any other movement
(p. 232) an index to mind. The I-phrases and the self-words may
carry a self-meaning, or they may not; it all depends upon the
determination of the moment.
Do not imagine, however, that psychology alone suffers from this
warp and bias of language! The tendency to personalisation (p.
205), which shows itself in the mannikin-mind and the common-
sense self, appears also in the ‘forces’ of physics and the ‘attractions’
of chemistry; and if the psychologist has to clarify the current
notions of mind and self, the worker in these other sciences must,
on his side, come to terms with a like heritage of equivocal words.
All such concepts illustrate the same speculative trend of primitive
thinking; and all of them are stumbling-blocks in the path of science.

§ 77. Consciousness and The Subconscious.

—“Consciousness,” says Professor Ward, “is the vaguest, most
protean, and most treacherous of psychological terms”; and Bain,
writing in 1880, distinguished no less than thirteen meanings of the
word; he could find more to-day! The ambiguity of the term seems
to be due, in the last resort, to the running together of two
fundamental meanings, the one of which is scientific or
psychological, the other logical or philosophical. In the latter, the
logical meaning, consciousness is awareness or knowledge, and
‘conscious of’ means ‘aware of’; in the former, the scientific meaning,
consciousness is mental experience, experience regarded from the
psychological point of view, and one can no more use the phrase
‘conscious of’ than one can use ‘mental of.’ If you think how natural
it is to say ‘I was conscious of so-and-so,’ you will realise that the
logical meaning is generally current; and if you remember that we
have the terms ‘mind,’ ‘mental process,’ as names of mental
experience, you will see that in psychology the word ‘consciousness’
is unnecessary; we have, in fact, not used it in this book,—until we
came upon the popular expression ‘self-consciousness’ in § 76.
We have avoided the word, however, not only because it is
unnecessary, but also because the logical or philosophical meaning
that it tends to suggest is directly harmful in psychology. For the
psychologist has nothing in the world to do with knowledge or
awareness; he stands, in this regard, upon precisely the same level
as the physicist or the chemist. Look up the word atom in a
dictionary; you find, perhaps, that it is ‘an ultimate indivisible particle
of matter’; and you would smile if you read ‘knowledge of an
ultimate indivisible particle of matter.’ Look up metal; and you find
‘an elementary substance possessing such and such properties’; you
would think it absurd to say ‘an awareness of an elementary
substance’ possessing those properties. But now think of sensation,
which is an elementary mental process (p. 65): you would probably
not smile if you found ‘the first stage of knowledge; the elementary
way of knowing some phenomenon of the outside world’; and that is
because you are thoroughly accustomed to regard consciousness as
awareness, and conscious processes as processes which are aware
of something beyond themselves. Yet it is every whit as absurd, from
the scientific point of view, to make sensation a ‘stage of knowledge’
or a ‘way of knowing’ as it is to define the atom as ‘knowledge’ or
the metal as ‘an awareness.’ Science takes experience for granted,
deals with the nature of things given (p. 4); so that questions about
‘knowing’ or ‘being aware of’ lie beyond the range of science,
whether the particular science is psychology or physics.
You now understand why it is that we have avoided the term
‘consciousness.’ If we had said that red is an elementary conscious
process, then you might have supposed that it is an elementary
process in or by which you become aware of a red object; whereas,
if we say that red is an elementary mental process, you have no
reason to think of the red object, since ‘to become mental of a red
object’ is not English. It is very likely, all the same, that you have
been thinking of the object of knowledge, in spite of the terminology
of the book, and in spite of the express warning that science has
nothing to do with values or meanings or uses; the statements of a
text-book, however emphatic they are, cannot always make
headway against ingrained habits of thought and speech. If, then,
you have at any point fallen into this mistake (and it may comfort
you to know that the author, in his first years of studentship, was
trapped by it again and again), go back now and read over the
chapters in point; and if you discover that the mistake was partly
due to the language there employed, remember that authors are
human and that words are very slippery things.
So much of consciousness: what, now, shall we say of the
subconscious? The term is fashionable; and though we have
nowhere used it, we can hardly pass it by without mention. The
subconscious may be defined as an extension of the conscious
beyond the limits of observation. As an extension of the conscious, it
tends always to be an extension of meaning beyond the meaning of
the conscious; we do not hear of a ‘submental.’ As an extension of
the conscious, it is always a matter of inference; what we cannot
observe, we must infer. So there needs no argument to prove that
the subconscious is not a part of the subject-matter of psychology.
How, then, does it come into psychology?
It comes in as an explanatory concept, like the older concept of
association (p. 146), to account for, to rationalise, the phenomena
that are conscious. We have ourselves been satisfied with
description and correlation, and we have therefore confined
ourselves to mental and nervous processes which are in principle
observable; though we have often enough been obliged to say that
the facts, in this or that chapter of psychology or neurology, are few
or wanting. There is, however, in many minds, a craving for
‘explanation’; and it must be admitted that such a craving is natural
enough; for it shows in every phase of primitive thought, and may
be traced throughout the history of science. Think, for instance, of
the potency of explanation by ‘cause and effect’!—though when we
examine a case of cause and effect we never, in fact, find anything
more than correlation. There are many psychologists, then, who
cannot be satisfied with description and correlation; they must refer
the direction of thought to a ‘subconscious disposition,’ and explain
the connections of ideas by ‘subconscious tendencies,’ and so on.
They have recourse to the subconscious for purposes of explanation.
We must urge two objections against this mode of
psychologising. In the first place, the construction of a subconscious
is unnecessary. Science is not called upon to ‘explain’ anything;
description and correlation are the modern—and more modest—
representatives of the ‘explanation’ that an older science looked for
and professed to find. Secondly, the introduction of a subconscious is
dangerous. It is a matter of inference from the conscious; but who
shall draw the line, in such a case, between legitimate and
illegitimate inference? When from the course of the mental stream
and the interplay of mental processes we infer the existence of
associative and determining tendencies in the nervous system, our
argument is safeguarded. No man, it is true, has seen those
tendencies in course; but the inference to them is checked and
controlled by the whole vast body of fact and method that makes up
modern physiology. Things stand very differently with the
subconscious. Here the inference must, it is plain, go beyond the
conscious, since its aim is to explain the conscious; yet the conscious
facts are all the facts we have; when once we have embarked on the
subconscious, there are no more facts to steer by. Henceforth
everything depends upon individual preference; and we may have
many theories of the subconscious, widely different and equally
plausible. The danger is that an erroneous theory of the
subconscious distort our view of the conscious.
There is, however, another side to this whole question. The
notion of a subconscious has proved useful in certain fields of
practical psychology, and more especially in psychiatry and
psychotherapeutics; and in matters of practice utility is a sufficient
justification. Science cannot ask the physician to give up a theory
which works. She can only point out that present utility is no test of
ultimate truth,—there were plenty of useful inventions in the days
when the physics of heat was dominated by the theory of caloric,
and the physics of light by the theory of emission!—and that nobody
has ever observed, or can ever observe, the subconscious at work;
the wonderful things that it does testify rather to their reporter’s
thought and imagination, to his conscious ingenuity in explaining,
than to the scientific reality of the subconscious itself.

§ 78. Conclusion.—So we are at an end; and as you look back

over the chapters of the book, you will have your own thoughts
about the work done,—about your change of attitude from common
sense to psychology, about the nature of mind, when mind is
regarded from the scientific point of view, about the difficult or
unsatisfactory places in psychology. The author has no wish to
disturb these thoughts; every student must sum things up for
himself, as every student, if he is to get the scientific point of view,
must rely on his own thinking from the beginning (p. 36); for the
kingdom of science is not in word but in power. There are,
nevertheless, a few considerations that may be set down here, not
as a summary made for you by the author, but simply as a general
supplement to your own conclusions.
Realise, then, first of all, that there is nothing in the whole wide
world that cannot be psychologised. Sound and light and heat, law
and language and morals, “the whole choir of heaven and furniture
of earth,” all alike become subject-matter of psychology if we regard
them from the psychological standpoint, as they are in man’s
experience (p. 9). The range of psychology is the range of that
experience, and nothing more narrow. The psychological point of
view is logically coordinate with the point of view of the physical
sciences; these describe the world with man left out, psychology
describes the world with man left in; but the psychologist surveys
the broader field.
Realise, secondly, that you have the materials and the
opportunity of psychological observation always with you. Truly, we
must have laboratories; if we are to attain to accurate and
comparable results, we must put ourselves under conditions that can
be rigorously controlled. But get the habit of psychological
observation, and you will be surprised to find (though it follows,
does it not, from the laws of attention?) how much psychology there
is in your daily life; how often you can snapshot a baffling
experience, and catch a hint of analytical possibilities; how often you
light upon something that the text-books do not discuss, but that
this habit of observation reveals and places for you. Take the
occasions as they come; plenty of good astronomical work has been
done with a pair of opera glasses!—and if you cannot, later on,
experiment for yourself in a laboratory, at least you have gained a
new outlook and a new competence; it is as if you had gained
access to a whole literature by the mastery of some foreign
language.
Realise, thirdly, that a system of science, whether the science be
psychology or any other, is built up of nothing else than facts and
logic. The facts of observation are the essential things; without them
there is no science possible; but logic makes the facts available and
rememberable; it groups and classifies, decides the sequence of
chapters and paragraphs, points to gaps and discrepancies in the
record of facts, governs the whole presentation. So there should be
nothing more in a text-book of science than facts and logic. The man
of science, trying to answer an unanswered question (p. 277), will
guess and forecast and speculate and imagine; and some of his
guesses and speculations may be worthy of mention in the history of
his science; but there should be no glimmer of them in the scientific
system. Science, you remember, is impersonal and disinterested, dry
fact and cold logic; there are all sorts of personal adventures and
interesting episodes by the way, while science is in the making; but
if you have the scientific temperament, you feel the fascination of
fact and logic themselves.
And, in any case, they are all that science gives you! So realise,
lastly, the limitations of science; do not expect from it more than it
can give. Over and over you hear it said ‘Science has failed to satisfy
us about this’ and ‘Science has shown itself unable to deal with that’;
but ask yourself—if you deem the statements true—what are the
‘this’ and the ‘that,’ and whether science ever gave any pledge that
she would handle them. Scientific discoveries have had far-reaching
consequences for practice, and have changed our whole mode of
living; but the fact remains that “the most useful parts of science
have been investigated for the sake of truth, and not for their
usefulness.” Scientific progress is reflected in the systems of logic
and ethics and æsthetics, even in metaphysics itself; but theoretical
values lie, as practical values also lie, beyond the purview of the
scientific enquirer. Science is bound down from the outset to a
certain method, the method of observation; to a certain point of
view, the existential as opposed to the significant; to a certain task,
the task of description and correlation. Beyond these limits, science
has no pretensions; within them, she has accomplished much, and is
earnest to accomplish more.

Questions and Exercises

(1) Keep a pad by you for a week, and note down the occasions
when your experience is wholly selfless and markedly selfful.
Describe, as well as you can, the various self-experiences.
(2) Mention some of the superstitions that connect the name
with the personality (p. 313). Is there any echo of these
superstitions in our own civilised experience?
(3) On p. 319 a hint is given of the way in which vision,
kinæsthesis and organic sensation, and verbal ideas might come to
be preferred, as vehicles of the meaning of self. Can you make any
further suggestion as regards kinæsthesis and organic sensation?
(4) A well-known medical writer remarks: “Self is stomach. The
function of assimilating food is the most fundamental of all the
functions; it is antecedent even to locomotion and propagation.
Hence anything which directly affects the organism as a whole
affects the stomach.” What self is here referred to?
 (5) Professor Mach tells the following story. “I got into an
omnibus one morning, after a tiring night on the train, just as some
one else was entering from the far end. ‘Some broken-down
schoolmaster,’ I thought. It was myself; there was a large mirror
opposite the omnibus door” (see Analysis of Sensations, 1910, 4).
What psychological laws does the story illustrate?
(6) What is meant by the ‘unity of consciousness’?
(7) Sir Walter Scott tells the tale of a boy, always at the top of his
class, who, when asked a question, “fumbled with his fingers at a
particular button in the lower part of his waistcoat”; Scott cut the
button off, and the boy came down from his place of leadership (J.
G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, i., 1837, 94).
What is the psychology of the incident?
(8) Write a psychological criticism of the following statement:
“Alike in conflict, rivalry, sense of liability to punishment or
vengeance, etc., the truth is continually being borne in upon the
mind of an animal that it is a separate individuality; and this though
it be conceded that the animal is never able, even in the most
shadowy manner, to think about itself as such. In this way there
arises a sort of ‘outward self-consciousness,’ which differs from true
or inward self-consciousness only in the absence of any attention
being directed upon the inward mental states as such” (G. J.
Romanes, Mental Evolution in Man, 1888, 198 f.).
(9) Among the facts which have led to the hypothesis of a
subconscious are (a) the existence of blind strivings, organic
tendencies, etc., for which no conscious antecedent can be
discovered; (b) the mechanisation of complicated movements, such
as piano-playing; (c) the appearance in ‘memory’ of ideas which
seem to have cropped up of themselves, i.e., have no assignable
physical or mental condition; (d) the phenomena of secondary
personality (Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology, ii., 1902, 606).
How does the hypothesis help in such cases? and how does the
psychology of this book take account of the facts?
(10) Consider any case of remedial suggestion, of what is
popularly called faith-cure, that you happen to know at first-hand.
Show how the hypothesis of subconscious agency might naturally
occur to one who tries to ‘explain’ the facts, and show how science
might deal with them apart from that hypothesis.
(11) (a) Satisfy yourself, by the collection of phrases, that the
words ‘conscious,’ ‘subconscious,’ ‘unconscious,’ are used in very
various meanings. (b) What does the word ‘conscious’ mean by
derivation? How did it originate?
(12) The complaint is often made that scientific men do not
popularise their results. What do you take to be the great stumbling-
block in the way of popularisation?

References

W. James, Principles of Psychology, i., 1890, chs. ix., x.; J. Sully,

The Human Mind, i., 1892, ch. xii., §§ 25, 26; C. Mercier, Sanity and
Insanity, 1899; T. Ribot, The Diseases of Personality, 1895; J. M.
Baldwin, Mental Development in the Child and the Race: Methods
and Processes, 1906, and Social and Ethical Interpretations in Mental
Development, 1906, refs. in indices; W. Wundt, Lectures on Human
and Animal Psychology, 1896, and Outlines of Psychology, 1907, refs.
in indices; E. B. Titchener, Text-book of Psychology, 1910, 544 ff.; A.
Bain, The Emotions and the Will, 1880, 539 ff., 602 ff.; T. Flournoy,
From India to the Planet Mars, 1900; M. Prince, The Dissociation of
a Personality, 1906, and The Unconscious, 1914; S. Freud,
Psychopathology of Everyday Life, 1914; B. Hart and C. Spearman,
General Ability, Its Existence and Nature, in the British Journal of
Psychology, v., March 1912, 51 ff.
On beliefs connected with names, see E. B. Tylor, Researches into
the Early History of Mankind, 1878, 123 ff.; J. G. Frazer, Taboo and
the Perils of the Soul, 1911, 318 ff.
 APPENDIX

Dreaming and Hypnosis

I am assured that a lady of a well-known court saw in a dream and
described to her friends the person she afterwards married, and the hall
in which the betrothal was celebrated; and she did this before she had
seen or known either the man or the place. They attributed the
circumstance to some indefinite secret presentiment; but chance may
produce this effect, since it is quite rare that it happens; besides, dream-
images being somewhat obscure, there is more liberty in connecting
them afterwards with certain others.—Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz

§ 79. Sleep and Dream.—The profound sleep that comes to us

every night, and that we take entirely as a matter of course, rests
without any doubt upon an instinctive tendency; but there can be
little doubt, either, that the instinct has been modified in the course
of human evolution. It seems probable, indeed, that profound sleep,
the lapse of all but the vegetative organic functions, has been
developed from the same fundamental tendency as hypnosis, so that
natural sleep and artificial hypnosis represent two branches which
spring from a single stem. This original and instinctive tendency is
toward what we may call, in biological phrase, a partial or
defensive sleep, a rest enjoyed while the animal is still partly on
guard. It underlies the sleep of the mother, who is roused at once by
the movement of her infant child; the sleep of the nurse, who is
awaked by the restlessness of her patient; the sleep of the tired
horseman or driver, who keeps the saddle or holds the reins, and
remains alive to any sign of uneasiness on the part of his horse. It
shows also in the ability of the wearied surgeon to rouse himself and
perform an operation, though he falls asleep once more the moment
it is over and has no remembrance of it at his normal waking. Such a
partial rest, persisting only thus occasionally in the life of civilised
man, is all that an animal surrounded by dangers can afford; if sight
and smell and taste may be allowed to lapse, still touch and hearing
must keep awake,—must keep awake, at any rate, to the kind of
stimulus that spells danger. We are speaking now in figurative terms;
the history and nervous mechanism of the sleep-tendency offer a
problem to science, and must be scientifically worked out; but it is
enough here if you get a general notion of the way in which sleep
began.
In process of time, as dangers grow less or as the nightly care of
the community is put into the hands of watchmen whose special
duty it is to signal their approach, sleep becomes total and profound.
Even our own protected sleep, however, is not always undisturbed.
We resign ourselves to it with a full sense of security; and we go to
sleep in a dark and quiet room, we rid ourselves of the friction of
clothes, we keep a constant temperature in our bedroom, we lie
down. Sleep, nevertheless, is interrupted, more or less often
according to age and constitution, by a dream, by a series of
experiences like those of the waking life; and sometimes the dream
is accompanied by muscular activity; we talk or walk in our sleep.
The dream, then, is subject-matter for psychology; and the first
question that we have to ask about it concerns its make-up; of what
mental processes is the dream composed? The answer is twofold. So
far as pattern goes, anything whatsoever may appear in the dream-
state: perception, memory, emotion, imagination, thought,
everything. But as regards the mental processes themselves, the
dream is selective; certain processes are preferred for dreaming, so
to say, as certain processes are preferred for the representation of
self. The details of dreams are very quickly forgotten; and there is
always danger lest recall and report, in the waking state, change the
terms of a dream, translate them from their original mode into the
customary terms of waking experience. We have, however, a large
number of records, taken under favourable conditions, and we find
substantial agreement among the various observers. Dreams are
mainly visual, though lights are more and colours are less common,
perhaps, than is ordinarily supposed. Next in order of frequency to
vision stands audition; conversation, especially, is a common feature
of dreams. Next follow sense-feelings and feeling-attitudes;
unpleasant experiences seem, on the whole, to be more frequent
than pleasant, though there are marked individual differences.
Thereafter, at a wide remove, come touch and kinæsthesis and
organic complexes; and last of all, taste and smell.
We know so little of the nervous correlates of the dream that a
discussion of these facts must of necessity be speculative. It has
been said that we dream largely in terms of sight for the same
reason that we remember and imagine largely in those terms
(‘dream’ is, for that matter, the older English word for ‘imagine’): the
eye is the most important of all the sense-organs, the organ most
continuously used, and the organ most relied upon for knowledge of
the outside world; hence the visual centre of the brain has
multitudinous connections with all the other brain-centres, and is
readily excited when any one of them is excited. It has been pointed
out, also, that the eye is extremely sensitive to slight changes of
illumination, as well as to changes in the pressure of the eyelids, the
state of circulation in the retina, and so forth; and that the
sensations thus set up are reinforced by the persistent central grey.
Observation has proved that the figures of a dream-scene may
roughly correspond with the dots and splashes of light and colour
that you see over the dark field of vision just before you fall asleep.
So in regard to hearing: it may be said that verbal perceptions and
ideas are, in the waking life, subordinate in number and importance
only to those of vision; and it may be said, also, that the ear is the
great defensive organ of the night-time, so that ear-sleep (if we may
coin the word) is rarely profound, and the ear is liable to excitation
by any chance crack or rustle in our surroundings, even by the
pulsing of the blood through its own vessels. Here, indeed, we raise
the whole difficult question of the origination of dreams. We cannot
say that a dream may not arise ‘in the brain’ altogether apart from
stimulation of a sense-organ; yet the sense-organs are always liable
to stimulation, from without or from within; we know that stimuli,
too weak to arouse a sleeper, will set up dreams; and it seems safe
to conclude that most dreams are originated by sensory stimulation,
while their subsequent course is due to associative and perhaps to
determining tendencies active at the moment. Attempts have been
made to refer certain familiar kinds of dream—dreams of flying,
falling, appearing in public scantily clothed, preparing for a journey,
etc.—to particular forms of stimulus: arrest of heart-beat, irregular
breathing, cold from the slipping down of bed-clothes, etc.; but no
positive correlation has been arrived at.
Dreams are ordinarily regarded as the type of fantastic and
disordered experience, “the children of an idle brain, begot of
nothing but vain fantasy”; and some dreams, it is true, are very
fragmentary, and some dream-combinations seem ridiculous enough
to the waking judgement, and some shifts of dream-scene are
startlingly abrupt. It may be questioned, nevertheless, whether the
changes are in fact more sudden or more radical than those of the
waking life, and whether the grouping is more fantastic than in the
day-dream. The great perceptive attitudes remain for the most part
unchanged. We notice, on later reflection, that time may be
curiously foreshortened, so that we have the events of a day
crowded into a few seconds; but this is due partly to the occurrence
of attitudes, of the nutshell-packing of experiences (p. 271), such as
we find also in our waking memories, and partly to our own
reflective reading of the dream; we, who are now awake, distribute
the events over a day, much as the novelist may do in telling his
story, or the playwright in developing his plot. The sense of personal
identity is rarely lost; and the dream frequently reflects the
personality of the dreamer; temperament, interests, principles, show
themselves in it; no one of us could dream his neighbour’s dreams.
In general, too, the dream plays about a topic or situation; and if the
changes are both sudden and profound, we must remember that our
waking trains are held in course, as dreams are not, by the
continuity of the stimuli around us, and that even so we are often
interrupted in a current train, and shift from topic to topic at a
moment’s notice. The dream is under no external control by an
environment, nor is it as a rule organised and regulated throughout
by a dominant determining tendency, as is the case with thought
and constructive imagination. It is subject, however, to the laws of
associative tendency, and sometimes at any rate it seems to issue
from a determination; a dream may, for example, be continued on
successive nights. On the whole, then, dream-experience is less
disorderly than is usually supposed. Our statements must be
guarded: we cannot say that the perceptive attitudes are never
disturbed; we know that personality may be greatly modified; we
know that scene may follow scene in the most bizarre way. The
whole trend of popular psychology, however, is to emphasize the
differences between dreaming and waking, while the trend of
accurate observation is to bring them together.
The dream-incidents are derived, in the lighter stages of of sleep,
mainly from the incidents of the preceding day, and in the deeper
stages mainly from the remoter experience of the waking life. This is
what we should expect from our knowledge of the temporal course
of associative tendencies. Moreover, we know that, in profound
sleep, the brain is comparatively bloodless; and it is reasonable to
suppose that, in dreaming, the activity of the tendencies is local and
sporadic. That would account for the incongruities that our waking
judgement discovers in the dream-situations, and also for the
general ineffectiveness of dream-thought. When, however, we
enquire further into the nervous mechanism of dreaming, we must
enter the realm of hypothesis. It is a real puzzle, for instance, that
we do not oftener walk and talk in our sleep; for dream-ideas are
vivid, and the vivid ideas of the waking life are ordinarily followed or
accompanied by action. We may guess that there is a positive
blocking of the nerve-paths that lead from sensory to motor centres
in the brain, or from the motor centres to the muscles; else the
dream would surely be talked or acted out; but we can say nothing
definite about this motor inhibition. The organism at large seems to
be under a ‘negative suggestion’ in regard to movement; for the
pattern of action—though, like all the mental patterns, it may appear
in the dream-state—is notably less frequent than the patterns of
perception and idea and emotion.
We said that dream-ideas are vivid; and there is no doubt that
dreams in general have an hallucinatory character; dream-images
are extremely vivid, dream-scenes are staged in what is taken for
objective space, dream-events occur without any felt dependence
upon the dreamer. This impression of the reality of dream-incident is
partly due to a negative condition; we have no means, in the dream-
state, of testing or checking what happens. In the waking life we
compare experience with experience; in the dream there is nothing
with which the present train of ideas may be compared. It seems,
however, that the hallucinatory character is native to our dream-
ideas, that it is due to positive as well as negative conditions;
though, again, we cannot say what the conditions are, until we know
more about the nervous correlate of dreaming. The net result is
that, in popular phrase, we take our dreams for granted; the dream-
world, so long as we are in it, appears as real as the world of our
waking existence. This does not at all mean that we accept, blindly,
everything that takes place. We may protest and criticise in dreams,
just precisely as we protest and criticise in real life; we may dream
that we are dreaming, just as we sometimes say ‘I must have been
dreaming’ when we give a wrong account of some waking
experience or find ourselves mistaken in a recollection; and we may
have a sense of unreality in dreams, just as we have it now and
again in waking situations. It means only that the nervous system of
the dreamer is stamped with the great biological tendencies that we
have noted and discussed; the tendency to take things as real is
present by night as well as by day.
The old common-sense notion that dreams are prophetic has no
foundation in fact. The idea that underlies it—the idea that dreams
must be of some use to the organism—nevertheless persists, and
has found recent expression in a comprehensive theory of dreams.
The theory is that all dreams, if one interprets them aright,
represent the fulfilment of a wish, entertained in the waking life but
repressed by circumstances. The organism attains by night, though
in veiled and transmuted shape, what it has failed of attaining by
day. This theory has been elaborated and illustrated with very great
ingenuity; but its claims are too sweeping. Recent observations
seem to show that the wish-dream is likely to occur in the hours
before waking, rather than in the early hours of the night or in the
middle period of profound sleep; that many dreams cannot be
interpreted, even with the best will, as fulfilments of wish; and, in
particular, that fear-dreams form a category as distinct and ultimate
as wish-dreams. The merit of the theory is that it emphasises the
feeling-processes of the dream-life; it does not give us the key to
the psychology of dreaming.

§ 80. Hypnosis.—We have seen that there are two lines of

development from partial or defensive sleep; and that hypnosis is
the final term of the one line, as normal deep sleep is the final term
of the other. Hypnosis may therefore be regarded as a state in which
the organism is partly asleep, and partly alert and awake. The
wakefulness is characterised by a high degree of attention; and the
hypnotised subject is accordingly liable to suggestion by anything
that fits in with the direction of attention.
The symptoms of hypnosis do not follow any stereotyped
pattern; so that it is difficult to draw a generalised picture of the
hypnotic individual. If, however, we are willing to run the risk of
generalisation, we may distinguish three successive stages in the
phenomena. The hypnotised subject is at first heavy or drowsy;
his behaviour is like that of a man suddenly aroused from sound
sleep, and not yet ‘come to himself.’ Then follows the stage of light
hypnosis or, as it is technically called, the stage of catalepsy. The
subject is to some extent anæsthetic; his sense-organs are closed to
all the ordinary impressions from the outside world. At the same
time, he hears what is said to him by the operator, and performs any
action that the operator may suggest. He does nothing without the
word of command; so that he will maintain a position, however
uncomfortable it might be under ordinary circumstances, until the
order comes to relax it. On waking, he remembers cloudily what
took place during hypnosis. In the third and final stage, which is
known as somnambulism, the anæsthesia becomes more
complete; and the subject not only acts, but also perceives, at the
bidding of the operator; takes coal for sugar, ink for wine, tapping on
the table for the playing of a violin, and so forth. On waking, he has
no memory of what has taken place.
We see, then, that there are four main symptoms of hypnosis:
anæsthesia, motionlessness, suggestibility and amnesia; and it is
worth while to remind ourselves, at once, that all these symptoms
have their counterparts in the normal waking life. Thus, a child falls
down and hurts itself; it may be crying bitterly; but you distract its
attention by a toy, and the crying stops and the pain is forgotten;
the diversion of attention has meant anæsthesia. Again, you are on
a country walk with a friend, and you begin to discuss some topic of
mutual interest; you both get more and more absorbed, and you
both walk more and more slowly, until presently you find yourselves
at a standstill in the middle of the road; concentrated attention has
meant arrest of movement. If the lecturer in a class-room says: ‘I
want you now to take down what I am going to say,’ the suggestion
is immediately accepted, and the whole class makes ready to write.
Finally, we are all forgetful of what happens in a particular situation
if circumstances change and we are confronted by another situation;
how many of us remember our dreams? The new day brings its
novel situations, and the dreams drop out of sight; and the change
from dreaming to waking is no greater than the change from the
hypnotic to the normal state. Hence the peculiarity of hypnosis is not
the introduction of strange or curious phenomena, but rather the
grouping, in an extreme and unusual way, of phenomena with which
we are in principle familiar.
It would seem to follow from this analysis that we are all and
sundry liable, under certain favourable conditions, to fall into the
hypnotic state; and that conclusion is borne out by the facts. Only
idiots and infants are exempt from hypnosis; and they are exempt
only because of the low development of attention, because they
cannot, under any conditions, concentrate or ‘pull themselves
together.’ When people tell you that Professor So-and-so tried to
hypnotise them, but that their will proved too strong for him, you
may reply that they do not understand what they are talking about;
it would be as logical for them to assert that the champion tennis-
player of the world had failed to beat them in a match, because they
had refused to lift a racquet. The stronger the ‘will,’ that is to say,
the stronger the habit of absorbed attention and the greater the
power of dominant determinations, the easier is the induction of
hypnosis. Moreover, as human beings are one and all liable to be
hypnotised, so do we find that the animals, in their degree, are liable
to something like catalepsy. The nightly sleep of birds and the
winter-sleep of many animals is a cataleptic sleep; very many insects
‘sham dead,’ as we say, when they are surprised or handled; and
animals may be thrown, by manipulation, into an artificial state
which resembles catalepsy in ourselves, and which has received the
like name of cataplexy (‘catalepsy’ is a seizure, and ‘cataplexy’ is a
stroke).
So much for the primary facts: what, now, of the ‘operator’? Well,
it is quite possible to hypnotise oneself, just as it is quite possible to
put oneself to sleep by counting sheep or listening to an imaginary
rain. One has only to mean or intend to oneself that the hypnotic
state is coming, and—if there is no interruption—it will presently
come; self-suggestion or autosuggestion may be as effective as the
suggestion of an operator. For in every case the influence that the
operator has over the subject is an influence given him by the
subject; the immediate conditions of hypnosis lie in the subject
himself, and not in the personality of some other man. The
professional operator has, it is true, two advantages. He asserts
emphatically that he ‘can hypnotise’; he advertises; and we tend to
believe emphatic and repeated statements, however groundless they
may really be; so that we are likely to give him an influence over us
before we have even seen him. Secondly, the operator knows, from
long experience with hypnotised subjects, how the individual shall
most readily be brought into the hypnotic state, how (that is) his
complete attention may be secured and directed: whether by
coaxing or by bullying, whether by strokes of the hand that suggest
a gradual flow of power or by a smart blow on the back of the neck
that produces a momentary helplessness and confusion. All the
‘methods’ of hypnotising are so many tricks to bring about a state of
undivided attention and a corresponding suggestibility in the subject.
So the operator has genuine advantages, but they are advantages
that might be secured by anyone who took the trouble; they are not
connected with special gifts or superiorities.
Here, however, you may raise an objection; you will say that
operator and subject are en rapport, that there is a special bond
which connects them, and that the records of hypnosis prove it. Yes,
there may be a special bond; and yet the preceding paragraph sets
forth the truth about the operator. Do we not all believe in our own
physician, our own family lawyer, our own clergyman? and yet our
neighbours make different choices. Suppose, then, that you have
first-hand evidence of the powers of some platform operator, or of
some physician who treats his patients hypnotically; you may very
easily come to think that this particular man has a peculiar control
over you. You may suggest this belief to yourself, or perhaps the
physician—not wishing to have his case interfered with by others—
may suggest it to you; in any event, you are imbued with the idea
that this man, and this man only, is able to treat you; and it then
follows, naturally, that the required concentration of attention and
the required openness to suggestion can be secured only when he is
present. But the rapport is, after all, nothing more than an insistent
belief of your own; it is neither more effective nor less intelligible
than would be the contrary belief that a certain person of your
acquaintance could not hypnotise you. So far, therefore, from
invalidating our former conclusions, the occasional existence of the
rapport serves to confirm them.
We now turn from the hypnotic state itself to its relations with
the waking state; and the first point to consider is the fact of post-
hypnotic or terminal suggestion. Suppose that an operator
suggests to the hypnotised subject that a certain action is to be
performed at such-and-such a time after waking; “before I wake you
let me impress upon you that you are to drink two glasses of water
at five o’clock this afternoon; you understand?—two glasses of water
at five o’clock.” The subject rouses; has no memory of the
command; and yet, when the time comes, obediently pours and
drinks the water. The fact is, you see, that the suggestion of time
builds a bridge between the two separate states, the hypnotic and
the waking; the idea of time is common to both. Hence when the
suggested time comes round, and the subject knows—by the clock,
by the sun, by his occupation, by his organic sensations—that five
o’clock is approximately here, this idea acts as a suggestion; the
hypnotic state is reinstated for a while, though probably in
weakened form; and the action is performed. As soon as it is over,
the subject is his waking self again.
We have the obverse of this post-hypnotic suggestion in the
phenomenon of double consciousness. A subject is hypnotised
and becomes somnambulistic; when he is waked, he has no memory
whatsoever of the events that occurred during the hypnotic state.
Later, he is hypnotised again; and now it turns out that he
remembers what took place during the previous hypnosis. So he
seems to have a double consciousness; the normal waking
consciousness, which is sensibly continuous in his waking states, and
a secondary hypnotic consciousness, which is continuous from one
state of somnambulism to another. There is, again, nothing
mysterious in the facts; we have their parallel in the normal shifts of
personality; we have seen that a man is a different self in the office,
on the golf-links, with his children in the nursery; and we have now
only to add that the known laws of memory are adequate to these
phenomena of double consciousness. For we do not pass in thought
from one situation to another unless the situations are connected by
some idea which is common to them both; the hard-worked
professional man, when he is on the links, forgets the office; that is
the reason for his play; and he forgets the office because there is no
community of ideas between his work and his recreation. In
hypnosis, too, we break sharply with the waking life; if the two are
to be connected, a bridge must be built ad hoc by the operator; but
when we relapse into hypnosis we pick up again the thread of our
hypnotic memory, as naturally as the professional man picks up his
work when he seats himself at his desk after a half-holiday.
There are still a couple of questions, often asked by students,
that you may care to have answered; and the first of them usually
takes the form: Can a man be hypnotised against his will? To which
the author’s reply always is: It depends on what you mean by
‘against his will.’ For consider! There is no reason at all why we may
not, any one of us, be taken off guard and surprised into the
hypnotic state. We have probably all been surprised by sleep during
a lecture or a sermon; the conditions were favourable, and we
nodded. So the conditions may be favourable for hypnosis; and if
someone is watching us, and sees that the conditions are
favourable, he may have us hypnotised before we know where we
are. The risk is not great; but the possibility is there. Again, if a
patient has fallen into the habit of taking hypnotic treatment, and if
he has thus slipped into a position of invalidish dependence upon his
physician, so that obedience to the suggestion of hypnosis has
become natural to him, then it is entirely likely that the physician’s
command would induce the hypnotic state, even if the patient at the
time should not desire it. And what holds of physician and patient
holds of any operator and any subject in like circumstances; the
habit of obedience grows by obeying. In this sense, then, one might
be hypnotised ‘against one’s will.’ If, however, the question means
what it is probably intended to mean: Can another man come to me
and, by virtue of some inherent power, force me into hypnosis in
spite of my resistance to that suggestion? then the answer is No; no
more than a man can force you to lend him money or to perjure
yourself for him in a court of law. It is you who must entertain his
suggestion; so long as you refuse to do that, you are immune to
hypnosis at his hands.
 The other question concerns the value of hypnosis for medical or
therapeutic purposes; can hypnosis effect cures? can it replace the
anæsthetics of ordinary medical practice? It has, as a matter of fact,
received fairly extended trial as an anæsthetic; and while it has
allowed many operations, minor and major, to be carried out
successfully, it is far less reliable than the an æsthetic drugs; mainly,
no doubt, because it cannot be administered by the physician, as
drugs can, but depends upon the attitude of the patient himself.
There is no future for hypnosis in this connection. As to its
therapeutic value, we can only say that whatever can be
accomplished by suggestion, in the normal life, can be accomplished
by the very strong suggestion of hypnosis in the disordered life. A
suggestion can initiate, modify, and arrest movement; a sharp
rebuke will start a child into activity, or change his occupation, or
stop a present misdeed and prevent like misdeeds in the immediate
future. A suggestion, again, can make us blush; and a suggestion
can make us cry. Here, then, is the therapeutic value of hypnosis; it
may arrest or remedy habits like alcoholism, and it may act upon
derangements of circulation and secretion. Farther than this it
cannot go; and even within these limits its utility is variable. Some
children obey the first word of command, and others must be bidden
over and over again before they do as they are told; some of us
blush easily, and some hardly ever; some are readily stirred to tears,
and some with great difficulty. So it is with the liability to hypnotic
suggestion; everyone is liable, but not everyone to the same degree.
Besides, as we saw just now, the habit of hypnosis grows, like all
habits, upon him who has formed it; the patient may develop a
craving for the hypnotic treatment, and in this way may take on a
habit of dependence, of constant reliance upon others, which is as
afflicting and demoralising as the disorder which the treatment was
meant to cure. So that, on the whole, hypnosis should not be lightly
appealed to; the decision should in every case remain in the hands
of the experienced physician.
There is one other effect of hypnosis that we have not spoken of
in detail, and that is of great psychological interest; the
somnambulist, we said, will perceive as the operator wishes him to
perceive, will take coal for sugar and ink for wine. It has long been
debated whether this statement is literally true. The hypnotised
subject behaves as if he perceived the sugar and the wine; but is
there any reason to think that he actually perceives them? Or if the
suggestion is negative, and the subject is told that a certain person
has left the room, he will behave as if that person were no longer
present; but does he actually fail to see him? May not the suggestion
bear directly upon the subject’s conduct, and leave his perceptions
unchanged? The facts point in both directions. Many of the apparent
changes of perception are, in all probability, nothing more than
changes of behaviour towards the perceptual stimuli; but there is, all
the same, no impossibility in a change of perception itself. We have
already noted the negative effects of abstraction (p. 281); and
recent experiments with normal subjects seem to show conclusively
that a suggestion, a form of words that carries the force of a
command, may set up the mental process, or the change of mental
processes, normally correlated with presence or change of external
stimulus. A red, seen under the suggestion of blue, will not only be
reported as bluish, but will actually look bluish; and a thermally
indifferent impression will not only be reported as warm or cold, but
will actually be felt warm or cold. If such things happen in the
normal waking life, they may assuredly happen in the narrowed and
intensive suggestibility of the hypnotic state.

References

A. Moll, Hypnotism, 1891; W. Wundt, Lectures on Human and

Animal Psychology, 1896, Lect. xxii.; M. de Manacéïne, Sleep, 1897;
J. Jastrow, Fact and Fable in Psychology, 1900; E. Jones, Freud’s
Theory of Dreams, in American Journal of Psychology, xxi., April
1910, 283 ff.; S. Ferenczi, The Psychological Analysis of Dreams,
ibid., 309 ff.; M. Bentley, The Study of Dreams, ibid., xxvi., April
1915, 196 ff.
 INDEX OF NAMES
Angelo, M., 299.
Aristotle, 25, 41, 84, 142 f., 145 ff., 168, 175, 218, 305.
Arnold, M., 305.
Bacon, F., 34, 313.
Bain, A., 229, 257, 260, 324, 334.
Baldwin, J. M., 41, 72, 89, 334.
Barrie, J. M., 247.
Bastian, H. C., 72.
Beethoven, L. van, 196.
Bentley, M., 349.
Bergson, H., 229.
Berkeley, G., 264, 289.
Blagden, C. O., 72.
Boas, F., 303, 306.
Bradley, F. H., 174, 176.
Bridgman, L., 27, 41.
Buridan, J., 247.
Burr, A. R., 39.
Cannon, W. B., 220 f., 229.
Carpenter, W. B., 108 f., 111.
Carroll, L., 21.
Charcot, J. M., 139, 143.
Chavannes, P. de, 196.
Clifford, W. K., 38.
Dalton, J., 58, 72.
Darwin, C., 3, 51, 222 f., 225, 228 f.
Da Vinci, L., 228.
Deland, M., 175.
Descartes, R., 228.
Dessoir, M., 42.
Dickens, C., 141, 187, 202.
Downey, J. E., 88.
Dunlap, K., 41.
Ebbinghaus, H., 151 f., 176.
Ferenczi, S., 349.
Fernald, M. R., 144.
Fiske, E. W., 41.
Flournoy, T., 334.
France, A., 293.
Franz, S. I., 41.
Frazer, J. G., 40, 334.
Freud, S., 334.
Froude, J. A., 37 f.
Galen, C., 227.
Galton, F., 51, 87 f., 140.
Goethe, J. W. von, 141.
Haddon, A. C., 306.
Hall, F. H., 41.
Hamilton, W., 103, 110 f.
Hammond, W. A., 41.
Hart, B., 334.
Hawthorne, N., 201.
Hearn, L., 194, 294 f., 306.
Helmholtz, H. L. F. von, 38, 54 f., 72, 143.
Henry, W. C., 72.
Hering, E., 59, 202.
Hill, A., 37 f.
Hobbes, T., 162, 261 f.
Howe, M., 41.
Howell, W. H., 72.
Hume, D., 73, 76, 88, 148, 258.
Huxley, T. H., 20, 37 f., 243 f., 260, 264, 289.
James, W., 25, 39, 111, 141, 143, 149, 168, 174, 176, 202, 207, 218 ff., 229,
256, 260, 287 f., 334.
Jastrow, J., 41, 349.
Jevons, W. S., 41, 202.
Jones, E., 349.
Kipling, R., 98.
Kirchhoff, G. R., 37 f.
Klemm, O., 42.
Külpe, O., 41, 176.
Kuhlmann, F., 202.
Ladd, G. T., 38, 41, 72.
Lang, A., 206.
Lange, C., 219, 221.
Lathrop, G. P., 201.
Le Bon, G., 41.
Leuba, J. H., 303, 306.
Lewes, G. H., 183, 202.
Ludwig, C., 48.
McDougall, W., 41, 229.
Mach, E., 72, 332.
Manacéïne, M. de, 349.
Mercier, C., 334.
Meredith, G., 202.
Meumann, E., 176.
Mill, J., 174.
Mill, J. S., 39.
Millet, J. F., 299.
Moll, A., 41, 349.
Moore, G., 306.
Morgan, C. L., 247, 260.
Münsterberg, H., 42.
Myers, C. S., 72, 89, 176.
Newton, I., 36, 39.
Offner, M., 176.
Parry, C. H. H., 143.
Parsons, J. H., 72.
Pearson, K., 38.
Pillsbury, W. B., 38 f., 110 f., 288.
Plato, 65, 186.
Poe, E. A., 201.
Preyer, W., 41.
Prince, M., 334.
Quintilian, M. F., 202.
Rhys Davids, C. A. F., 41.
Ribot, T., 202, 229, 288, 306, 334.
Romanes, G. J., 333.
Rousseau, J. J., 40.
Ruskin, J., 299.
Sanford, E. C., 260.
Santayana, G., 306.
Schäfer, E. A., 72.
Scott, W., 332.
Scriabin, A. N., 77.
Shakespeare, W., 302.
Skeat, W. W., 72.
Spearman, C., 334.
Spencer, H., 37 f., 40, 84 ff., 89, 257, 260.
Stephen, L., 257, 260.
Stoelting, C. H., 142, 260.
Störring, G., 41.
Stout, G. F., 38.
Sully, J., 229, 258, 260, 306, 334.
Taylor, H. O., 40.
Thackeray, W. M., 227.
Thomas of Aquino, 103, 111.
Thorndike, E. L., 42, 173, 176, 229, 301, 306.
Titian, 299.
Tylor, E. B., 39 f., 72, 289, 334.
Velasquez, D., 299.
Voltaire, F. M., 286.
Wagner, R., 30, 77, 82.
Ward, J., 38, 289, 323.
Washburn, M. F., 41.
Watson, J. B., 41.
Weber, E. H., 68 f.
Wells, H. G., 2.
Whewell, W., 40.
Whistler, J. McN., 296.
Woodworth, R. S., 41, 72.
Wundt, W., 26, 41, 72, 88 f., 111, 143, 229, 260, 288, 306, 334, 349.
Yerkes, A. W., 41.
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