The Journal of Abnormal Psychology, Vol. 10
by Unknown
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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The Journal of Abnormal Psychology

Tufts College Medical School



Harvard University

Harvard Medical School

New York State Hospitals


Cornell University Medical School

Johns Hopkins University

Oxford University





Reprinted with the permission of The American Psychological
Association, Inc

Volumes 1-15 of this title were published as
The Journal of Abnormal Psychology.

Volumes 16-19 of this title were published as
The Journal of Abnormal Psychology and Social Psychology.

first reprinting, 1964

Printed in the United States of America


Hysteria as a Weapon in Marital Conflicts. By. A. Myerson, M. D.
The Analysis of a Nightmare. By Raymond Bellamy
Analysis of a Single Dream as a Means of Unearthing the
Genesis of Psychopathic Affections. By Meyer Solomon, M. D.
An Act of Everyday Life Treated as a Pretended Dream and Interpreted by
Psychoanalysis. By Raymond Bellamy
Freud and His School (Concluded). By A. W. Van Rentergham, M. D.
Anger as a primary Emotion, and the Application of Freudian Mechanism to its
Phenomena. By G. Stanley Hall
The Necessity of Metaphysics. By James J. Putnam, M. D.
Aspects of Dream Life. The Contribution of a Woman Remarks Upon Dr. Coriat's
Paper, "Stammering as a Psychoneurosis." By Meyer Solomon, M. D.
Constructive Delusions. By John T. MacCurdy, M. D., and Walter L. Treadway,
M. D.
Socrates in the Light of Modern Psychopathology. By Morris J. Karpas, M. D.
Psychoneuroses Among Primitive Tribes. By Isador H. Coriat, M. D.
Two Interesting Cases of Illusion of Perception. By George F. Arps, M. D.
A Psychological Analysis of Stuttering. By Walter B. Swift, M. D.
The Origin of Supernatural Explanations. By Tom A. Williams, M. D.
Data Concerning Delusions of Personality. By E. E. Southard, M. D.
Sixth Annual Meeting of the American Psychopathological Association.
The Sex Worship and Symbolism of Primitive Races. By Sanger Brown II., M. D.
The Psychoanalytic Treatment of Hystero-Epilepsy. By L. E. Emerson, Ph. D.
On the Genesis and Meaning of Tics. By Meyer Solomon, M. D.
Scientific Method in the Interpretation of Dreams. By Lydiard Horton
A Case of Possession. By Donald Fraser
Sex Worship and Symbolism of Primitive Races (Concluded) by Sanger Brown
II., M. D.


(Figures with asterisks indicate original articles. Figures
without asterisks indicate abstracts, reviews, society reports,
correspondence and discussions. The names of the authors ar
given in parenthesis).

American Psychopathological Association, Sixth Annual Meeting
Anger (Hall)*
Backward Child (Morgan)
Brain, Study of (Fiske)
Character (Shand)
Christianity, (Hannay)
Continuity (Lodge)
Criminal Types (Wetzel & Wilmanns)
Daily Life, Psychology of (Seashore)
Delinquent, (Healy)
Delusions, Constructive (MacCurdy and Treadway)*
Development and Purpose (Hobhouse)
Dream Analysis (Solomon)*
Dream Life (Anon)*
Dreams, Interpretation of (Horton)*
Dreams, Meaning of (Coriat)*
Everyday life, Psycho Analysis of (Bellamy)*
Feeble Mindedness (Goddard)
Freud and his School (Van Renterghem)*
Human Motives (Putnam)
Hysteria as a Weapon (Meyerson)*
Hystero-Epilepsy, Psychoanalytic Treatment of (Emerson)*
Laughter (Bergson)
Mental Disorders (Harrington)
Metaphysics, Necessity of (Putnam)*
Nightmare, Analysis of (Bellamy)*
Perception, Illusions of (Arps)*
Personality, Delusions of (Southard)*
Phipps Psychiatric clinic
Possession (Fraser)
Post-traumatic Nervous and Mental Disorders (Benon)
Primitive Races, Sex Worship and Symbolism in (Brown)*
Primitive Tribes, Psychoneuroses among (Coriat)*
Psychical, Adventurings in (Bruce)
Psychobiology, (Dunlap)
Psychology, Educational (Thorndike)
Psychology, General and Applied (Munsterberg)
Psychoneuroses, Treatment of *
Sexual Tendencies in Monkeys, etc (Hamilton)
Sleep and Sleeplessness (Bruce)
Social Psychology (McDougall)

Socrates, Psychopathology of (Karpas)*
Stammering, Remarks upon Dr. Coriat's paper (Solomon)*
Stuttering, Experimental Study of (Fletcher)
Stuttering, Psychological Analysis of (Swift)*
Supernatural Explanations (Williams)*
Tics (Solomon)*

Arps, George F.
Bellamy, Raymond
Brown, Sanger
Carrington, H.
Castle, W. E.
Clark, L. Pierce
Coriat, Isador H.
Dearborn, George V. N.
Elliott, R. M.
Emerson, L. E.
Fraser, Donald
Hall, G. Stanley
Harrington, Milton A.
Horton, Lydiard.
Holt, E. B.
Jones, Ernest
Karpas, Morns J.
MacCurdy, John T.
Myerson, A.
Putnam, James J.
Solomon, Meyer
Southard, E. E.
Swift, Walter B.
Taylor, E. W.
Treadway, Walter L.
Troland, Leonard T.
Van Renterghem, A. W.
Van Renterghem, A. W.
Williams, Tom A.




Clinical Director and Pathologist, Taunton State Hospital Taunton State
Hospital Papers, 1914-5

THE progress in our understanding of hysteria has come largely through the
elaboration of the so-called mechanisms by which the symptoms arise. These
mechanisms have been declared to reside or to have their origin in the
subconsciousness or coconsciousness. The mechanisms range all the way from
the conception of Janet that the personality is disintegrated owing to
lowering of the psychical tension to that of Freud, who conceives all
hysterical symptoms as a result of dissociation arising through conflicts
between repressed sexual desires and experiences and the various censors
organized by the social life. Without in any way intending to set up any
other general mechanism or to enter into the controversy raging concerning
the Freudian mechanism, which at present is the storm center, the writer
reports a case in which the origin of the symptoms can be traced to a more
simple and fairly familiar mechanism, one which, in its essence, is merely
an intensification of a normal reaction of many women to marital
difficulties. In other words, women frequently resort to measures which
bring about an acute discomfort upon the part of their mate, through his
pity, compassion and self-accusation. They resort to tears as their
proverbial weapon for gaining their point. In this case the hysterical
symptoms seem to have been the substitute for tears in a domestic battle.

Case History--Patient is a woman, aged thirty-eight, of American birth and
ancestry. Family history is negative so far as mental disease is concerned,
but there seems to have been a decadence of stock as manifested in the
steady dropping of her family in the social scale. She is one of two
children, there being a brother, who, from all accounts, is a fairly
industrious, but poverty-stricken farmer. Her early childhood was spent in
a small village in Massachusetts. She received but little education,
largely because she had no desire to study and no aptitude for learning,
although she is by no means feeble-minded. The menstrual periods started at
fourteen, and have been without any noteworthy accompanying phenomena ever
since. History is negative so far as other diseases are concerned. She
worked as a domestic and in factories until she was married for the first
time at the age of twenty. She had no children by this marriage. It is
stated on good authority that she took preventive measures against
conception and if pregnant induced abortion by drugs and mechanical
measures. At the end of eight years there was a divorce. Just which one of
the partners was at fault is impossible to state, but that there was more
than mere incompatibility is evident by the reticence of all concerned.
Shortly afterward, she married her present husband with whom she has lived
for about nine years. He is a steady drinker, but is a good workman, has
never been discharged, and, apparently, his drinking habits do not interfere
with the main tenor of his life. He lives with the patient in a small house
of which they occupy two garret rooms, meagerly furnished, though without
evidence of dire poverty.

From her fifteenth year the patient has been subject to fainting spells. By
all accounts they come on usually after quarrels, disagreements or
disappointments. They are not accompanied by blanching, by clonic or tonic
movements of any kind, they last for uncertain periods ranging from five
minutes to an hour or more, and consciousness does not seem to be totally
lost. In addition she has vomiting spells, these likewise occurring when
balked in her desires. She is subject to headaches, usually on one half of
the head, but frequently frontal. There is no regular period of occurrence
of these headaches except that there is also some relation to quarrels, etc.
On several occasions the patient has lost her voice for short periods
ranging from a few minutes to several hours following particularly stormy
domestic scenes.

On July 29 of this year she was suddenly paralyzed. That is to say, she was
unable to move the right arm, the right leg, the right side of the face, and
she lost the power of speech entirely; there was complete aphonia. This
"stroke" was not accompanied by unconsciousness, but was preceded by severe
headache and much nausea. During the three weeks that followed she remained
in bed, recovering only the function of the arm. Her husband fed her by
forcing open her mouth with a spoon. She did not lose control of the
sphincters. As she manifested no other progress to recovery despite the
administration of drugs, numerous-rubbings and liniments, the physician in
charge called the writer into consultation.

Physical Examination Aug. 20--A well-developed, fairly well nourished woman,
appearing to be about thirty-five years of age. Face wears an anxious
expression and she shuns the examiner's direct gaze. Movements of the right
hand and arm are now fairly free. There is no appreciable difficulty in any
of its functions according to tests made for ataxia, strength, recognition
of form, finer movements, etc., in fact, she uses this hand to write with,
as she cannot talk at all. Such writing is free, unaccompanied by errors in
spelling, there is no elision of syllables and no difficulty in finding the
words desired. The face is symmetrical on the two sides. There is no
evidence of paralysis of the facial muscles. In fact, the cranial nerves, by
detailed examination, are intact, except in so far as respiration and speech
are concerned. The right leg is held entirely spastic, the muscles on both
sides of the joints, that is, flexors and extensors, being equally
contracted. It is impossible to bend this leg at any joint except by the use
of very great force. The reflexes everywhere are lively but are equal on
the two sides, and none of the abnormal reflexes is present, including in
this term Babinski, Gordon and Oppenheim.

Sensation--There is very markedly diminished reaction to pin prick all over
the right side, including face, arm, chest, leg and tongue. In some places
complete analgesia obtains. Reaction to touch is likewise diminished and
recognition of heat and cold is impaired.

Speech--There is complete loss of the ability to make any sound, either
voiced or whispered; that is to say, there is complete aphonia,-- there is
loss of all voice. The patient understands everything, however, and writes
her answers to questions rapidly and correctly. She can read whatever is
written, there is no difficulty in the recognition of objects, no evidence
of any aphasia whatever.

The diagnosis--hysteria--can hardly be doubted. The history of headaches,
fainting spells without marked impairment of consciousness, vomiting spells,
hemianaesthesia, hemianalgesia, complete aphonia and an exaggerated
paralysis, not only of the right leg, but of the ability to thrust out the
tongue, while at the same time all other cranial functions were unimpaired
together with the apparent health of the individual in every other respect,
make up a syndrome hardly to pass unrecognized.

Treatment--The patient was entirely inaccessible to direct suggestion, for
no amount of assurance that her leg was all right enabled her to move it.
When such suggestions were made, she shook her head firmly and conclusively,
and this is true of suggestions concerning speech. This point is of
importance in the consideration of the mechanism. Attempts at hypnotism
failed ingloriously. Psychoanalysis was deferred for the time, and recourse
was had to indirect suggestion and re-education.

The first function to be restored was the power of bending the leg which
hitherto had been held entirely spastic. The patient was assured that while
she had lost the power of using the limb, a little relaxation of the muscles
of the front of the leg would permit it to be bent. Her attention was
distracted while at the same time a firm, steady pressure was put upon the
leg above and below the knee joint and advantage taken of every change in
the tone of the muscles involved in keeping the leg extended. Little by
little the leg was bent until finally it was completely flexed, this for the
first time in three weeks. Her attention was called to this fact and she was
assured that upon the physician's next attempt to bend her leg, resistance
would be lessened and she would be able to aid somewhat as well. This
proved true. Then the leg was only partly supported by the physician while
the patient was assured that with his help she would be able to bend it more
freely. From this, she passed on to the ability to move the leg without any
assistance on the part of the writer. After having been given exercise in
bending the leg for some twenty or thirty times, with complete restoration
of this ability, she was induced to get out of bed, and while standing erect
she was suddenly released by the physician. She swayed to and fro in a
rather perilous manner but did not fall. Finally, by gradation of tasks set,
by a judicious combination of encouragement and command, she was enabled to
walk. She was then put to bed and assured that upon the physician's next
visit she would be taught to walk freely. Meanwhile, the husband was
instructed that he must not allow her to stay in bed more than an hour at a
time and that she must come to the table for her meals.

On the physician's next visit, two days later, it was found that the husband
had not been able to induce his wife to come to the table, and that he had
been unable to get her to walk. The physician then commanded her to get out
of bed, which she did with great effort. She was then put back to bed and
instructed to get up more freely and without such effort, demonstration
being a visual one, in that she was shown how best to accomplish the task
set. Finally, at the end of the visit, she was walking quite freely and
promised in writing, for she had not as yet learned to talk, that she would
eat at the table.

The next day instruction was commenced along the lines of speech. Upon being
asked to thrust out her tongue, that organ was protruded only a short
distance, and she claimed, in writing, to be unable to protrude it further.
Thereupon it was taken hold of by a towel and alternately withdrawn from and
replaced into the mouth. After a short period of such exercise she was
enabled to thrust the tongue in and out. She was then instructed to breathe
more freely; that is to say, to take short inspirations and to make long
expirations, this in preparation for speech. She was unable to do this, the
expiration being short, jerky and interrupted. Thereupon the examiner placed
his two hands, one on each side of her chest, instructed her to inspire, and
when she was instructed to expire forced his hands against her ribs in order
to complete the expiratory act. After about fifteen or twenty minutes of
this combination of instruction and help the patient was able to breathe by
herself and freely. She was then instructed to make the sound "e" at the end
of expiration. This she was unable to do at first, but upon persistence and
passive placing of her mouth in the proper position for the sound, she was
able to whisper "e."  From this she rapidly went on to the other vowel
sounds. Then the aspirate "h" was added, later the explosives, "p," etc.,
until at the end of about two hours she was enabled to whisper anything
desired. Her husband was instructed not to allow her to use her pencil any
more, and she promised faithfully to enter into whispered conversation with
him, although it was evident that she promised this with reluctance.

Upon the next visit, two days later, she was still whispering, and when
asked if she could talk aloud, shook her head and whispered "No," that she
was sure she could not. Efforts to have her make the sound "a," or any of
the vowels in a voiced manner failed completely. She was then instructed to
cough. Although it is evident that a cough is a voiced sound, she was able
to do this, in a very low and indistinct manner. She was then instructed to
add the sound "e" at the end of her cough. This she did, but with
difficulty. Finally, after much the same manoeuvering which has been
indicated in the account of how she was instructed to whisper, she talked
freely and well. When this was accomplished the husband was instructed to
have her dress herself and to take her to: some place of amusement, and to
keep her out of doors almost continuously.

At all times the patient had complained of a pain in her side which she
claimed was the root of all her trouble. It had been "doctored," to use her
term, by all the physicians in the city and, it was alleged, came after she
had been lifting a paralyzed old lady in the house across the way. Despite
all treatment this pain had not disappeared and the various diagnoses
made--strain, liver trouble, nervous ache had not sufficed to console the
patient or to relieve her. There was no local tenderness, no pain upon
movement, but merely a steady ache. No physical basis whatever for this
trouble could be found. Her medicine for the relief of it was discontinued,
and so, too, were certain medicines she had been obtaining for sleep.

Upon each visit the husband and wife had been informed by the physician that
he did not believe the trouble was organic in its nature, that he believed
it depended upon some ideas that the patient had, and that, furthermore, it
was the result of some mental irritation, compared for the purpose of fixing
the point to a festering sore and which, if removed, would permanently
eliminate the liability of such seizures. The patient and her husband were
informed that the physician intended to delve to the bottom of this trouble
and, by deferring investigation as to its exact nature until the symptoms
had practically disappeared, a way was cleared to obtain their complete
confidence, and at the same time to overcome any unwillingness to accept a
psychical explanation for such palpable physical ills. This latter point is
of importance in dealing with uneducated persons. For the most part, they
are intensely practical and materialistic, and a mere idea does not seem to
them to account for paralysis although, of course, such skepticism is
usually accompanied by superstitious credulity along other lines. Moreover,
by establishing himself as a sort of miracle worker (for so the cure was
regarded), it would be understood that curiosity was not the basis for the
investigation into the domestic life of the patient and her husband, but
that a desire to do more good inspired it.

The physician started his investigation with the statement that he knew from
past experience that some conflict was going on between husband and wife;
that there was some source of irritation which caused these outbursts of
symptoms on the part of the patient, and that unless they told him what was
behind the matter his help would be limited to the relief of the present
symptoms. It was firmly stated that any denial of such discord would not be
believed, and that only a complete confidence would be helpful.

The patient, who had been listening to this statement with lowered eyes and
nervously intertwining fingers, then burst out as follows: There WAS trouble
between them and there always would be until it was settled right,--this
with much emphasis and emotional manifestation. So long as he insisted on
living where they did, just so long would she quarrel with him. She did not
like the neighbors, especially the woman downstairs, she did not like the
room, she did not like anything about the place or the neighborhood, hated
the very sight of it and would never cease attempting to move from there. It
came out on further questioning that the woman downstairs, whom the patient
particularly disliked, was a storm center in that the wife was jealous of
her, although she adduced no very good reasons for her attitude. Moreover,
the patient stated that she wished to move to a district where she had
friends, though other sources of information showed that these friends were
of a rather unsavory character. Her husband was absolutely determined not to
move from his house. He stated that he would rather have her go away and
stay away than move from there; that the rent was too high in the place
where she wanted to move, and that the rent was suitable where they were.
Moreover, for his part, he hated his wife's desired neighborhood and would
never consent to changing his residence from the present place to the other.
It came out that her fainting and vomiting spells and headaches usually
followed bitter quarrels, and on other matters these symptoms usually placed
the victory on her side. On this particular point, however, her husband had
remained obdurate. It was shown that the present attack of paralysis and
aphonia, symptoms of an unusually severe character, followed an unusually
bitter quarrel which had lasted for a whole day and into the night of the

The question arises at this point, "Why did this attack take the form of a
paralysis?"  At first this seemed unaccountable, but later it was found that
the old woman for whom the patient had been caring had a "stroke" with loss
of the power to speak, though no aphonia. The patient had gone to work as a
sort of nurse for the old woman under protest, for she did not wish to do
anything outside of her own light housekeeping, although the added income
was sorely needed since work was slack in her husband's place of employment.
The pain in her side caused her to quit work as nurse, much to her husband's
dissatisfaction until she convinced him that her pain and disability were
marked. It was evident that despite the controversies and quarrels that
prevailed in the household, her husband sincerely loved her, for he stayed
away from his work during the three weeks of her illness to act as her
nurse. Moreover, he spent his earnings quite freely in consulting various
physicians in order to cure her.

It was shown from what both the patient and her husband said, and from the
whole history of their marital life, that she had used as a weapon, though
not with definite conscious purpose, for the gaining of her point in
whatever quarrel came up, symptoms that are usually called hysterical; that
is to say, vomiting, fainting spells and pains without definite physical
cause. This method usually assured her victory by playing upon her husband's
alarm and concern as well as by causing him intense dissatisfaction. With
the advent of a disagreement which could not be settled her way by her usual
symptoms, there followed, not by any means through her volition or conscious
purpose, more severe symptoms; namely, spastic paralysis and aphonia, which,
in a general way, were suggested by her patient. There seems to have been,
and there undoubtedly was, a sexual element entering into this last quarrel;
namely, that she was jealous of the woman who lived downstairs, though
without any proof of her husband's infidelity.

Both patient and her husband finally agreed to the physician's statement
that the symptoms were directly referable to the quarrels, although both
claimed that it had never occurred to them before, a fact made evident by
their questions and objections. No psychoanalysis was possible in this case,
for the man and woman belong to that class of people who feel that they are
cured when their symptoms are relieved. It may be argued, without any
possibility of contradiction, that a psychoanalysis would have revealed a
deeper reaching mechanism and that a closer relationship and connection
between the paralysis and other symptoms with the past sexual experiences of
the patient could have been established. This last claim may be doubted,
however, for there is always a gap between the alleged "conversion" of
mental states into physical symptoms, and this gap can in no case be bridged
over even by Freud's own accounts. The conversion always remains as a mere
statement and is a logical connection between the appearance of physical
symptoms and the so-called conflicts; in other words, it is an explanation
and not a FACT. Compared with the complex Freudian mechanism, with its
repressions, compressions, censors, dreams, etc., the conception of
hysterical symptoms as a marital weapon as comparable with the tears of more
normal women seems very simple and probably too simple. In fact, it does not
explain the hysteria, it merely gives a USE for its symptoms, and the writer
is driven back to the statement that the neuropathic person is characterized
by his or her bizarre and prolonged emotional reactions, which, in turn,
brings us back to a defect ab origine. And the Freudians, starting out to
prove that the experiences of the individual ALONE cause hysteria, by
pushing back the TIME of those experiences to INFANCY (and lately to foetal
life), have proved the contrary, that is, the inborn nature of the disease.



Professor of Education, Emory and Henry College, Emory, Va.

A FEW nights ago I experienced a very interesting nightmare, and,
immediately on awakening, I got up and recorded it, analyzing it as fully as
I was able. This is the first nightmare I have had for several years, and I
never was especially addicted to them. Two years ago I made an introductory
study of dreams,[1] and at that time dreamed profusely, but recently I have
been dreaming very rarely, and when I do dream the experiences are not at
all vivid. I use the term "nightmare" in a somewhat popular sense to mean a
painful or frightful dream accompanied by physical disturbances, such as
heart flutter and disturbances of breathing, and followed on awakening by a
certain amount of the painful emotion which was a part of the dream.
Accepting this definition, the experience which I have to relate was a
typical nightmare. A few words of explanation are necessary to give the
proper setting for the experience. At present I am teaching in the summer
school at this place and my wife is visiting her folks; during her absence,
in order to keep from getting too lonesome, I invited one of the young men
in the summer school to come and room with me and keep me company. With this
as an explanation, I shall copy the original account of the dream as nearly
as possible, making a few corrections of the barbarous language I used in
the half-asleep state.

[1] At Clark University, 1912-1913.

On the night of August 9, 1914, I went to bed at 11.40 o'clock and was soon
asleep. About 3.40 in the morning, the young man, F. K. S., roused me and I
awoke weak, scared, and with a fluttering heart; he said I had been making a
distressing sort of noise, but he could not distinguish any words.
Immediately, I judged that the dream was caused by my lying on my back, and
in an uncomfortable position. As a rule I do not sleep on my back, but for
some reason I had gone to sleep that way this time. Also, it had been
raining when I went to bed, and I had put the windows down, and the
ventilation was bad.

The dream, as nearly as it was remembered, was as follows: I was with
somebody in a buggy and we drove down a hill, across a little stream, and up
the other hill, where we arrived at our destination. I seemed to find
trouble in getting a place to hitch, and I had to take the horse out of the
buggy and I think take the harness off. I distinctly remember that in the
dream this was a hardship to me, as it would have been in waking life, for I
am not a good hand with horses, and do not like to work with them. All this
is very hazy to me, and I do not know with whom I was driving, but think it
was a lady, possibly my wife. There were other people at this place and
other horses and buggies. (Could it be called a case of reversion to
childhood, in that there were only horses and buggies and no automobiles?)
There is a break in the dream here, and we were within some kind of a
building where there was a crowd of people. As it seems now, we were around
some kind of a rotunda, but this is very vague. The important part seems to
be that there were two people, a man and a woman, who were talking very
stealthily and earnestly to each other, and they soon drew me into the
conversation. It runs in my head now that the man was my father (who has
been dead for some years), though I am not sure about this, while there is
no recollection of who the woman was. Now it appeared that there was some
woman in the crowd who had some peculiar evil influence over every one and
whom everybody feared. This man and woman were planning to slip off from
this wicked woman and meet me and the one with me on the road, and in some
way, which is not now clear, we were to circumvent this bad woman and break
her power. The man explained and explained to me that we were to meet at
certain springs which were at the side of the road, but it seemed that I
could not get it into my head where they were, and I was afraid I would not
stop at the right place. At last I thought I knew where he meant, and told
him that I would stop there and wait until he came up, but then I happened
to think that he might be ahead of me anyhow, and could stop and wait for
me; then I was sure he would be ahead, for I remembered that I had to
harness and hitch up the horse and his was all ready. And now we seemed to
be getting our horses, and I remarked to him that I was not a bit good hand
at working with horses, and he expressed his sympathy that I had this work
to do.

Here was a second break in the dream, and I was standing in a hallway,
looking through a window into a room. In this room sat my wife and the evil
woman whom everybody feared. She had learned our play (I was conscious of
this in the dream), and was determined to have her revenge, and prevent us
carrying out our plan. She had hypnotized my wife, and had her scared so
that she was in great mental agony. I heard her saying, "Now you are a big
black cat," or something much like this, at any rate making her think she
was a cat and at the same time leaving her partly conscious of who she was.
This woman looked exactly like a woman who lives in the neighborhood where
my wife is now visiting and of whom she has always been somewhat afraid
because of her sharp tongue and unpleasant ways. Immediately, I was filled
with a great fear for my wife and with a raging anger against the woman. I
broke out into calling her all kinds of names, especially saying, "You
devil, you devil," and trying to get through the window to her. I tore out
the screen, but had a great deal of difficulty in doing so. When I had
finally succeeded in tearing the screen out, I threw it at her head, but she
did not dodge, but sat boldly upright and seemed to defy me. Then I tried
to jump through the window to get to her, but was so weak that I could not
do so; this seems strange since the window was not more than three feet from
the floor. I was making unsuccessful attempts to get through, and was
railing at the woman when S. awoke me. I awoke weak, and for some time
continued to feel frightened, though not enough so to keep me from talking
and writing out the dream. I got up and put up the windows (since the rain
had stopped), and about this time a very fair explanation of parts of the
dream came to me. I immediately told it to S., in order to keep from
forgetting it, and then decided to write it down, which I proceeded to do.

Parts of the dream seem to analyze very nicely, but there are parts which
seem to resist analysis; I did not try to force the analysis but gave only
the part which came spontaneously. In the first part of the dream I was
driving in a buggy, I crossed a creek and had trouble with unharnessing a
horse. Several times recently, I have mentioned the fact that I never liked
to work with horses, even when on the farm at home. I do not remember of
having mentioned this fact on the day of the dream, but Mr. C. had stopped
in to call on me that evening and had mentioned that he drove in in a buggy.
I had not seen the buggy and had wondered what he did with it, and had not
remembered to ask him. He had also told me that he was going to a place
called Yellow Springs; I knew about where Yellow Springs are, but could not
quite place them and had tried to figure out what direction he would go.
This seemed to come out very clearly in the dream, when I was trying to find
out where these unknown springs by the side of the road were. I had related
during the evening how I recently fell into a creek with my clothes on and
this probably accounted for the creek over which I drove in the dream. In
the dim second part of the dream, the rotunda seems to have resembled the
chapel of the new college building which is being builded, and about which I
was talking that afternoon.

The last part of the dream seems to have been the important part, and in it
several of the Freudian mechanisms show up very plainly. Just before going
to bed, I had read an article about Vera Cheberiak, the Russian murderess of
the Mendel Beilis case, and how she is now engaged in suing different people
for slander. The article had described her as coolly and impudently sitting
up in court and seeming to realize her power over her enemies, and it had
also made a point of the great fear in which she is held. I had read another
article about the city of Salem, which has recently burned, and I had
remembered that it was the "witch" town of colonial days where people were
supposed to be turned into black cats. I had read still another article,
descriptive of country life, which described how a man had climbed a tree
after a cat which was eating young robins. I had just a day or two before
received a letter from my wife, which contained the news that she was going
to visit this woman whom she fears, but whom she must visit because of their
social relation As already mentioned, the woman in the dream looked just
like this one, and it will readily be recognized that the dream woman was a
condensation of Vera Cheberiak, a Salem "witch," and the woman whom my wife
fears. The fact that she was hypnotized into thinking she was a cat would
naturally accompany the Salem witch, and the cat in the apple tree,
concerning which I had read, might also have entered the dream. Aside from
these, there is another element which may have been instrumental in causing
my wife to be punished by thinking she was a cat. I once saw a woman who was
suffering from melancholia who thought she was a cat, and her mental
suffering seemed to me to be about the keenest of any that I have ever
observed, this possibly caused the dream-making factor to represent her as
thinking she was a cat. The hall, window and screen are also easy of
explanation. That evening I had examined a window which opens from our
bedroom into a hall, and had wondered whether we would continue to keep it
curtained this year or take the curtains away. When I put down the windows
to keep out the driving rain, I had had trouble with a screen much as I did
in the dream.

The heart of the dream seems to be in this last scene. That morning (it was
Sunday) I had very unwillingly, and from a sense of duty, gone to a tiresome
and long-drawn-out church service. I had become so fatigued during the
service, and so disagreed with some of the things the preacher said, that I
was conscious of a mild desire to swear and throw something. I had
humorously mentioned this fact after the service, but there was quite an
element of truth in the jest. The dream gave me the chance of my life to
fulfil this desire, and I seized the opportunity by breaking into a stream
of profanity (not very successful profanity, I fear, as I never use it when
awake and therefore was not in good practice) and throwing the screen at the
woman. But was there not a deeper meaning than this in the dream? I think
so decidedly; it seems that it would be a lot of trouble to construct such a
tremendous nightmare just to give me an opportunity to swear and throw
something, because a preacher had been somewhat tiresome. There was
evidently a deeper and more subtle wish which was also fulfilled. That
evening I had walked up the railroad track with a crowd of young people and
where the paths crossed we had all split up and gone different directions.
Two young ladies had gone back to their boarding places across the campus,
and I had suggested to the young fellow with me that we go along with them.
However, he objected, and we walked back down the railroad track. Now, it
had occurred to me that he probably thought I was not within my bounds as a
married man when I wanted to walk back with these young ladies; something of
the same idea had come to me that day when some one had said in a
conversation, "Professor B. is the most satisfied man on the campus whose
wife is away." I had wondered if they thought I did not care for my wife and
vaguely wished I had some way of showing my love for her, and, more than
that, these suggestions had very naturally made me wonder if I really care
for her as much as I should. I could not have asked for a better opportunity
to serve and show my love for my wife than the dream gave me, and at the
same time it assured me of my affection for her. There is still another
element of repression in this and that is that I have for some time been
wanting to forcibly express myself against the unpleasant ways of this lady
whom my wife so fears. In the dream, I very freely and fully followed this

This far I can go in the analysis and feel sure of my ground. It will be
noticed that I have not resorted to symbolism, and have made very little
technical use even of the Freudian mechanisms. I could very easily plunge
into symbolism and more elaborate analysis, but should I do so I fear I
would be in the same condition as a bright young scholar who made an
elaborate study of Freudian theories. He expressed himself by saying that it
was a "chaotic inferno." This analysis will seem very unfinished to many of
the well-trained readers of the JOURNAL, and so, in a way, it does to me,
but it may be interesting as the work of a layman rather than a trained
physician. I have not used the word "sexual" in this paper, but the reader
can judge for himself if the impulses would come under this heading, either
in the more narrow use of the term or in the broader meaning which Freud has
given it. For myself, I see no possible objection in employing the word
"sexual" in this connection.

The uncertain parts of the dream are as interesting in a way as the others.
Why did I not know with whom I was riding, and why were the persons with
whom I talked more certain in their identity? Here, of course, is the place
where it would be easy to find a repression if such existed and--I
believe--if it did not exist. Whether there is such a repression there or
not I do not know, but I see no necessity for considering that there is one
there just because there is a dim place in the dream. In the study which I
made of dreams a year or so ago, I became convinced that there is a
principle of dream-making which has not been noticed. I will throw out a
suggestion here in the hope that some one will study it further, but will
give no elaborate discussion in this paper. Briefly, it is that only those
things appear in a dream which are necessary to express the meaning of the
dream. A few illustrations may make this clear. Every one has noticed the
rarity with which colors and sunshine appear in dreams; I have found,
however, that colors and sunshine always appear if there is any necessity
for their doing so. Some one dreams of a melon and looks to see if it is
ripe; he sees the red color; he dreams of a stream which he thinks is a
sewer and smells it to see if it gives off an odor and finds that it does;
he dreams of pulling his fishing line to see if there is a fish on it and
senses the pull of the fish; I have examples in abundance which go to
indicate that taste, smell, tactual, kinaesthetic, color sensation or any
other kind will appear in a dream when they are called for to complete the
meaning of the dream, but they are not common because they are very rarely
needed. Even in waking life we rarely think in these terms. If this little
principle prove true, it would be easy to understand why certain parts of a
dream are dim without going to the doubtful process of positing a
repression. The persons in the dream were not recognized simply because
there was no need for them to be; the dream expressed the pertinent meaning
just as well without them as with them. They were observed just as many of
us would observe the occupants of a street car in waking life; we could
possibly not describe, even partly, any one of the occupants of the car
which we used on our way to the office or home.

Before leaving this nightmare, I want to call attention again to the somatic
elements. I was lying on my back and in a cramped position, the air was
closer than usual, and my circulation was naturally deranged. When I awoke I
was strongly inclined to give the physical elements a large amount of the
responsibility for the dream, and I have not found occasion to change my
mind in this matter. I think that even the inability to jump through the
window in the dream was caused by the weak and exhausted state of my body,
due to the poor circulation and cramped position.



THOSE; of us who have devoted a certain amount of our time and energy to the
study of dreams have early come to realize the value of a dream as a
starting-point in the analysis of certain mental states, particularly those
of an abnormal character.

Frequently, in the hopeless tangle of symptoms, complaints and disconnected
facts in the history as originally obtained, especially in old-standing
cases, one does not really know just where to begin, what to start with in
the first efforts to struggle with the problem of the ultimate genesis and
evolution of the condition which is presented to him at the particular
moment. Of course, by a careful review of the patient's past life history,
gone over by persistent questioning and cross-examination, one can begin
with the family history and step by step trace the history of the patient
from earliest childhood or infancy through the various stages and phases of
activity and development up to the very moment of examination. This may at
times appear quite dull, quite uninteresting and entirely unnecessary to
certain patients. For this reason and also for many other reasons, which I
shall not enumerate at this point it is at times well to resort to dream
analysis. And in analyzing dreams it is well to remember a fact, with which
I believe all psychoanalysts will agree, namely, that by a most thorough and
far-reaching analysis of a SINGLE DREAM, we can, by following out to the
ultimate ends the various clues which are given us and the various by-paths
which offer themselves to us in the course of the analysis--we can, I
repeat, should we be so inclined, root up the entire life history of the
dreamer. This may not be necessary in all cases. But, at any rate, if we
desired so to do for scientific purposes, we could arrive at such results.
In such an analysis we would, of course, first take up, individually, every
portion and every element of every portion of the dream, and by means of
each such lesser or greater element of the dream, we could arrive at a mass
of material, a wealth of information concerning the past experiential,
emotional, mental and moral life of the individual whose dream we were at
the moment analyzing. In fact, one could ferret out the full life history in
great detail, thus obtaining a complete autobiography leading far down into
the depths of the dreamer's mental life and into the inner world of his own.
With the material so obtained one could truly reconstruct the complete life
history, piecemeal, until the wonderful and inspiring structure of the
mental world of the dreamer would be reared, reaching far back to early
childhood and perhaps even to infancy, extending so far forward as to give
us a prophecy, based on the dreamer's dynamic trends and emotional trends
and leanings, of the probable future, stretching forth its tentacles in all
directions, and, uncovering the psychic underworld in its every part,
holding up before our eyes the naked mind, in its length, its breadth and
its thickness.

I am not referring here particularly to the employment of the method of
hypnosis, especially as practiced by Prince, or to Freud's so-called free
association (which is frequently really forced association) or Jung's word
association methods. I am speaking only of analysis of the dream by ordinary
conversation and introspection, in the normal waking state. Of course, were
the latter method supplemented by these other methods, the results would be
so much the more complete and far-reaching. I may mention, specifically,
that the employment of Freud's free association method would be helpful here
in gathering information because, when employing this method, one
practically forces the one being analyzed to think by analogy and by
comparison, insisting that he tell you what a certain word or name or scene
or experience or what not reminds him of, what it resembles, what he can
compare it to, no matter how remote its connection, no matter how unrelated,
how far-fetched or how silly the association may appear in his own eyes--in
other words, we demand that he co-operate by suspending critical selection
and judgment. Although, as I say, Freud's, Jung's, Prince's and other
methods may be advantageously employed, still, it seems to me, although I
cannot yet state this in final or positive terms, that, at least in most
cases, such an unravelment and resurrection of the past life history can be
obtained by an analysis of the dream conducted in the ordinary, waking
state, and the usual conversational mode of history-taking and daily oral

It needs no repetition or elaboration to convince psychoanalysts (I use the
term "psychoanalyst" in the broad, unrestricted sense of the word, including
the supporters of all possible schools or standpoints or methods in
psychoanalysis or mental analysis, and not limiting it to Freud's
psychoanalysis) of the essential and fundamental truth of this statement. I
shall, therefore, not unnecessarily lengthen this paper by endeavoring to
bring forth complete evidence of the truth of this assertion.

As a matter of fact, this conclusion or generalization applies not alone to
dreams but to any single element in the objective or subjective world which
may be seized upon as the initial stimulus and from which, as a
starting-point, association of ideas, in ordinary conversation or aided by
any of the more or less experimental or artificial but valuable methods
heretofore mentioned, may be begun and continued ad libitum or even ad
infinitum, under the tactful guidance and judgment of the investigator. For
example, if I may be permitted to tread upon the dangerous path of
near-sensationalism or extremism, I may mention that were I to take even so
common, so widely used, and so relatively insignificant a word as the
definite article "the" as the initial stimulus, and have one of my fellowmen
or fellow-women (whose full co-operation, it is assumed, I have previously
obtained) give me one or more free or random word associations, and
thereafter, with these newly acquired elements, continued to forge my way
into the thickly wooded and unexplored recesses of the unknown and
mysterious forest of the mind, I doubt not but that I should achieve the
same results as if I had started upon my journey with a dream. If this be
true, and I firmly believe that it is, in the case of that universally used
and apparently inconsequential word "the," to which the normal person can be
expected to have such a large number of associations, of varying degrees of
intimacy or remoteness, how much truer is it when we have such a definite
mental fact or mental state as a dream as the starting-point of our hunting

The dream gives us something tangible to start with, something near at home
to the dreamer or patient, something interesting and amusing to him,
something baffling and so frequently unintelligible to him, and, as a
consequence, a more conscientious, earnest and wholehearted co-operation can
be obtained from the person whose mental life is being investigated. Here is
something vivid to him, something of personal interest to him. And so we can
look to him to lend us his aid in better spirit and in fuller measure than
might otherwise be obtainable.

I have been referring in my previous remarks, for the most part, to
unravelment of the normal individual's life history. But my remarks are
equally applicable to a mentally disturbed individual's life history and to
the genesis of abnormal psychic states, particularly those to be met with in
the neuroses and psychoneuroses.

So true is the generalization, indeed the truism or dictum here laid down,
that, in only the psychoanalyst knows how many instances, by the analysis of
a single, even the very first dream, one can arrive at the rock-bottom depth
of the trouble at hand--yes, at the very genesis of the condition. It is not
my intention in this paper to report such cases in full detail, since the
presentation of even a single such case would be too lengthy for publication
in an ordinary medical or other journal, and in many instances might well go
to make a good-sized book, a real autobiography of more or less interest, if
not to the average reader, at least to the psychoanalyst and to the person
who has undergone the psychoanalysis. Without attempting to present an
elaborate history or complete analysis, but rather merely to call attention
to the truth of the general problem which is being discussed in this paper,
I shall, however, mention a few definite illustrations of this sort.

A man of sixty was brought to my dispensary clinic by his wife (I say
"brought" and not "accompanied" by his wife, advisedly). She accompanied him
into my examining room. He had an almost complete aphonia, spoke hoarsely
and in a whisper and presented all the signs of abductor laryngeal
paralysis; added to which there was a partial hemiplegia of the right side
involving the upper and lower extremities, but not the face or any of the
cranial nerves other than that supplying the right laryngeal abductor. I
shall not give any other points in the history except that this paralysis
was of four months' duration, there was some resistance to movements at the
elbow and knee, but Babinski and other indications of a central organic
lesion were absent. The results of the rest of the physical examination need
not be mentioned except that the patient presented evidences of
arteriosclerosis. The patient was of dull mentality, meek humble and
subservient; he was much below par mentally (I did not put him through any
special intelligence tests), had little information to offer, constantly
resorted to "I don't know" as a reply, and could co-operate but little. I
did, however, obtain the important bit of information that seventeen years
ago he had had an almost complete aphonia of several weeks' duration and
that one day, while on board ship, he became seasick, vomited, became
frightened, went to his room, and suddenly his voice returned to him. So
sudden was the transformation that many of his fellow-passengers insisted
that he had been deceiving them and had purposely simulated the condition he
had previously presented. The case was one of hysteria, the patient
presenting at the time of my examination signs of abductor laryngeal
paralysis (laryngological examination disclosed a right-sided abductor
palsy) and right-sided partial hemiplegia.

For the next two visits the wife accompanied, or rather, brought the patient
to the clinic and I could get but little information and consequently
progressed but little. I asked him, in her presence, to come alone the next
time--which he did. The description of the onset of the attack, which was
furnished me on his previous visits, proved the hysterical nature of the
condition: he had suddenly been attacked by nausea and vomiting, fell to the
floor, lay there, more or less unconscious (as he described it) for five or
ten or more minutes, was assisted to his feet, went to his bed with
practically no assistance, a few hours later found that he could speak
little more than above a whisper, and in another few hours or more his right
side became weak and failed him. He had insisted that the onset came on
suddenly. He had denied any quarrels or trouble at home. Nothing could be
obtained from him as to his thoughts just prior to the attack or as to any
special emotional shocks.

On his fourth visit I asked him to tell me any dream he had had recently and
which had made an impression upon him. He could give me no aid. Nothing
came to mind. I asked him if he had dreamed the night before, and he told
me he had had a dream the afternoon of the preceding day, during an
afternoon nap. Here is the dream: He found himself struggling with a
tremendous snake, the upper part of which was in human form, the features
being very hazy and not at all recalled. The snake was vigorously
endeavoring to enwrap itself about him and to strangle him, and he was
desperately and fiercely struggling to defend himself against it and to free
himself from it--and yet he could not fight it off. In desperation and in
fear he cried aloud for help. This was the end of the dream, for, at this
point, members of his family came rushing toward him to inquire what was
wrong with him, and due partly to shock and his own activity in the dream,
and partly perhaps to the noise of the footsteps and of the conversation of
those who came running toward him to inquire into the cause of his
distressful cries, he awoke.

The thoughts and reveries just preceding the dream and the thoughts and
experiences during the morning preceding the dream, although the true
inciters of the dream, and although concerned with the central figure (his
wife) in this little drama, need not be detailed since the dream has a wider
and more deeply arising significance.

I could not learn definitely from him whether the series of associated
thoughts turned first from his wife to his troubles with her, to her
attitude toward him, and then to her resemblance in this respect (her
nagging, pestering persistence and actual persecution of him) to a snake
which is endeavoring to enwrap itself about him, to strangle him, to
withdraw from him his very life's blood, etc. This may or may not have been
the line of associations just preceding the dream.

He had no idea as to what the dream meant. Using free association, in
ordinary face-to-face conversation, I asked him what "snake" reminded him
of. The association came in a moment. He smiled, became embarrassed, said
it was foolish of him to tell me this, but it reminded him of his wife. He
had always looked upon his wife as a snake in human form. He had frequently
called her "snake" because of her conduct toward him. She had wound herself
about his life in snake-like fashion.

And then came the story of their troubles. This was his second wife. She
was fifteen years his junior. He was meek, feeble, of weak will-power,
without initiative. She was domineering. Although his wife never told him
so openly and in so many words, he felt convinced that the trouble had begun
more or less because his wife's sexual libido was not satisfied in her
sexual relations with him. He admits that she is a passionate woman, her
sexual libido was of such strength that he, much older than she, and not too
strong physically, could but little gratify her. The first complaints and
the sole trouble which appeared on the surface were financial--he barely
made a living and she complained thereat continually, bitterly and
tyrannically. It seems that her complaint in this direction was justified.
It is difficult to determine just what role her lack of sexual gratification
played-- whether it only acted as stirring up the embers of dissatisfaction
(with his weekly earnings) which already existed, or whether it was the
basic factor, led to her dissatisfaction with her matrimonial choice, and
caused her to seek some more or less valid cause for complaint, in that way
permitting her, more or less consciously, to transfer her dissatisfaction
and discontent from the lack of sexual gratification to the hard pressed
financial condition (which perhaps she might, for that matter, have been
willing to endure, did she but obtain the full gratification of her sexual
craving). At any rate, both of these factors played their role in causing
domestic disagreement, one factor being openly acknowledged as the cause by
his wife, the other factor never mentioned by her, but believed by him to be
an important accessory, if not the main, fundamental and primary source of
the trouble. His wife, using his poor earning capacity as a weapon, and with
the demand for "more money" as her battle-cry, carried on a campaign of
complaint, grumbling, nagging, fault-finding, insult and abuse, but little
short of persecution, making conditions wretched and miserable at home.
Things at length became quite unbearable to him--so much so that, feeble in
willpower and lacking in initiative as he was and is, he was compelled to
leave home and live with his aunt, since his wife had practically deserted
him. Although she had sold out the furniture and the rest of the
furnishings of the home, and had pocketed the money thus received, she
repeatedly called at his aunt's home for no other purpose than to force him
to pay her sums of money for her weekly maintenance. On each such visit she
would act the tyrant, would storm and rage furiously, would subject him to
stinging rebukes and deliver biting tongue-lashings, causing him in
consequence to be much upset and nervous the rest of the day. The very
morning on which he had had the attack, which was followed by his present
trouble (partial aphonia and partial hemiplegia) his wife had paid him one
of these unusually stormy and noisy, and, to say the least, unwelcome
visits. She had carried the attack to such a point that our patient became
so emotionally upset (he is a harmless, emotional, kindly, unassuming and
indifferent sort of old fellow) that he suddenly was attacked with nausea
and vomiting, and, frightened, fell to the floor, with the consequences
above detailed. I need not go further into the history and analysis of this
case, but the story thus far elicited is more than sufficient to show that
here we have a specific instance in which, by the analysis of a single
dream, we have arrived at the genesis of an hysterical paralytic syndrome of
four months' duration. The analysis took but a few minutes. It may be
mentioned, in parentheses, that a full knowledge of the cause of the
condition did not lead to a disappearance of the palsy. In other words, as
we all know, knowledge per se does not lead to action or to the assertion or
development of the will-power. I may say, also, that the events here related
were not suppressed or repressed, for, as soon as the question of his wife
was taken up, the patient admitted that it was she who was the real cause of
his present conditions, and he thereupon detailed the story above related.
He assured me that he had always been fully aware that it was she who had
brought about his present condition, although, of course, he did not know
whether he had had an hysterical, apoplectic or other sort of attack. In
fact he believed his condition was permanent and incurable-- especially
since he had been treated at various neurological clinics for many weeks
past without the slightest improvement or progress.

Were we to follow up this history we could unearth the full life history of
this patient, including the genesis of his early attack of aphonia. But I
deem this unnecessary and inadvisable in this paper, as mentioned

Here, then, we have a definite case in which by the analysis of a single and
incidentally the first dream we have arrived at the genesis of the
psychoneurotic disorder.

From this same standpoint I have studied another case, a married woman of
twenty-nine, with marked neurasthenic and hysterical symptoms (including
astasia-abasia, anesthesias, palpitation of the heart, throbbing sensations
in the stomach and a great many other symptoms). This case I studied for
upwards of four months, with almost daily visits to the hospital where she
was being cared for. I made quite an intensive study of her dream life and
of her past life history, and I find that had I taken the very first dream
which I obtained from her and conducted a thorough analysis with this dream
as my first mile-post, I would have arrived at a full genesis of the
condition, which was of ten years' duration. In this case, also, I must
repeat, there was no indication of repression, the patient having always
understood very well the origin and cause of her condition. Here, too, we
find that the knowledge alone did not lead to her recovery. This case I
shall report in detail at a later date.

In this connection, I cannot keep from reciting the dream of a young girl of
twelve which I had the good fortune to study. She came to me complaining
about her throat. There was something dry, "a sticking" in her throat. She
did not know what it was. Would I look at her throat? I found nothing
abnormal, and was about to dismiss her when I observed that her hands were
bluish. I felt them. They were cold. I thought at once of probable heart
disease. I was soon informed that she had heart disease. She had been told
so by other doctors. This proved to be the case, as I learned on examining

Being keenly interested in this subject of dreams, I wondered whether, if
she were subject to periods of cardiac decompensation of varying degree, she
did not have dreams of a terrifying nature (about burglars, robbery and the
like), because of embarrassment of breathing during sleep, resulting from
her cardiac insufficiency and consequent circulatory and respiratory
disturbance. I asked her whether she had been dreaming much of late. She
told me she had had a dream the preceding night. What was it? I inquired.

She had dreamed that she had died. Her mother had put her in a coffin,
carried her to the cemetery and then proceeded to bury her. Her mother had
first forced something into her mouth (it seemed to be a whitish powder),
and then lowered her into the grave and filled the grave with dirt. That is
all that she could remember.

I shall not enter into a complete analysis or interpretation of this dream.
There is no doubt, however, to every psychoanalyst who has devoted his
attention to dreams, that the analysis of such a dream should prove most
interesting. It is also apparent that by taking up the various elements of
the dream and following them untiringly along the various trails and
ramifications which lead on in various directions, one could unmask the
entire life history of this twelve-year-old girl.

I wish, however, to direct the reader's attention to only one aspect of this
dream--the death of the dreamer. She denied that she feared death or that
she thought of death because of her heart disease or from any other cause. I
next inquired: "Do you wish or have you ever wished you were dead?"  The
reaction of the girl was immediate and intense. She stood frightened,
embarrassed; her eyelids twitched convulsively in rapid succession, her face
gradually assumed a suppressed crying expression, tears came to her eyes,
they soon flowed freely and rolled down her cheeks; she sobbed, and, through
her tears, she uttered, almost inarticulately, the one word, "Yes."  A
convulsive, inspiratory grunt, a bashful, receding, turning away of the head
and body, a raising of the hands to cover her face and hide her tears, and
hasty, running steps to get away, while murmuring audibly "Let me go away,"
followed rapidly one upon the other. I gently seized her hand, calmed and
reassured her. And, through sobs and tears, in almost inaudible tones, in
starts and spurts, and reluctantly replying to questions which were forced
upon her, producing replies which were literally drawn from her against her
will, she told me this little story: A little boy cousin of hers, three
years her junior, had begun school two years or so later than she, and yet,
in spite of this handicap, this little relative had outstripped her in
school, he being now in a higher grade than she herself was. She would not
be so much concerned or worried about this not-to-be-proud-of performance,
had not the boy's mother that week visited her home and there, in the
presence of other people, talked considerably about her boy's progress in
school, his rapid advance as compared with that of our little dreamer, her
relative stupidity and backwardness. And so this boy's mother had continued
for some time in the same strain. This caused our little girl to feel much
embarrassed--in fact, ashamed and mortified. She had felt that way for
several days past, it had made her cry, had made her feel miserable and
unhappy; so much so that she had wished she were dead. I shall not continue
this analysis further. But it is plainly seen that here too, by a single
dream, we have come upon life-experiences, viewpoints and mental material
which affords us efficient and sufficient weapons to boldly attack the
fortress of her full life history, her mental qualities, her trends, her
psychic depth, her mental makeup in its entirety, in its every dimension.

It is interesting to note that on the morning following the experience which
I had with this child, she came to see me a second time, and, on my
examining her throat, it presented the typical picture of bilateral
tonsillitis, the final result of the initial sticking sensation in her
throat, which she had experienced the day before. After taking a culture
from her throat as a matter of routine to exclude a possible diphtheria, the
patient, greatly disturbed because of her newly-discovered trouble, burst
forth into bitter tears, and, still sobbing, rushed abruptly from the room.

A week later, when I saw her again, she had regained her emotional
equilibrium and we reviewed her dream and its analysis without any special
signs of emotional disturbance.

Very interesting, also, was my experience about a week following this when,
casually reciting this little girl's dream, its significance and her
conduct, to an old lady whom I know very well, I found that she too was
presenting all the signs of emotional upset, for, as I proceeded with my
recital, tears gradually came to her eyes, her face assumed a suppressed
crying expression, she tried to smile through her tears, and finally, unable
to control her emotions, she broke out into a free and unrestrained weeping
spell, following which I learned from her that the recital of this girl's
condition, her dream and its meaning, recalled to her mind her darling
daughter, a noble girl of sixteen years of age, who had died some fifteen
years ago, after a long period of incapacitation and a miserable existence
brought on by tonsillitis, chorea, rheumatism and, finally, heart disease,
with all the extreme signs and symptoms of broken cardiac and renal
compensation. Here, then, I had touched another complex, which, if followed
up, would lead me into the innermost depths and recesses of this old lady's
soul-life, into the holiest of holies of her mental life.

The writer will be pardoned for not here giving fuller histories, or for not
carrying out the analyses to their ultimate goals, or for not giving the
interpretations of the two dreams presented. That was not the primary object
of this communication.

I wish, in conclusion, to repeat that through the conscientious and most
far-reaching analysis of a single dream, or, in fact, of a single element of
a dream or a single element or stimulus in the objective or subjective
world, one may, at least not infrequently, unearth the full life history of
normal or abnormal individuals, and the genesis and evolution of
psychopathic affections.

The reader may justly inquire why the analyst should resort to dream
analysis instead of taking the history of the case in the usual way. In all
cases the patient should be permitted to tell her story in her own way.
This method of procedure, with cross questioning, may and should indeed be
sufficient to unravel the case for us in most cases. But if we find that we
have not gained the confidence of the patient and have not that condition of
being en rapport with the patient which is essential for progress and
success in the analysis, one may resort to dream analysis, not so much for
the purpose of following the royal road to what the Freudian school calls
"the unconscious," but rather with the object of obtaining the confidence of
the patient and of having something definite to start with.



Professor of Education, Emory and Henry College, Emory, Va.

A RECENT article by Brill, entitled "Artificial Dreams and Lying,"[1]
recalled to me a little work I did two years ago while engaged in making an
introductory study of dreams as a thesis at Clark University. The part
which is hereby submitted is a fragment of a larger work and, being only a
sort of side issue, was never included in the thesis proper. I have made
only such changes as were made necessary by the fact that this is a fragment
and needed one or two minor changes to make it complete.

[1] Journal Abnormal Psychology, Vol. 9, No. 5.

Let me say at the beginning that I have the greatest and most profound
respect for Freudian theories as interpreted by G. Stanley Hall and other
men of like scholarly ability, but I have never been able to accept the more
extreme form of Freudianism as interpreted by some of the most prolific
writers in this field. I have found that the charges made by Habermann[2]
are substantially true. I find it very helpful indeed, to try to interpret
my own dreams and to assist some of my students to do so according to the
Freudian formula, and to a certain point I believe these interpretations are
undoubtedly true. The question is to find the point beyond which the
interpretation becomes artificial. Personally, I believe that this will
always have to be decided finally by the individual himself rather than by
some outsider who insists on reading in a certain interpretation. I have
come to believe that it is possible for one to become trained to the point
at which he is able to decide just how far the interpretation goes, or, at
least, to approximate it.

[2] Journal Abnormal Psychology, Vol. 9, No. 4.

With these few introductory remarks I shall submit the paper, which was
written in 1912. I have not appended the rather long and cumbersome
bibliography from which I drew these references, but I can supply any
reference that is wanted.

If we examine the Freudian system, we find that it is impossible to disprove
this theory of dreams. If we demonstrate that a dream has no sexual
connection whatever, they have only to say that it is the censor that
blinds, and, by resorting to symbolism and other such very present helps in
time of trouble, they show plainly that we were mistaken. The situation is
the same as it would be if I declared that what I saw as blue appeared
yellow to the rest of the world. The disproof of this and of Freudianism are
equally impossible. But, on the other hand, have the Freudians presented any
proof or argument on the affirmative side of this question? They are over
fond of saying, "Freud has proven thus and so," but in what did the proof
consist? The great answer to all objections has been to analyze dreams and,
so far as I know, the attempt has never failed to show that the dream in
question conformed to the prescribed requirements. And in truth, it is not
a difficult matter to analyze a dream a la Freud. After a little practice,
especially if one has a vivid imagination and is somewhat suggestible, It is
possible to find the repressed sexual wish in every dream. But if we use
such flexible and wonderful factors as the four mechanisms, and, above all,
symbolism, we can find the same things in any other experience. By this I
mean that if we take a bit out of our daily life, a dream of some one else,
a fictitious story, an historical incident, or any other pictured situation
and PRETEND THAT IT IS ONE OF OUR OWN DREAMS and apply the Freudian
analysis, we find that it serves for this purpose as well as a real dream.
When this is the case, it is absurd to put any faith in the analysis of real
dreams, when carried to extremes.

As an illustration of the above statement, the following is a fairly typical
example. The supposed "dream" is a commonplace bit out of my daily life.
This is chosen at random (although Jones would say such a thing is
impossible) and subjected to a dream analysis.


Dream. I was walking along a street on a cold winter night. I looked down
at the cement walk and in this was set a piece of granite on which the
letters "W. H." were cut. Coming to the corner, I looked up and saw on a
short board which was nailed to a post, the name of the street, "Queen
Street," The street running at right angles to this was King Street, and I
turned and went down this. After walking a short distance, I came to a house
from a window of which a light was shining. The house number was "23." I
took a key from my pocket, unlocked the door and entered.

Analysis. In attempting to analyze this (so-called) dream, I was amazed to
find with how many past longings and emotionally-colored experiences it was
associated. I first took up the letters on the sidewalk, and as I repeated
them, letting my mind be as blank as possible in order that the associations
might be free, I gained an immediate response. "W. H."--"Which House"--came
out as in answer to a question. With these words there was a definite visual
image of a young country farm youth standing talking to two persons in a
buggy. I remembered the incident in all its details. I was the young man and
these people were asking the way to a certain place, or at WHICH HOUSE they
should stop. As it so happened, I was at that time keeping company with a
young lady who lived at the very house concerning which they asked. I will
not go into detail any further at this point, for this is a real case and I
should be trespassing on personal ground. But any one who yet remembers his
boyhood courtship, with all its agonies and fears, its hopes and joys, its
disappointments and its pleasures, can see at a glance how important this
occasion is in throwing light on the meaning of the dream. Of course "W. H."
stood for "Which House."

I seemed to get no further in my associations with these letters at this
time, and my thoughts spontaneously turned to the name of the street.
"Queen Street."  Even more readily and completely than in the other case,
there came a whole complex of associations. First there was the name and
image of Miss Agnes Queen, whom I had known for years. But, strange to say,
the image was of this young lady standing and talking to a certain Mr.
Harding. I saw them together but once, and it seemed passing strange that
this incident should be the one remembered in connection with the name. But
the associations were rapidly progressing, and I mentally reviewed parts of
three or four years during which I was working and closely associating with
this Mr. Harding. Here I began to see some light. This Mr. Harding was in
all respects, at least as far as I knew him a man of good morals, but he was
much less particular in his social habits than I was. He was engaged to a
young lady all the time I was with him, and wrote letters to her constantly;
but this fact did not prevent him from paying attentions to other young
women, and I was aware that he was more familiar with them than
conventionality would warrant. In fact he made no attempt to be secret in
the matter, and often poked fun at me for my over sensitivity on the
subject. Here was the key to a whole lot of meaning. The first year I was
with him, I had no sweetheart or any lady friend on whom to center my
affection or to whom I could write. There were a number of young men in our
"squad," as it was called, and nearly all of them had correspondents and it
was a joke among us that I was "out in the cold world with no one to love."
In reality, this was not so much a joke for me at the time, as I tried to
give the impression that it was, and I longed for the very thing of which we
joked. The fact that I was out on the street on a cold winter night in this
dream symbolized being "out in the cold world," as we had used the term

I now took up the letters "W. H." again, and the words "White Horse" came in
response to the stimulus. With little hesitation I placed this as connected
with the Knights of the White Horse of whom Tennyson writes in his poems of
"King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table."  I got very little out of this,
but still the White Horse was a band of men who were unrestrained in their
desires and bore about the same relation to King Arthur's Knights that
Harding did to me. However, the associations did not stop here but went on,
giving what at first seemed to be a meaningless list of words. "W. H." first
called up the words, "Wish Harding"; next, "Will Harding"; next, "With
Harding"; and last, "Walk Harding."  In a minute it flashed on me what this
all meant. "I WISH to do as Harding is doing, to WALK the way he is WITH
him and I WILL."  To walk up Queen Street meant, then, to follow his
example, as he at one time paid some attention to this Miss Agnes Queen.
Perhaps the reason why her name was selected instead of some others was
because his relations to her had been very slight and formal, and thus the
idea was easier for the censor to let into sleeping consciousness than it
would have been if some other names had been taken. "W. H.," then,
symbolized the four expressions that arose in the analysis.

The meaning of "King Street" came last of anything in the dream, but I will
give it now. I did not seem to be able to get anywhere on this for some
time, and the idea kept presenting itself that it symbolized that I was king
of the situation which seemed innocent enough; but at last there came an
association with Nero as portrayed in "Quo Vadis."  I then remembered how I
read this book while in the adolescent stage, and how a cousin made remarks,
very sensuous in their nature, about parts of it. I then got a vision of
the book, "Mad Majesties," which I saw on the library table not long since.
Next came a memory of the French kings as portrayed in the works of Dumas.
At this point, I realized that the idea suggested by the word king is very
often, though not always, an idea or image of a very loose person as far as
his social life is concerned. Thus to walk Queen Street or follow the
example of Harding finds a parallel in walking King Street or following the
example of a king.

With the light in the window, I came into an entirely new field of
associations. I cannot go far into detail here as it would involve others
as well as myself, but suffice to say that the light in the window called up
a paper on the subject of light which was written by a Mr. X. and read in my
hearing. Now Mr. X. and I had both kept company with the same young lady at
different times, and here was another group of emotionally colored
experiences. However, the important function performed by the light was that
it symbolized (together with the house in which it was) the comforts, warmth
and pleasures of the very opposite condition from that of being "out in the
cold world with no one to love."

The house number "23" is associated with at least two occasions. One Sunday
evening; a few of the boys of our "squad," myself among them, went out with
the daughter of our landlady, and one or two other young ladies and took a
boat ride in the park. It was a beautiful summer night and the park was full
of young people who were treating each other to very endearing caresses.
There were so many who wanted boats that only one boat was unoccupied, and
it was No. 23. It had been left because it was a hoodoo number, and the
other boaters were all superstitious. As we were not, we took this boat and
used it. My longing lonesomeness was about at its maximum height on this
night. The other occasion associated with this number is that I became
engaged when I was twenty-three years old and at that time desired greatly
to be married; but, as I was in school, it had to be postponed.

Now the climax of the dream! I took a key from my pocket, unlocked the door
and entered. This is so plain that it hardly needs comment. Being in the
cold world, as symbolized by the cold street, I enter the warmth and comfort
of the lighted house. The key and lock are, of course, phallic symbols and
have special significance for me as I once took a young lady to a banquet at
which the favors were paper keys and hearts. Thus symbolically are fulfilled
all the longings I felt while with Harding, all my desires to be married
when twenty-three, all my adolescent courtship yearnings, and all my
remaining repressed sexual longings.

As a point which may have a little bearing on this, I have recently received
a letter from Harding and in it was information that he is for a time away
from home, and I wondered if he is still careless in his behavior.

This analysis will seem foolish in the extreme to many, and I am one of the
number, but my excuse is that I have copied as closely after the Freudians
as possible. I have only to invite a comparison. This is not a "made up"
dream, but a little bit out of my daily life; just an experience occurring
on the way home from the seminary. The analysis is real in the sense that
the associations arose as I have recorded them.

Perhaps some ardent Freudian might find it in his heart to say that this
analysis only strengthened their position, as it showed how a whole sexual
background underlies our entire life, and therefore our dreams must have a
sexual origin. But the reason why I found a sexual solution of this was that
I started the analysis with a definite Bewnssteinlage, as Titchener would
call it, which consisted of a knowledge that I had started for a certain
kind of solution, and the whole course of the associations was governed by
this. If Freud had at first come into the possession of a theory that every
dream fulfills a fear, or pictures a state of anger or any other emotion, he
would have had just as good success in demonstrating the truth of his
statements. The following analysis will illustrate this. This is a real
dream, but before beginning the analysis, I took the attitude that the
analysis would reveal the fulfillment of a fear or show that the dream was
the dramatic representation of a feared condition as actually existing. It
took some time to get into this attitude, it is true, but when the result
was finally accomplished, the analysis was begun and the attempt was made to
follow the Freudian method as closely as possible under the changed

The Dream. On the night of February first, I dreamed that I was going down
a little hill in company with my brother and Mr. N. We seemed to be in
Colorado, and at the foot of the hill was a little stream which was very
pretty. There was a little waterfall, and a green pool below it, and a mist
hung over the pool. I am not sure I saw the color of this pool. There was
also a huge rock around which the water dashed. Some people were fishing in
the stream. Some one asked if we could see the rainbows, and Mr. N. replied
that he could see only one. I then looked carefully and saw a purple haze in
the mist over the pool and supposed this was what was meant. But, as I
continued to look, I saw a great number of rainbows, or at least patches in
the mist over the water which showed the spectral colors. These were about
two feet in diameter and extraordinarily beautiful. I was very anxious to
get some of the trout which I felt sure were In the stream. As we came
nearer, it seemed that the stream had overflowed and there were several
shallow pools not over a foot deep and eight or ten feet long. In these
pools could be seen fish by the dozen from a foot to eight feet long. I was
slightly troubled because it would muddy my shoes, but I began to try to get
some of them out. I got one very big one by the gill slit, but could not
manage him and had to let him go. I handled several in the dream, but do
not know whether or not I got any out.


I had some trouble in getting any light on this dream, but suddenly much of
the meaning became clear and a whole group of associations came up.
Undoubtedly the trouble I experienced at first was caused by the resistance
of the censor. I will give the associated memories first and explain them

I delight in fishing and have spent many happy hours fishing for trout In
the clear waters of the Colorado streams; but, strange as it may seem, it
was not a memory of any of these which come into consciousness. Instead,
there came up memories of three different instances, each accompanied with
definite visual imagery, and in such rapid succession that I could hardly
tell which came first.

Six years ago last summer, I crossed the Ohio River to spend a day in
Carrolton, Kentucky, and on the way back, I bought some fish of a fisherman
at the river's edge. This man was barefooted and wore a little greasy wool
hat and very ragged clothes. I remember thinking at the time that his work
must be very degrading, and that the river fisherman must be about the
lowest type in that part of the country. I especially noticed his feet and
legs, which were bare to the knees, and which were so sunburned that they
hardly looked like parts of a white man's body. In the analysis of this
dream, the image of the man as he stood there and the memory of the incident
came back with great vividness.

A year or two later, my brother and I were riding along the road at about
the same place, and we met a very miserable-looking specimen of humanity,
driving a poor limping horse to a rickety wagon in which were some pieces of
driftwood. My brother was in a "spell of the blues" at this time, and he
remarked that he was coming to just that condition as fast as he could. The
image and memory of this incident also came into consciousness as if it had
been waiting repressed just under the surface.

The other memory was one in which I did not figure personally. A year or so
ago, my brother was telling me how he and his boy had gone to the river
several times and gone fishing with an old fisherman who lived there. My
nephew, like most boys, had a desire to become a fisherman or hunter, and my
brother had suspected that a little close acquaintance with the way a
fisherman lived would cure him of this desire; in this he was entirely
right, and after a few trips to visit the old fellow, he had expressed
himself as cured of any desire to live the beautiful, pleasant life of a
river fisherman.

Without going any further, it can easily be seen that a fisherman symbolizes
for me everything that is synonymous with failure. Thus, when I stepped out
into the muddy water and began fishing I symbolically became a failure, a
no-account, a man who had failed in the struggle and had not achieved
success. The very fact that we came DOWN HILL to the place of fishing
shows, on the face of it, that a downhill career is symbolized. My brother
was with me, and that is easily explained as a dramatization of the fact
that I was accompanying him on that downhill road to the state of the man in
the rickety wagon which he had prophesied as his future. The water in the
shallow pools was muddy, and I stepped into it just after experiencing a
fear that I would get my shoes wet. Remembering the fisherman's bare brown
feet, this can be interpreted as nothing but a very strong symbolization of
a drop from a cultured and successful circle to a low and unsuccessful one.
I grasp a fish bigger than myself and struggle with it, but am compelled to
give it up. Another symbol: my work is plainly too big for me; this
question is too much for me to handle, and this thesis will ultimately have
to be given up as the big fish is. In fact, I cannot say that I succeeded in
getting ANY fish out of the water and, therefore, I shall never succeed at
anything I undertake, but will land figuratively, if not actually, in the
fisherman's hut.

The Mr. N. who was with us, was cross-eyed which, in itself, seemed to have
no special meaning; but it immediately called up an image of a cross-eyed
man standing at the river's edge at Vevay, Indiana. This fellow was the
picture of ignorance and want. He was telling another man about catching a
big fish a few days before and how he liked that kind of fish boiled so
well, but he could not wait for it to boil, but had fried part of it and
eaten it that way. As I heard him relate this and watched his face, the
whole event seemed to me to be most disgusting. As I was watching him, some
one at my side told me that, because of a drunken spree, he had been
disfranchised. He was also a fisherman and another typical specimen of the
class. Mr. N., having the same facial defect, though in a much less
noticeable way, became identified with him, and I am again found walking
down the hill to oblivion in company with this brother in distress. This is
bad for Mr. N., but it cannot be helped.

The rainbows seem bright enough, but they bring in another disquieting group
of associations. The rainbow is almost, if not quite, a universal symbol of
failure. We all know the old story of going to the end of the rainbow for a
pot of gold, and if we want to belittle any effort we say that the
individual is chasing the rainbow. So here I am again on the downhill road
between two failures, following the rainbow to a hopeless condition of muddy
uselessness. And if it were not bad enough to be following one rainbow, I am
following a great number which must mean that I shall always end in failure
whatever I undertake.

But, besides this, the rainbow has special associations for me. The first of
these associations which came into consciousness was a little booklet made
by a Latin student and handed her professor. I had several years of Greek
and Latin under this teacher and at a certain place in the course, he asked
each student to make a little booklet of some kind, using as much
originality as possible, copy some favorite quotations from De Senectute and
hand in the finished product. Every year he gets these out and exhibits them
as a kind of inspiration. One of them had a rainbow and a pot of gold on the
cover. I spent a great deal of time and work on mine and made a more
elaborate booklet than any other that had been made, but I purposely left it
unfinished and inscribed a statement that this was to typify the kind of
work I did in that department. Of course it was a joke, but I have often
thought that there was method in this madness, and that it really
approximated the true state of affairs. This seeming chance association,
then, is closely connected with my fear of making a failure which is so
clearly dramatized in this dream.

The fact that the dream is placed in Colorado is also important. Two years
ago, I spent the summer in Colorado and had a very delightful time, as was
natural, being on a wedding trip. But during this stay, I did make a total
failure at fishing. I had been a fairly successful trout fisher a few years
before, but I had forgotten the art and did not do enough fishing to
relearn. In other words, my dream gives me to understand that I cannot be
successful even in fishing. One evening my bride and I witnessed a most
beautiful sunset, a rainbow figuring largely in the scene. At this time we
were debating whether or not to go on farther West as I had originally
planned; but circumstances prevented this and instead of going on farther,
we came back East or toward the rainbow. This is just one more place where
the dream so clearly symbolizes a failure to do what I undertake. I will
not carry the analysis any further, though I could find associations by the
hundred which would strengthen the meaning given.

Of course I am not at all conscious of having any such fear as this. In fact
I am rather inclined to be over-confident; but this is, of course, due to
the repressing influence of the censor and only strengthens the analysis.

Examples could be given until the last trump is sounded and the world rolled
up like a scroll, but I do not want to keep any one so long. Whatever we
wish to make out of a dream--the dramatization of a fear, a joy, a joke
(really this is what the Freudians often do), a tragedy, anything that can
be suggested, the result can easily be accomplished if only we be allowed
the use of Freud's mechanisms and a moderate amount of symbolism.

I have tried to show: First, that any situation or experience can be
analyzed with as good success as a dream, and second, that a dream may be
made to mean anything. In other words, with Freud's method, one can
demonstrate anything to suit his taste or belief. Long ago, the saying was
formulated that all roads lead to Rome. This being true, it must also be
true that all roads lead everywhere else. Freud employs a wonderful figure
of a mystical sphere, with its layers and cross veins and other
mineralogical characteristics, to represent the part of consciousness with
the repressed factor at the center well guarded. It would be far more to the
point if he should represent the whole of past experience as the surface of
a country, with its various roads connecting the different centers. The
stations would then represent the experiences, and the roads the association
tracks between them. If one should travel at random over these roads, he
would in time pass through all kinds of towns and cities, but if he started
in quest of a certain type, say mountain villages, he would arrive at his
goal much more quickly than he would otherwise. The Freudians themselves
acknowledge that they have difficulty in knowing when to stop the analysis.
Their plan seems to be to travel until the landscape suits them and then get
off and camp.

Thus, while I have made no attempt to give positive proof or argument that
Freud's theory, in its extreme form is at fault, I have tried to
substantiate my argument that there has been no real argument on the other
side. And when a theory so spectacular and altogether out of the ordinary
is presented, the burden of the proof should very decidedly be thrown on the
positive side. We have no obligation or even excuse for accepting such a
theory on the mere presumption of the originator.

And that Freud's theory is weird and fantastic is a self-evident fact.
Perhaps the Clark University student who very carefully worked it up a few
years ago went a little too far when he said it was a chaotic inferno, but
at any rate, it is far removed from celestial harmony. Sidis takes about the
sanest attitude possible when he refers to certain Freudian writings as
being full of unconscious sexual humor. He observes further as does Prince
and others that the Freudian school is in reality a religious or
philosophical sect. He says that Freud's writings constitute the
psychoanalytic Bible and are quoted with reverence and awe. Kronfeld, in a
most valuable criticism, says that in comparison with Freud's conception of
the vorconscious and its work, Henroth's Demonomania appears a modest
scientific theory.

The attitude of the Freudians is, itself, worth noticing. They are very
prone to consider any criticism as very personal, and fly to the rescue with
all the fervor of a religious fanatic. A work on dreams, because it does not
bear out Freud in all details, calls forth thunderbolts from two continents.
This over-anxious attitude indicates that the belief in the theory is based
on an emotional condition rather than logical reasoning. Bernard Hart, who
is one of those happy individuals who get the best out of Freudianism, shows
the difference between the two kinds of belief by comparing our belief that
the earth goes around the sun and that the man who abuses a woman is a cad.
The cold, indifferent attitude toward the former is in marked contrast to
our warm lively interest in the latter, and the reason is that the belief in
the one is founded on scientific demonstration and in the other on our
feeling in the matter. If we allow this as a gauge by which to measure, it
is not difficult to place the Freudians.

We must not overlook the immense opportunity for suggestion in the work of
psychoanalysis, both on the subject and the one who is in the work. The
Freudians vehemently deny that any of the results of dream analysis are
suggested into the mind of the dreamer, but the evidences are all on the
other side. Freud, in referring to psychoanalysis of hysterical patients,
says, "It is not possible to press upon the patient things which he
apparently does not know, or to influence the results of the analysis by
exciting his expectations." Such an attitude is fatal when it comes to a
question of accurate work. And no less important is the self-suggestion
practiced by the Freudians. When we read of Freud's long struggle in an
attempt to find something which he felt surely was to be found, we see that
he had abundant opportunity to acquire almost an obsession. The long years
since, which he has spent in analyzing dreams and making them all come out
right some way, would serve to more firmly ground his conviction, and the
same is true of his disciples. Put a man to drawing square moons for ten
years, and at the end of the time he will swear that the moon is square.

A large portion of the scientific world seems to have gone mad over the term
"psychoanalysis."  But this kind of work has been done by all peoples and
times under different names. There can be no objection to such an analysis
of a dream if it is done by the right person. The dream may be used to aid
the dreamer in finding out his own life, it is true, and when we understand
psychoanalysis as this process, and only this, it is not objectionable. But
if such is the case there is no need of all the mechanism and symbolism. The
preacher who uses the Old Testament stories of the wars with the Philistines
to illustrate a moral struggle is not to be criticised; but if he maintains
that they were written for that purpose, we should hardly feel inclined to
accept his position. A very inspiring message might be builded on the text,
"The ants are a people not strong, but they prepare their meat in the
summer"; but it is hardly possible that such thoughts were in the mind of
the writer. Just so, a dream or a story or any other situation may be used
to open the locked doors of a life, but to say that the dream has slipped
stealthily out of the keyholes and over the transoms and wonderfully,
mysteriously and magically clothed itself is quite another matter.





WE are frequently confronted with the question: "Just why does an erotic
conflict cause the neurosis? Why not just as well another conflict?"  To
this the only answer is, "No one asserts that this must be so, but evidently
it always is so, in spite of anything that can be said against it. It is,
notwithstanding all assurances to the contrary, still true that love (taken
in its large sense of nature's course, which does not mean sexuality alone),
with its problems and its conflicts of the most inclusive significance, has
in human life and in the regulation of the human lot a much greater
importance than the individual can image.

The trauma-theory (meaning what was in the beginning conceived by Breuer and
Freud) is therefore out of date. When Freud came to the opinion that a
hidden erotic conflict forms the real root of the neurosis, the trauma lost
its pathogenic significance.

An entirely different light was now thrown upon the theory. The trauma
question was solved, and thrown aside. Next in order came the study of the
question of the erotic conflict. If we consider this in the light of the
chosen example, we see that this conflict contains plenty of abnormal
moments, and at first sight does not suffer comparison with an ordinary
erotic conflict. What is especially striking, seemingly almost unbelievable,
is the fact that it is only the exterior action, the pose, of which the
patient is conscious, while she remains unconscious of the passion which
governs her. In the case in question the actual sexual factor
unquestionably remains hidden, while the field of consciousness is entirely
governed by the patient's pose. A proposition formulating this state of
affairs would read as follows.

In the neurosis there are two erotic inclinations which stand in a fixed
antithesis to each other, and one of these at least is unconscious.

It might be said of this formula, that although perhaps it is adapted to
this case, possibly it is not adapted to all cases. Most people, however,
are inclined to believe that the erotic is not so widespread. It is granted
that it is so in a romance, but it is not believed that the most affecting
dramas are more often enacted in the heart of the citizen who daily passes
us by unnoticed, than upon the stage.

The neurosis is an unsuccessful attempt of the individual to solve in his
own bosom the sexual question which perplexes the whole of human society.
The neurosis is a disunity in one's inmost self. The cause of this inward
strife is because in most men the consciousness would gladly hold to its
moral ideal, but the subconsciousness strives toward its (in the present-day
meaning) immoral ideal. This the consciousness always wants to deny. These
are the sort of people who would like to be more respectable than they are
at bottom. But the conflict may be reversed; there are people who
apparently are very disreputable, and who do not take the slightest pains to
limit their sexual pleasures. But looked at from all sides this is only a
sinful attitude, adopted, God knows for what grounds, because in them, back
of this, there is a soul, which is kept just as much in the subconsciousness
as the immoral nature is kept in the subconscious of moral men. (It is best
for men to avoid extremes as far as possible, because extremes make us
suspect the contrary.)

This general explanation was necessary in order to explain to some extent
the conception of the erotic conflict in analytical psychology. It is the
turning-point of the entire conception of the neurosis.

After Breuer's discovery, putting into practice the "chimney sweeping" so
justly christened by his patient this method of treatment has evolved into
shorter psychoanalytical methods, which we will now discuss in succession in
their main points.

In his use of the primitive method, Freud depended upon the time saving of
hypnotism and upon the circumstance that many could not be brought into the
desired deep degree of provoked sleep. The aim of this operation was to call
up in the patient another state of consciousness, in which it would be
possible for him to remember facts which had given cause for the origin of
the phenomena, facts which thus far had remained hidden from the ordinary
daily consciousness. By questioning the patient when in this state, or by
spontaneous production of phantasies communicated by the patient while in
hypnosis, memories come to light and affects connected with them are relaxed
(these are abreagirt [rearranged], as the expression is) and the desired
cure is attained. This just-mentioned method (cathartic, cleansing) and
more especially the modified one, which aims especially at the promotion of
a spontaneous production of phantasies communicated by the patient while
under hypnotism, is still used in practice by some investigators. In what
follows we go still further back--Freud next sought for a method to render
hypnotism unnecessary. He discovered it by applying an artifice which he
had seen Bernheim use during a visit (1887) to the latter's clinic at Nancy.
Bernheim demonstrated upon a hypnotized patient how the amnesia of the
somnambulist is only an appearance.

With this aim in view, Freud from then on ceased to hypnotize his patients
and substituted for that method, "spontaneous ideas." This means that when
the analysis of a patient who is awake is obstructed, and has come to a dead
stop, he is told to communicate anything which comes into his mind, no
matter what idea, what thought, even if the thing were very queer to him or
seemed meaningless. In the material thus obtained the thread should be found
leading to the semi-forgotten, the thing hidden in the consciousness. In
single cases--where the resistance toward bringing into consciousness the
forgotten or repressed thing, the complex, was slight--this method of
treatment very quickly attains its end, but in others where the resistance
was greater, the spontaneous ideas merely brought about indirect
representations, mere allusions as it were to the forgotten element. Here
favorable results either were not so readily obtained, or else were entirely
lacking. In conjunction with this, Freud planned a simple method of
interpretation by means of which, from the material thus obtained, the
repressed complexes could be brought to consciousness.

Independently of Freud, the Zurich school (Bleuler, Jung) had planned the
association method in order to penetrate into the patient's
subconsciousness. The value of this method is chiefly a theoretical
experimental one; it leads to an orientation of large circumference, but
necessarily superficial in regard to the subconscious conflict (complex).

Freud compares its importance for the psychoanalyticus; with the importance
of the qualitative analysis for the chemist.

Not being completely satisfied with his method of spontaneous ideas Freud
sought shorter paths to the subconscious, and therefore undertook the study
of the dream-life (dealing with forgetfulness, speaking to one's self,
making mistakes, giving offense to one's self, and with superstition and
absent-mindedness, and the study of word quibbles taken in their widest
sense), to all of which we are indebted for the possession of his three
important books: "Die Traumdeutung?"  (First edition 1900, third edition
1912); "Zur Psychopathologie des Alltagslebens" (1901-1907); "Der Witz und
seine Bedeutung zum Unbewussten" (1905).

Because of the discovery of the repressed and the forbidden in the soul
life, the instructions contained in the three last-named works are of great
importance and of help to us in the study of the spontaneous ideas of the
patient brought to light by free association. But what is of more importance
for analysis is the study of what may well be termed Freud's masterpiece,
"Die Traumdeutung."

Jung expresses himself as follows in regard to Freud's ingenious discovery.

"It can be said of the dream that the stone which was despised by the
architect has become the corner-stone. The acorn of the dream, of the
ephemeral and inconsiderable product of our soul, dates from the earliest
times. Before that, men saw in the dream a prophecy for the future, a
warning spirit, a comforter, a messenger of the gods. Now we join forces
with it in order to explore the subconscious, to unravel the mysteries which
it jealously guards and conceals. The dream does this with a completeness
which amazes us. Freud's exact analysis has taught that the dream as it
presents itself to us, exhibits merely a facade, which betrays nothing of
the inmost part of the house. But where, by attention to certain rules we
are able to bring the dreamer to express the sudden ideas awakened in him in
talking over the sub-division of his dream, then it very quickly appears
that the sudden ideas follow a determined direction, and are centralized
about certain subjects, possessing a personal significance and betraying a
meaning, which in the beginning would not have been suspected back of the
dream, but which stand in a very close symbolical relation, even to details,
to the dream facade. This peculiar thought-complex, in which all the threads
of the dream are united, is the looked-for conflict in a certain variation
which is determined by the circumstances. What is painful and contradictory
in the conflict is so confused here that one can speak of a
wish-fulfillment; let us, however, immediately add that the fulfilled wishes
apparently are not wishes, but are such as frequently are contradictory to
them. As an example let us use the case of a daughter who inwardly loves her
mother and dreams that the latter is dead, much to her sorrow. Dreams like
this are frequent. The contents make us think as little as possible of a
wish-fulfillment, and so one might perhaps get the idea that Freud's
assertion--that the dream presents in dramatic form a subconscious wish of
the dreamer--is unjust.

That happens because the non-initiated does not know how to differentiate
between manifest and latent (evident and hidden) dream contents. Where the
conflict worked over in the dream is unconscious, the solution, the wish
arising from it, is also unconscious. In the chosen example, the dreamer
wished to have the mother out of the way; in the language of the
subconscious it says: I wish that mother would die. We are aware that a
certain part of the subconscious possesses everything which we can no longer
remember consciously, and especially an entirely thoughtless, childish wish.
One can confidently say that most of what arises from the subconscious has
an infantile character, as does this so simple sounding wish: "Tell me,
father, if mother died would you marry me?"  The infantile expression of a
wish is the predecessor of a recent wish for marriage, which in this case we
discover is painful to the dreamer. This thought, the seriousness of the
included meaning is, as we say, "repressed into the subconscious" and can
there necessarily express itself only awkwardly and childishly, because the
subconscious limits the material at its disposal, preferably, to memories of
childhood and, as recent researches of the Zurich school have shown, to
"Memories of the race," stretching far beyond the limits of the individual.

It is not the place here to explain by examples the territory of
dream-analysis so extraordinary composed; we must be satisfied with the
results of the study; dreams are a symbolical compensation for a personally
important wish of the daytime, one which had had too little attention (or
which had been repressed).

As a result of the dominant morals, wishes which are not sufficiently
noticed by our waking consciousness and which attempt to realize themselves
symbolically in the dream are as a rule of an erotic nature. Therefore it is
advisable not to tell individual dreams in the presence of the initiated,
because dream symbolism is transparent to one acquainted with its
fundamental rules. Therefore we have always to conquer in ourselves a
certain resistance before we seriously can be fitted for the task of
unraveling the symbolical composition by patient work. When we finally
comprehend the true meaning of a dream then we at once find ourselves
transposed into the very midst of the secrets of the dreamer and to our
amazement we see that even an apparently meaningless dream is full of sense
and really bears witness of extremely important and serious things
concerning the soul-life. This knowledge obliges us to have more respect for
the old superstition concerning the meaning of dreams, a respect which is
far to seek in our present-day rationalistic era.

Freud correctly terms dream-analysis the royal road which leads to the
subconscious; it leads us into the most deeply hidden personal mysteries
and, therefore, in the hand of the physician and the educator is an
instrument not to be too highly valued.

The opposition to this method makes use of arguments which chiefly (as we
will observe, from personal motives) originate in the still strongly
scholastic bent, which the learned thought of the present-day exhibits. And
dream-analysis is precisely what inexorably lays bare the lying morals and
the hypocritical pose of men, and now for once makes them see the reverse
side of their character. Is it to be wondered at that many therefore feel
as if some one were stepping on their toes?

Dream-analysis always makes me think of the striking statue of worldly
pleasure which stands before the cathedral at Basel. The front presents an
archaic sweet smile, but the back is covered with toads and snakes.
Dream-analysis reverses things and allows the back side to be seen. That
this correct picture of reality possesses an ethical value is what no one
can contradict. It is a painful but very useful operation, which demands a
great deal from the physician as well as from the patient. Psychoanalysis
seen from the standpoint of therapeutic technic consists chiefly of numerous
analyses of dreams; these in the course of treatment, little by little,
bring what is evil out of the subconsciousness to the light and submit it to
the disinfecting light of day, and thereby find again many valuable and
pretendedly lost portions of the past. It represents a cathartic of especial
worth, which has a similarity to the Socratic "maieutike," the "obstetric."
From this state of affairs one can only expect that psychoanalysis for many
people who have taken a certain pose, in which they firmly believe, is a
real torture, because according to the ancient mystic saying: "Give what you
have, then shall you receive!"  They must of their own free will offer as a
price their beloved illusions if they wish to allow something deeper, more
beautiful and more vast to enrich them. Only through the mystery of
self-sacrifice does the self succeed in finding itself again renewed.

There are proverbs of very old origin which through the psychoanalytical
treatment again come to light. It is surely very remarkable that at the
height to which our present-day culture has attained this particular kind of
psychic education seems necessary, an education which may be compared in
more than one respect with the technic of Socrates, although psychoanalysis
goes much deeper.

We always discover in the patient a conflict which at a certain point is
connected with the great social problems, and when the analysis has
penetrated to that point, the seemingly individual conflict of the patient
is disclosed as the conflict, common to his environment and his time.

Thus the neurosis is really nothing but an individual (unsuccessful to be
sure) attempt to solve a common problem It must be so, because a common
problem, a "Question" which plunges the sick man into misery is--I can't
help it--"the sexual question," more properly termed the question of the
present-day sexual moral.

His increased claim upon life and the joy of life, upon colored, brilliant
reality, must endure the inevitable limitations, placed by reality, but not
the arbitrary, wrong, indefensable limitations which put too many chains
upon the creative spirit mounting from out the depths of animal darkness.
The nervous sufferer possesses the soul of a child, that arbitrary
limitation which represses and the reason for which is not understood. To be
sure it attempts to identify itself with the morals, but by this it is
brought into great conflict and disharmony with itself. On one side it
wishes to submit, on the other to free itself--and this conflict we speak of
as the neurosis.

If this conflict in all its parts were clearly a conscious one, then
naturally no nervous phenomena would arise from it. These phenomena arise
only when man cannot see the reverse side of his being and the urgency of
his problem. Only under these circumstances does the phenomena occur which
allows expression to the non-conscious side of the soul.

The symptom is thus an indirect expression of the nonconscious wishes,
which, were they conscious to us, would come into a violent conflict with
our conceptions of morals. This shadowy side of the soul withdraws itself,
as has once been said, from the control of the consciousness; by so doing
the patient can exert no influence upon it, cannot correct it and can
neither come to an understanding with it nor get rid of it, because in
reality the patient absolutely does not possess the subconscious passions.
Rather they are repressed from out the hierarchy of the conscious soul, they
have become autonomous complexes, which can be brought again into
consciousness only with great resistance through analysis. Many patients
think that the erotic conflict does not exist for them; in their opinion the
sexual question is nonsense; they have no sexual feeling. These people
forget that in place of that they are crippled by other things of unknown
origin. They are subject to hysterical moods, bad temper, crossness, from
which they, no less than their associates, suffer. They are tortured by
indigestion, by pains of every sort, and are visited by the whole category
of other nervous phenomena. They have this in place of what they lack in the
sexual territory, because only a few are privileged to escape the great
conflict of civilized man of the present day. The great majority inevitably
takes part in this common discord.

As specimens of dream-analysis I will give resumes of two histories of
illness told me by Dr. Jung.


A twenty-year-old banker's son, from a large city in Hungary, suddenly grew
sick two years ago, shortly after his father had suffered an attack of
apoplexy and paralysis of the right side. He is spiritless, restless, not
able to work, cannot use his right arm to write, is powerless to put his
attention on anything, sleeps badly, etc. No treatment has any helpful
effect. He is advised to seek distraction in Paris, but this, too, is of no
avail. Then, after months of torture, he came to Zurich to Dr. Jung, who
subjected him to analysis. At the second visit the patient behaved extremely
mysteriously; he was much disturbed and appeared to be under the influence
of an anxious dream, which he had dreamt that night. It required some effort
to induce him to tell this dream, and it was only after he had convinced
himself that no one could listen in the hall, that this story, not without
emotion, came out.

"I see in a vault a coffin in which my father lies, and I beside him; in
vain I attempt to remove the lid, and in my horrible fear I awake."

Some days were employed with the analysis of this dream. The explanation of
it is: he has a very strong father-complex. From childhood up he has always
been with his father, he has assumed the role of his father's wife, has
cared for him, lived for him. He often reproached his mother for not making
enough of the father, for not always cooking his favorite dish, for
sometimes contradicting him, etc. He was always around with his father,
worked at his office, served him in all sorts of ways, and anticipated all
his wishes. Now, when the father suddenly became an invalid, the conflict
arose. He identifies himself with the father. His father's invalidism
becomes his own, he cannot think any more, he cannot write any more, and he
sees death approaching. In the dream he is apparently dead, but his youth,
his strength refuses to die, and this is translated in his attempts to get
out of the coffin, which explains the fear.

The explanation brings relaxation. After some days, during which the
patient communicates his secret thoughts in detail, he feels very much
better, his heavy burden has been rolled away, and he cannot find words
enough to express his thanks to the doctor. The latter points out to him
that however natural this feeling of thankfulness may be, it is partly a
symptom of the cure at his hands. He shows the patient how the latter, who
had seen through the analysis that his love for his father has been
exaggerated and morbid, had been able to control this, and how he now
transfers to him, the assisting physician, the need for love, freed from
suffering along the way of sublimated homo-sexuality. He impresses upon him
that he must now learn to moderate the sympathy, which he expresses too
feelingly, and that he must not desire to see another father in the doctor,
but simply a friend, who is teaching him to stand on his own feet and to
become an independent man. After a few more weeks the young man was entirely
cured of his neurosis, freed from his exaggerations and returned home a well


Once when traveling I made the acquaintance of a naturalist who not long
before had completed a famous exploring expedition in distant countries.
During this expedition he had been almost constantly in peril of his life.
Almost every night he had had to stay awake and watch so as not to be set
upon and killed. He had been back in England a short time and had
completely recovered from the privations and sufferings he had experienced,
but he suffered desperately from insomnia. On his return he had slept well,
but a month before his sleep had suddenly begun to be disturbed.

Knowing me to be a neurologist, he asked my advice. I inquired about the
patient's former life, but discovered that my traveling companion was little
inclined to be communicative in this direction, in fact he was strikingly
reticent. To my inquiry about the immediate origin of the insomnia, he told
me it was immediately connected with a miserable dream which he had dreamt a
month past, and from which he had awakened in terrible anxiety. I asked him
to tell me this dream and gave him hope that perhaps the analysis of this
might succeed in laying bare the cause of the insomnia. The substance of the
dream was as follows:

"I was in a narrow gorge, formed by almost perpendicular walls of rock. This
made me think of a similar narrow gorge which, during my journey, I had
passed through at peril of my life. Upon a jutting rock a hundred yards
high above the abyss, I saw a man and woman standing, shoulder to shoulder,
both covering their eyes with their hands. They step forward and I see them
plunge downwards together, and hear their bodies falling to destruction.
Screaming wildly I awoke. Since that time I dare not let myself sleep for
fear of the repetition of this dream.

The patient, accustomed to deadly peril on his long expedition, could not
explain to himself the anxiety caused by this dream. I called Mr. X's
attention to the fact that in my opinion an erotic conflict was concealed in
the dream, and asked him point blank whether he had taken part in a love
story. At this the patient grew deadly pale, struck the table with his fist
and said "That you should have guessed it!" Now the confession followed, how
he had had a love affair in which he had not cut a good figure and which
ruined a woman's life, and that afterwards he had been violently remorseful
and had lived with the idea of suicide. Then he had seized upon the
opportunity offered him to lead a dangerous expedition. He wanted to die and
here he would not find death ingloriously.

It is clear that the two people upon the rocks above symbolized the two, who
went to meet destruction.

Soon afterwards the travelers parted. A year later the newspapers contained
the report of the marriage of the famous explorer. The surmise is allowable
that the analysis of this dream was the cause of this fortunate solution.

As I have already pointed out, the original cathartic method of Breuer and
Freud, explained to some extent, is still followed by some investigators, by
Muthman, Bezzola, Frank and many others. I had the opportunity in June and
July, 1912, of observing for some time the treatment of patients by Dr.
Frank in Zurich at his private clinic, and of gaining for myself a
satisfactory idea of his technique. Frank by no means rejects the Freudian
psychoanalysis with all its helps, but uses it only when he does not succeed
in hypnotizing his patient. Preferably, and in a great number of cases, he
uses, in a state of hypnotism, a cathartic method he originated.

Where Breuer and Freud profited from the spontaneous or the provoked
somnabulistic state of the patient, and by questioning dug up the hidden
depths, Frank decided to be satisfied with a light hypnose, a state of
hypotaxie, which might be termed analogous to the half-conscious state of
the person who after taking a mid-day nap frequently denies having been
asleep. In this condition we can give an account on waking of what happened
around us. One sleeps and one does not sleep; the upper-consciousness then
can control what the sub-consciousness brings up.

Frank says that, except in the peculiarity that he is satisfied with a
lighter degree of hypnose, his method differs from that of Breuer and Freud
in that generally he does not question the patient when under hypnotism,
neither suggests. Experience has taught him, he says, that the ideas loaded
with affect, spontaneously discharge. They are the very ones which would do
so in a dream, but are differentiated from the occurrences in the dream in
the sense that these last enter phantastically dressed, while the first
express themselves with the mental affects belonging to them, precisely as
they were lived through.

Precisely as in the primitive-cathartic method, the affects pushing in here
are disemburdened here, but at the same time, the connection between the
existent sick-phenomena and the causes having a place here were
automatically conscious to the patient. In some cases suggestion is called
upon for help in order to free an affect or to direct the attention to the
expected scene.

In most cases the process goes on itself, after the introduction of
hypnosis. If the sleep is too deep, then the ideas are transferred into real
dreams, which the patient immediately recognizes as such, or the production
of scenes discontinues; the superconsciousness no longer works.

The scenes described are usually recalled by the patients, just as they were
experienced by them, even when taken from the earliest youth. The reality
of the events which happened in childhood, lived over again in hypnose, are
substantiated as much as possible by the patient's parents or associates. He
succeeds best in inducing this semi-sleep by exhorting the patient as he
closes his eyes not to bother about whether he sleeps or not, but to fasten
his attention upon the scenes which are about to present themselves; that
is, to think himself, so to speak, into the state of someone at a moving
picture show.

As an example I give a fragment of a Frankian analysis of a case of


Y. B., born 1883, a law clerk. Patient comes on the third of December,
1908, to Frank's consultation hour; he complains of periods of short breath;
during these he feels as if his heart were ceasing to beat, especially when
he is just going to bed. He feels then as if something heavy were striking
him on the chest, great restlessness, and a feeling of faintness comes over
him. After taking a glass of wine the condition is aggravated and becomes
insupportable. These attacks come once or twice a day, mostly in the
evenings. At times they keep off for eight or ten days. He lives
continually in an excited state, he suffers from palpitations of the heart,
from pain in the left thigh, pain in the left side, and at night cannot get
to sleep.

Patient attributes this condition to an automobile accident which happened
to him on June 2, 1908. Even before this accident he had been a trifle
nervous on account of overwork. In the automobile accident he had been
thrown out, and had been thrown a distance of ten or fifteen yards. The
automobile, which was at high speed, had also plunged down the decline, but
luckily the patient was not caught directly under the machine. He did not
lose consciousness, and escaped with some scratches and a bad fright; it was
a marvel that he and the chauffeur escaped with their lives. He plainly
recalls thinking, during the fall, that his last hour had come, and even yet
is amazed how extremely untroubled he had been by that thought. The days
following the accident he felt as if his face were burning, and he was
inwardly agitated whenever he thought of an automobile. On June 30, 1908, he
was obliged to take a business journey. While seated in the station
restaurant it suddenly grew dark before his eyes. He could breathe only with
difficulty, his heartbeats were irregular and he had a strange sensation of
fear. This condition lasted the whole day. On the return journey his train
ran into an automobile truck. The patient was thrown to the floor of the
coupe by the shock. This incident made a great impression upon him;
nevertheless, for eight days he was free from the uneasiness already
described. After that an attack of fear again set in, continuing at
intervals, with periods of greater or lesser violence, until the present.

December 7, 1908. A first attempt to induce hypnosis was successful.

December 8, 1908. Patient goes to sleep immediately, becomes frightened and
gives frequent signs of terror. When awakened, he mentioned that he had had
a feeling as if he were falling into a hole, that had given him a very
strange sensation. The patient speaks while he sleeps; his
super-consciousness therefore remains awake and is able to take notice
directly of the scene taking place. After some minutes he sees in the
hypnosis a locomotive approaching. He cries out, "There it comes out of the
tunnel." He is afraid of being run over, and is terrified. Two years
previously he had been through this scene. He was standing on the track when
a train approached, and he was afraid of being run over. In his sleep, the
patient communicates the details and sees everything clearly. After a short
interval of complete rest, he begins to breathe heavily, his pulse quickens,
then he cries out in fright and excitement and dread, "Now it's coming, now
the auto's coming, it's turning over, we're under it, there it's riding over
us!" Gradually he quiets down again, and after a quarter of an hour, awakes.
He says he now feels something lifted from his chest, that he has slept
well, and feels better. He recalls everything. The train came out of the
tunnel with gleaming lights; this scene took place in the evening. The
automobile scene was reproduced precisely as he had taken part in it, no
detail escaped him; his breathing is unobstructed now, and he has no more
heart palpitations.

On the day appointed for the seance I was unexpectedly obliged to go away.
When I wished to resume the treatment, January 9, the patient wrote me that
his condition was strikingly improved, the heart palpitations and feelings
of anxiety had not reappeared. His pleasure in life and work had returned
once more, his night's rest left nothing to be desired, his appetite was
excellent, therefore he thought that further treatment was not necessary for
the present. To a later inquiry, February 12, 1910, a year afterwards, I
obtained this answer: "Without exaggeration I am able to write you that in
my whole life I have never felt so well as now. There has been no question
of any nervous attacks or feelings of dread. My weight, which had gone down
to fifty-eight kilos during my nervous sickness, has gone up to seventy

When Frank shuts himself up with his patients in a room, from which all
outer noises are excluded as much as possible, by means of double windows
and doors, although he--by means of electric light signals visible to him
alone--keeps in touch with the servant outside, he has the patient recline
as comfortably as possible upon a low sofa. He kneels on a cushion at the
head, bends down over the patient and has the latter look upwards directly
into his eyes. Meanwhile he lets his left hand rest upon the patient's
forehead and gently presses the latter's eyelids with his thumb and
forefinger. As soon as the patient shows signs of weariness, he carefully
gets up, takes a seat next to the patient and continues carefully observant
of the latter's behavior and expression of countenance. He makes note of
everything that shows itself and rouses the patient after about a quarter of
an hour, unless the latter awakes spontaneously. Now he talks over with him
the material which has been procured and then has the patient go into a
renewed hypnosis, until the end of an hour. Sometimes the seances are
protracted when important scenes come up, and in the interest of the
treatment it might be lengthened to two or even three hours.

Bezzola makes use of a small, light, black silk mask, which he puts on the
eyes of the patient. He induces hypnosis, and for the rest follows Frank's
technique already described.

While analysts who avail themselves of hypnosis as a means of help have all
their patients take a reclining position, those who have given up hypnotism
in their treatment, have also given up this reclining position. Freud
continues to prefer having the patient assume a reclining position, and
takes his position with his back to the patient, behind the head of the
sofa. He considers that this manner of treatment induces the greatest
calmness in the patient and makes it easier for him to express himself and
to confess. He keeps as quiet as possible, listens with undivided attention,
does not take any notes during the seance, not wishing to give rise to the
suspicion that all the confession will be written down and perhaps seen by
other eyes.

Jung receives the patient in his study just as he would receive any ordinary
visitor. He thinks that in this way the patient is put most at his ease and
that it makes him feel he is not considered as a patient, but rather as some
one who, being in difficulties, comes to ask advice and needs to tell his
troubles to a trusted friend. Even less than Freud does he take notes in the
presence of the patient.

Stekel does as Jung, the only difference being that he remains seated at his
writing-table and makes notes of the most important points.

The most satisfactory way for the uninitiated to make himself familiar with
the technique of psychoanalysis is to submit himself to psychoanalysis. For
that purpose one turns to an experienced analyst, and takes to him one's
ideas and dreams. Consequently I submitted myself for two months to
analysis from Dr. Jung, who in that way initiated me into the practice of
psychological investigation. The interpretation of one's own dreams,
reading and studying of the principal literature about analytical psychology
or deep psychology, as Bleuler calls it; and the application of what is thus
learned, at the start to simple, later to more difficult cases, must do the
rest in making an independent investigator in this branch of psycho-therapy.

As has already been said, psychoanalysis aims at bringing into consciousness
all the forgotten things. When all the gaps in the memory are filled in,
when all the puzzling operations of the psychological life are explained,
then the continuance and the return of the suffering has become impossible.
The attainment of this ideal state is truly the attainment of Utopia. Most
certainly a treatment does not need to be carried so far. One may be
satisfied with the practical cure of the patient, with the restoration of
his power for work, and with the abolition of the most difficult functional

It is applicable in cases of chronic psychoneurosis which exhibit no
difficult or dangerous phenomena. Among these are counted all sorts of
compulsive neuroses, compulsive thoughts, compulsive behavior and cases of
hysteria, where phobias and obsessions play a chief role, also somatic
phenomena of hysteria which do not need to be acted upon quickly, such as,
for example, anorexia. In acute cases of hysteria it is better to wait for
a calmer period before applying psychoanalysis. In cases of nervous
prostration this manner of treatment, which demands the serious co-operation
and attention of the patient, which lasts a long time and at first takes no
notice of the continuance of the phenomena, is difficult. This form of
psychotherapy places great demands on the physician's patience and
understanding. Psychoanalyses which last more than a year, are no rarity. It
cannot be applied to the seriously degenerated; to people who have passed
far beyond middle life, because among the last named the accumulated
material compasses too much; to those who are entangled in a state of great
fear and who live in deep depression. Analysis can be applied to the
neuroses of children. It is desirable in those cases for the physician to
be supported by a trusted person, as for example a woman assistant, but
preferably by parents enlightened sufficiently to observe the spontaneous
remarks of the child, to make notes of them, and communicate them to the
physician. According to the experiments undertaken by the Zurich school, the
expectation is justified within certain limits, that psychoanalysis will be
therapeutically useful in certain forms of paranoia and dementia praecox.

I think that it will soon be said of psychoanalysis, as of so many other
systems which like it were decried and yet later were highly valued, that
the enemies of to-day are the friends of to-morrow.

Whoever wishes to judge Freud must take the trouble to initiate himself
seriously into his doctrines, and use his methods for a long time in
practice, according to his instructions.

Most of the condemnations are brought forward by investigators who judge a
priori, without acquaintance with the facts, upon uncertain theoretical
grounds and with prepossession against his sexual theory.

Whoever initiates himself seriously into the practice of psychoanalysis,
will arrive at the conclusion that this new form of psychical curing
deserves, to a great degree, the attention of the physician and that it may
be considered as an enrichment of the armory of the psychotherapy, not yet
sufficiently valued.

Does it render other forms of psychotherapy superfluous? There can be no
thought of that.

Taking the pros and cons given here, we see that each of the forms of
psychical therapy deserves in its turn preference, and that all support and
complement each other.

Jung, as well as Freud, both of whom have made their life's aim the
perfection of psychoanalysis, and who for that reason now concern themselves
exclusively with it, appreciate all forms of verbal treatment, as well with
hypnotism as without it. Hypnotic suggestion and suggestion given when awake
was used at an earlier period by both of them with good results, and they
still are not averse to using this method where quick comprehension and the
immediate subdual of a troublesome symptom is desired.

The psychoanalyst follows the longer road, and assails rather the root of
the sickness; it works more radically; hypnotic treatment takes hold quicker
and is directed at the symptoms.

Freud explains it in this manner: when one treats the patient by hypnotic
suggestion, one introduces a new idea from outside in exchange for the
morbid idea; if psychoanalysis is applied, then one simply eliminates the
morbid idea. Within certain limits the modus agendi of the two methods is in
absolute opposition.

The suggestion method, substituting one idea for another, puts in something;
the analytical, expelling an idea, takes out something. Both aim at and
obtain the same end, a more or less lasting cure. Suggestion neutralizes,
stops the poison; analysis expels the harmful matter. The latter manner of
treatment is positive and the most decisive.

"Don't we all analyze?"  Bernheim inquires, and once more I agree that all
forms of psychotherapeutics do, but there is a difference in analysis.

Superficial analysis can bring us a long way toward the goal. In many cases
it may suffice. But the profound, the Freudian analysis, is what we need if
we wish to attain the radical cure of psychoneurosis, as far as we can ever
speak of a radical cure. Many cases of illness do not lend themselves to
deep analysis.

When, because of the nature of the illness, or the lifetime, or the feeble
intelligence of the patient, or because of temporary circumstances of a
moral or material nature, its adaptation is excluded or impossible, it is
advisable, especially in chronic cases-- to take refuge in the more
palliative forms of the psychic methods of cure.

Thus the psychotherapeutic as moral leader fills the role of guide
(directeur-d'ames), one who helps along the doubter, encourages the toilers,
calms the frightened, arouses courage, keeps up hope and comforts where
comfort is needed.

Pierre Janet, in his instructive book ("Obsessions et Idees Fixes"),
observes that one of his chronic patients gave him the pet name of "le
remonteur de pendules," an expression which luminously describes the role of
the physician of souls, who, tirelessly, day in, day out, lifts the burdens,
and for a time breathes new life into the depressed.

Hypnotic suggestion, which induces sleep, stills pain, silences fear,
abolishes functional disturbances, works chiefly palliatively. The place for
its application is where quick comprehension is desired. In its simplest
form it resembles the treatment of a mother, who soothes her child with
pacifying words and loving touch, and rocks him to sleep, and also it
resembles the behavior of the father, who asserts his authority by force and
breaks down the childish opposition. We find hypnotic suggestion, perfected
and clothed in its scientific garment, in Liebeault's assertion: "It is a
cure of authority, of faith, of confidence, a cure which frequently performs
semi-miracles. Respect on one side, sympathy on the other, is what gives the
hypnotiser results."

However highly we may value this last mentioned form of therapy, however
numerous the cures due to it may be, however indispensable it may be in the
practice of medicine, yet its splendor pales before the light which shines
forth from the cures which aim at reeducation and which are directed toward
the understanding. Those are the cures which make use of analysis.

One method, which we will call the superficial analytical method, is
directed exclusively toward the upper consciousness and cures principally
through exhorting, convincing, exercising and hardening. Its sponsors are
Bernheim, Rosenbach, P. E. Levy, Dubois. At least it is true to its birth,
it has suggestion blood in its veins.

The other method is the deeper: the Freudian analysis. This does not allow
itself to be satisfied with seeing only one side of the medal, it does not
limit its field of activity to the superliminal consciousness, in searching
for the causes of psychogenic illnesses, but it penetrates into the strata
which lie hidden under the threshold of the consciousness.

Where the moral and the suggestive methods of cure are limited exclusively
to symptomatic treatment, the first form of educative therapy, limited
merely to a superficial analysis, is only partly symptomatic, but the second
form of educative therapy penetrates with its deep-going analysis to the
root of the trouble, and has as its aim a fundamental cure.

Only too frequently the physician must be satisfied with the cure of the
symptoms, with lightening the load. He always strives to remove the cause.
Freud's great service is that he has opened before the physician a path
which leads to the cause.

These lines of Vondel's seem as if composed for him:

"The physician must not only know  How high the pulse has mounted,  And
where the sickness lies, which makes him groan with pain,  But he must see
the cause, from where  The great weakness of this sickness came."


THE SHEEP. By Eben W. Fiske, A.M., M.D. Illustrated with photographs and
diagrams by the author. The Macmillan Company, New. York, 1913.

The study of the brain is confessedly a difficult subject, and particularly
so for the elementary student. There is certainly no royal road to its
conquest, but this is an added reason why an introduction to its study
should be made as simple as the subject permits, and also as interesting.
Dr. Fiske has attempted this task in this book, which he entitles "An
elementary study of the brain."  The brain of the sheep is chosen as the
basis of study because of its availability, its relative simplicity of
structure, and its essential similarity to that of man. It appears to the
author, and we think with justice, that the subject should be approached
from a biological standpoint; hence, throughout the book, there is constant
reference to the evolution of nervous structure and to fundamental
conceptions of a biological character. Further than this, the relations of
cerebral anatomy and function, together with allied psychological
considerations, demand continual reference as a supplement to purely
anatomical considerations. The secret of exciting interest in any anatomical
study surely lies in a consideration of the function of the organ or
structure in relation to its anatomical form. Bare descriptions cannot and
should not inspire interest, whereas the driest anatomical facts, if seen in
their broader relationships, at once assume a significance in the student's
mind which may be attained in no other way.

The first chapter is a brief statement of phylogeny, followed, as are
succeeding chapters, by directions to the student regarding means of study.
The second chapter concerns itself with ontogeny, and the student is wisely
advised to make drawings of various stages in the development of the brain
of one of the higher mammals. An actual brain is always to be preferred to a
model. The third chapter gives directions of a simple and practical sort as
to methods of removing the sheep's brain. Thereafter, chapters follow,
descriptive of the various surfaces of the brain, of sagital, horizontal and
transverse sections, and of certain of the internal structures and the brain

A summary concludes the volume, and a very brief but well selected
bibliography. The illustrations are thoroughly adequate, the excellent
method being used of photographic reproductions, with accompanying
descriptive plates done in outline. In general, the book, modest though it
is, should prove a most admirable laboratory guide, not only for students of
zoology, but also for those who propose, as physicians, to make a final
study of the human brain. It is, no doubt, more difficult to write an
acceptable elementary text-book than a more complete treatise, but the
author, we have no hesitation in saying, has succeeded in this object, and
has added a book of positive value to the long list which has gone before.
The BNA nomenclature has been adopted in part, but by no means to the
exclusion of the old terminology, which is certainly a far more efficient
means of introducing an ultimate uniform nomenclature than an immediate
complete change to the BNA system. The text is well printed and readable,
and the proof reading in general good. We note, however, on page 86, that
the name Von Gudden is spelled with one d instead of two. E. W. TAYLOR.

Putnam's Sons, New York, 1914. Pp. xvii plus 263.

This book by Mrs. Morgan, which is somewhat unique and certainly very
different from other books on the same subject, promises to be one of the
most widely read educational works which has recently appeared. It is based
on two years' experience in an experimental clinic for backward children in
New York City and the author states that, "It is an effort to persuade
teachers and parents, in spite of a hide-bound educational system, to study
the children that interest them as individuals and to recognize their
faculties and tendencies." It "Looks to a future when teachers will so
understand every child's mental structure that his whole education will be
directed to the fortifying of his weak points and the development of his

The author terms her process "mental analysis" and says it differs from the
Binet and Simon tests in that they are merely to classify children, and her
method discovers peculiarities and also gives the training necessary to
bring the child up to normal. She gives a psychological basis for her work
which will be surprising to many readers because of its great divergence
from the usual psychological treatment. The child's mind is considered as
having four primary processes, namely: (1) Sense Impressions, (2)
Recollections of Sense Impressions, (3) Association Channels (4) Abstraction
Processes. As the child grows older these are elaborated into Imagination,
Reasoning, and Expression. Attention is of three kinds: (1) Homogeneous
Attention or concentrating, which consists in attending to one thing for a
period of time; (2) Simultaneous Attention or observing, which consists in
giving attention to a number of things at once; and (3) Disparate Attention,
or giving attention to two or more things over a period of time. Memory may
be (1) Automatic, (2) Voluntary, or (3) Retentive. The function of the
tests is to determine just which one of these processes are weak or strong
and discover a method of education which is suited to the individual. Other
mental processes, such as sensation, perception, abstraction, and judgment
are discussed, and an interesting treatment distinguishing between the
analytic and synthetic type of mind is given.

One of the most important parts of the book is the discussion of the way in
which the tests are given. She insists that the relation of the child and
the examiner be very personal and informal and that the process be varied as
much as possible in order to prevent crystallization. Many of the tests are
the same, or much the same, as those of Simon and Binet, but the greatest of
liberty is taken in adapting them to the particular case. Much use is made
of conversation, puzzle-pictures and other little friendly means by which
the personal characteristics of the child may be learned. After this is
done, the proper training of the child is to be selected and the effort made
to bring him back to normality, for which purpose, some quaint and
interesting devices are used. One case given is that of a little girl whose
senses of sound and form were defective and who therefore could not learn
her letters. These letters were pasted on the keys of a piano and she was
taught to play a piece with one finger, meanwhile chanting over the names of
the letters as they were struck. In this way her sense of sound was trained,
she learned her letters and gained ability to learn more and faster.
Abstraction may be strengthened by having the child measure distances with a
rule, first calculating the distance with his eye. The power of association
may be made stronger by having the individual sort words or pictures which
are pasted on slips of cardboard; he is to arrange them according to meaning
or according to the activities with which they have to do. Simultaneous
attention may be trained by such games as "Hide-the-thimble" or Jack-straws,
and homogeneous attention may be trained by some such action as hammering
nails in the upper left hand corners of all the squares on a board.
Imagination is developed by retelling stories, and invention by solving
puzzles; voluntary memory is strengthened by writing original rhymes and
automatic memory may be strengthened by having the child write out a list of
all the things in his kitchen or any other room with which he may happen to
be familiar.

Different types of backward children are described and a few pages are
devoted to a discussion of hysteria.

It is a book which will, in all probability, arouse considerable discussion
and which will find some warm friends and some determined enemies. As one
more publication calling attention to this important problem, it is of great
value and it will probably be read more widely than any other book in this
field which has appeared. Perhaps its greatest practical value lies in its
suggestiveness as to the ways in which one may use his personality and
initiative in dealing with backward children, rather than sticking so
closely to prescribed tests and methods.                                   
            RAYMOND BELLAMY. Emory & Henry College,      Emory, Va.

By Sir Oliver Lodge. G. P. Putnam s Sons, New York and London, 1914. Pp.
v, 131.

The most obvious particular wisdom of the present scientific period is
undoubtedly just that concept denoted by the title of this volume,
continuity. And this wisdom is advanced wisdom and, withal, wisdom which is
very expedient and even indispensable at this day, as a reaction required to
set right the over-specialization of recent minds thoughtful only of some
little branch of knowledge. Just in proportion as one esteems "authority"
will one give heed to the pronouncement of the presidential address before
the British Association, yet for its own intrinsic sake it is a piece of
work which cannot be ignored.

Interesting and revolutionary as are the recent additions to philosophical
physics brought about by the discovery of radium and its like, it is the
other phase of this great physicist's mental trend which particularly
interests the student of human behavior-- that wisdom which gives him (as it
gave William James, and for a like reason), the bravery to look a bit beyond
the more or less materialistic confines of mere science into the broader
realm. And strange, is it not, that a man NEED be brave in this twentieth
century Domini to discuss spiritism and survival and telepathy? Only those
do it who cannot "lose their jobs."  Can one indeed honestly doubt that many
an intelligent psychologist to-day is kept from investigating this pressing
phase of knowledge largely, or even solely, by the materialistic incubus
whose continuance still stands for an academic salary usually sufficient to
buy wife and children bread, if not a little meat?

"Material bodies are all that we have any control over, are all that we are
experimentally aware of; anything that we can do with these is open to us;
any conclusions we can draw about them may be legitimate and true. But to
step outside their province and to deny the existence of any other region
because we have no sense-organs for its appreciation, or because (like the
ether) it is too uniformly omnipresent for our ken, is to wrest our
advantages and privileges from their proper use and apply them to our own
misdirection." . . . "I am one of those who think that the methods of
science are not so limited in their scope as has been thought: that they can
be applied much more widely, and that the psychic region can be studied and
brought under law too. Allow us anyhow to make the attempt. Give us a fair
field. Let those who prefer the materialistic hypothesis by all means
develop their thesis as far as they can; but let us try what we can do in
the psychical region, and see which wins. Our methods are really the same as
theirs--the subject-matter differs. Neither should abuse the other for
making the attempt."

Here is this matter in a nutshell, and the evolution of cosmology in the
last few years makes this argument and this plea greatly more persuasive
still, for it forges one more link in the actual knowledge of continuity.

Twenty-four pages of useful, explanatory notes follow in this volume, the
text of the Address. The book lacks an index. To those sapient ones who
have not already saved the important little work out of Science, the dollar
which this volume costs is a dollar well-spent, unless, indeed, philosophy
be to him but a reproach. GEORGE V. N. DEARBORN. Tufts Medical and Dental

ADVENTURINGS IN THE PSYCHICAL. By H. Addington Bruce. Little, Brown & Co.,

Professor Flournoy, in the Preface to his Spiritism and Psychology, made the
remark: "It will be a great day when the subliminal psychology of Myers and
his followers, and the abnormal psychology of Freud and his school, succeed
in meeting, and will supplement and complete one another. That will be a
great forward step in science and in the understanding of our nature."
(Page VI.)

Any one who attacks the problem from this standpoint, in the right manner,
is to be commended; and this is, very largely, the method of attack taken by
a certain group of "psychical researches"; it is also the method of approach
of Mr. Bruce, in the book under review. Although it will probably contain
but little new to the student of abnormal psychology, it is, nevertheless, a
welcome and extremely sane presentation of the problems discussed; while,
for the general public, the effect of the book cannot be other than
beneficial,-- giving a sound and scientific view-point of many of these
obscure and outlying problems.

Much of this book will be familiar to readers of the JOURNAL. The chapters
on the "Subconscious" (extended and amplified in his final chapter on "The
Larger Self"), "Dissociation and Disease," and "The Singular Case of B. C.
A.," contain a summary of material long familiar to general psychological
students--though this data has not been sufficiently popularized as
yet,--while the case of B. C. A. is a relief after the oft-quoted earlier

The first chapter, "Ghosts and their Meaning," deals with apparitions of the
living, of the dying, and of the dead--according to the tentative
arrangement of these cases made by the English S. P. R. Most of these are
quoted from the Society's Proceedings, and the usual theories are offered to
account for them; in the case of apparitions of the dead, e. g., "ghosts,"
the theory of deferred telepathic suggestion being held. This brings us
naturally to the second chapter, "Why I believe in Telepathy," which again
contains a summary of much of the S. P. R. work in this field; accompanied,
however, by some other cases and a few interesting incidents which fell
under the author's personal observation. The next two chapters deal with
"Clairvoyance and Crystal Gazing" and "Automatic Speaking and Writing"
respectively. Here, again, the bulk of the material is familiar to
psychical and psychological students; though it must be admitted that this
material is all excellently and carefully summarized. The author's attitude,
throughout, is strictly critical and scientific; and while he believes in
telepathy and other supernormal powers, he rejects spiritism as an
explanation, and his views throughout are temperate and modest.

The remaining chapter, dealing as it does with "Poltergeists and Mediums,"
takes us into the more dubious field of "physical phenomena"--spontaneous
and experimental--and cases are discussed which lie outside the province of
the psychologist,-- since they entrench more upon the domain of physics and
biology. As such they have been treated and discussed by the majority of
Continental savants.

One word more regarding the famous medium, Eusapia Palladino, whom Mr. Bruce
refers to in several passages in this Chapter, referring to her in a
footnote on page 196, as "The discredited Eusapia Palladino, once the marvel
of two continents." May I take this occasion to repeat here what I have
often repeated in public and private, elsewhere? and that is, that I retain
my unshaken belief, amounting to a conviction, in the genuineness of
Eusapia's power, and that, despite the trickery which was undoubtedly
discovered here--and which had also been discovered, I may add, more than
twenty years before she ever came to this country--she yet possesses
genuine, remarkable powers of a supernormal character, and this belief, I
may say, is shared equally by all the continental investigators, who remain
unaffected by the so-called American expose. A statement of their attitude
is perhaps well summarized by Flournoy, in his Spiritism and Psychology
(Chap. VII); while I have published the records of the American seances--
for those who may be interested--in my "Personal Experiences in
Spiritualism," where copious extracts from the shorthand notes of the
American sittings are given.

To return, however: If there is a criticism to make of Mr. Bruce's book, it
is that it displays a lack of personal investigation and experimentation,
and bears throughout the ear-marks of a literary compilation. But this is,
after all, not a serious detraction from a work of this character,--which
is, as I have said before, excellently done. HEREWARD CARRINGTON.

Ancien interne de la Clinique des Maladies Mentales et de l'Encephale a la
Faculte de Paris, Medecin de l'Hospice General de Nantes (Quartiers
d'Hospice). G. Steinheil, editeur, Paris, 1913; pp. x-449.

The author in this volume has written a clinical and medico-legal treatise
on traumatic nervous affections from a broad and philosophical standpoint.
The subject is treated under the following headings: "Generalities," in
which is discussed the historical development of our knowledge of the
effects of traumatism, the etiology, the evolution of the various
disturbances, and the legal side of the questions at issue.

Following this introduction, under Chapter I, the general topic of what the
writer terms the traumatic dysthenias or the traumatic sthenopathies is
discussed under the following subheadings: (a) Simple post-traumatic
asthenia; (b) Post-traumatic astheno-mania; (c) Prolonged asthenia and
chronic traumatic asthenia, under which he includes traumatic neurasthenia,
traumatic hystero-neurasthenia, traumatic neurosis, and traumatic
psychoneurosis; (d) Chronic post-traumatic mania; (e) Periodic
post-traumatic dysthenias; (f) Asthenic mania and pathological anatomy.
Chapter II, under the general heading, "Traumatic Dysthymias: (a) Anxiety
post-traumatic hyperthymia; (b) Traumatic hypochondriasis and traumatic
hysteria; (c) Special hyperthymia of accidents; (d) Hysterical and traumatic
crises; (e) Prolonged or permanent post-traumatic disturbances of character
in children and adults. Chapter III, under the general heading, "Traumatic
Dysthymias": (a) Traumatic amnesia; (b) Post-traumatic Korsakoff syndrome;
(c) Traumatic mental confusion; (d) Post-traumatic agnosia; (e)
Post-traumatic dementias; (f) Systematized chronic post-traumatic deliriums.
Chapter IV, under the general heading, "Psychic states and Diverse
Post-Traumatic Neuroses": (a) Post-traumatic epilepsy; (b) Traumatic
aphasia; (c) Alcoholism, traumatism and hallucinatory conditions; (d)
Post-traumatic sensual perversions; (e) Pains, vertigos, deafness, etc.,
following trauma; (f) Distant post-traumatic psychic disorders with cerebral
lesions; (g) Unclassifiable observations. To this comprehensive material is
added an appendix on the topic of psychic and neurotic disturbances as
indications for trephining.

This outline of the contents of the book, which contains in addition many
subheadings, gives a sufficiently clear idea of its scope and of the pains
which the author has taken to subdivide his subject matter to the last
possible degree. Whether such a detailed classification has merit sufficient
to justify its complexity must be left to the individual reader to
determine. It may, however, with justice be said that the author has spared
no pains to illustrate by case reports the various phases of traumatic
disorder which he enumerates. He has a keen sense of the significance of
psychiatric knowledge in a proper understanding of the various results of
trauma, and lays special stress upon the breadth of the psychiatric field,
under which he properly enough includes the various so-called psychoneuroses
as well as epilepsy, tics and aphasia. He believes that one may only arrive
at a diagnostic criterion of such affections through the sensations and
emotions expressed by the patients. The somatic phenomena he regards as
always subordinate and accessory. Under this point of view, he attacks his
problem, and with considerable success An admirable brief historical review
of traumatism in relation to the nervous system constitutes a valuable
section of the book, in which he brings out the conflicting views which have
prevailed since the earlier work of Erichsen down through the fundamental
investigations of Westphal, Charcot, Knapp, Oppenheim and others.

The author finds fault with the common use of the word traumatism in the
sense of trauma, and correctly draws attention to the fact that traumatism
should express a general condition, whereas, trauma should be used as
indicative of a local lesion. This distinction has been too often
overlooked, with resulting confusion.

In general, the book represents a vast amount of painstaking thought and an
earnest but somewhat confusing attempt to bring light into the somewhat dark
places of a much-discussed subject, which has frequently been the source of
more or less acrimonious discussion. Not the least significant part of the
volume is the constant reference to the legal implications of the traumatic
affections. It should therefore be useful, not only to the physician, but
also to the legal profession. It will doubtless be used rather as a book of
reference than as a readable treatise. E. W. TAYLOR.

VERBRECHERTYPEN. 1 Heft. Geliebtenmorder von Albrecht Wetzel und Karl
Wilmanns. Verlag Julius Springer, Berlin: 1913.

With a better understanding of psychopathic phenomena, the underlying
psychology of criminology becomes more clearly defined. Maladjustment may
express itself in an insane outbreak, criminal act, or in an anti-social
deed, indeed, in all of them the underlying phenomenon is a psychopathic
condition which comes under the realm of abnormal psychology. The large
group of criminals SHOULD not be looked upon as a homogenous class, but the
individuality of criminal and the type of the delinquent act in reaction to
his heredity, mental make-up and environmental influences should be fully
considered. Herein lies the great value of Wetzel's and Willmann's
Monograph--these authors report three cases in which criminal acts were
attributed to abnormal mental life.

The first case was that of a young man of twenty-three, who showed a
psychopathic personality with tainted heredity on the paternal side. He was
subject to convulsive attacks, which were regarded as hysterical and not
epileptic. In his intelligence he was above the average. He was engaged to
a young woman, and because she refused to marry him, he at first
contemplated to take his life, but later shot at her three times without
injuring her, and then made an unsuccessful attempt at suicide. His
delinquent act was determined not only by his environment, but also by his
peculiar type of personality, which was taken into consideration by the
court, and on this ground he was acquitted.

In the second case, a young man of twenty shot his fiancee through the
temporal region, injuring her severely. Soon after committing this act he
surrendered himself to the police. He also showed striking evidences of a
psychopathic personality with a strong suggestion of epilepsy, but with
intact intelligence. He was given to periods of depression and was unstable
mentally. He was easily suggestible and his general conduct was not only
controlled by environmental influences, but also by his mood. Suicidal ideas
and jealousy played a very important role in his mental life; especially
they were marked when he began to keep company with the young woman.
Although his abnormal constitution was taken into account, nevertheless he
was punished by one year's imprisonment. During confinement he attempted
suicide, but was unsuccessful. Some time after his release he committed
suicide, the cause of which he assigned to an abortion that was induced by
his sweetheart.

The third case is very interesting and rather intricate, by reason of the
fact that murder or double suicide was suspected. The following are the
details of this case: A young man of eighteen kept company with a young
woman about the same age, from another town. The girls of the town were
jealous of her and began to gossip about her to the extent of casting
aspersions upon her character, etc. The young man's father, without
investigating this case, forbade his son to marry her. However, the two
lovers would have frequent secret rendezvous, and his fiancee became
depressed over this scandalous and groundless rumor and also because of the
peculiar attitude her young man's father assumed. One evening the young man
returned home late, and upon confessing to his father of his secret meetings
with his fiancee, he was severely beaten and prohibited to see her again.

A few days later the young man wrote a letter to his sweetheart, telling her
of his father's emphatic determinations, but soon they met again and she
suggested that they should die together on account of this gossip that was
circulated about her. A day following this meeting both of them were missed,
and after some search the young woman was found lying on the ground with two
shots in her head and one in the breast, and the young man was hanging from
a tree, in a near-by wood; the latter was resuscitated, but the former was
dead. It is interesting to note that the autopsy showed that death in her
case was due to strangulation and not to the bullets. This young man was
endowed with a psychopathic personality, and there was a history of short
attacks of depression. He received several head traumata and suffered from
enuresis in his early life.

Following the resuscitation, he grew confused and excited, and within
twenty-four hours he recovered from the acute episode but showed incomplete
amnesia for his act. He stated that he remembered firing the shots, but had
no remembrance of strangulating her. Soon after this he passed into a
peculiar state of confusion; in addition, fabrications and retention defect
were also demonstrated. The cerebrospinal fluid revealed some abnormal
changes which were suggestive of an organic brain disease. The Wassermann
test was negative. Finally, he made a complete recovery except for the
incomplete amnesia.

Since the death of the young woman was caused by strangulation, the question
had to be decided whether he was the cause of her death or she died as the
result of her own hand. The court favored suicide, and held that the bodily
injury was inflicted with the pistol by the young man. He received a lenient
sentence--only nine months imprisonment. In this case, the type of his
personality, and all the circumstances that led to the development of the
act were taken into consideration.

Although the authors presented this subject purely objectively, yet their
studies are extremely interesting and important, and show conclusively the
importance of psychopathological methods in criminology. One who is
interested in this subject will find this monograph of great value and help.
It may also be added that the authors give a complete list of the casuistic
literature of the murder among lovers. MORRIS J. KARPAS.

T. Hobhouse, Martin White Professor of Sociology in the University of
London. Macmillan & Co., London: 1913; pp. xxix, 383.

"Development and Purpose" is essentially the complement of Professor
Hobhouse's well-known and valuable "Mind in Evolution," published in 1901;
if it were rather a continuation than the complement, many would be pleased,
for the exposition already made practically guarantees a rich application,
were it undertaken, to matters still further "away" in the realm of thought.
The present volume lacks the multitude of scientific data and references
which make "Mind in Evolution" so important for the study of psychology (as
behavior or not as behavior, as the reader pleases), but it contains in
their space many timely discussions, in some cases seemingly prophetic, of
teleology in its relation to evolution.

The seventeen chapters of the book (there is also an extremely thoughtful
Introduction and a full Index), are divided into two parts, one entitled
"Lines of Development" and the other "The Conditions of Development."  The
reviewer's lazy cortex, and possibly those of other and more leisurely
readers, is made glad by a complete chapter-synopsis or syllabus, occupying
seven pages). So much of the whole treatise is suggested in the synopsis of
the first three chapters that it is well to give them in full, as follows:

"I. The Nature and the Significance of Mental Evolution. (1) The biological
view regards Mind as an organ evolved to adapt behavior to the environment,
(2) and tends to reduce its action to a mechanical process. (3) Parallelism
in the end reduces Mind to an epi-phenomenon {an important undoubted fact
which has been often ignored by what are left of the Parallelists!] (4) The
object of Comparative Psychology is to determine empirically the actual
function of Mind in successive stages of development. (5) It involves a
social as well as an individual psychology. (6) The statement of the higher
phases also opens up philosophical questions, (7) and on the solution of
these depends the final interpretation of the recorded movement.

"II. The Structure of Mind. (1) Mental operations are known in the first
instance as objects of consciousness. (2) Mind is the permanent unity
including consciousness and the sum of processes continuous with
consciousness and determining it. (3) These processes involve, but are not
identical with physical processes, constituting with them a psychophysical

"III. The General Function of Mind and Brain. (1) The generic function of
Mind, as of the nervous system, is correlation (2) The special organ for
effecting fresh correlation is consciousness. (3) The deliverances of
consciousness arise from stimuli acting upon structures built up by
experience, (4) on foundations laid by heredity, (5) which supplies not only
specific adaptations, but a background to the entire life of consciousness."

It would be hard to find a more concise, complete, and timely
formularization of the seeming trend of present resultants in this
particular direction than these sentences set forth for whomsoever will
ponder each carefully-built statement and really understand what it means as
part of a system. "Mind is the permanent unity including consciousness and
the sum of processes continuous with consciousness and determining it. These
processes involve, but are not identical with, physical processes,
constituting with them a psychophysical unity,"--this quotation might almost
serve as the motto of early Twentieth Century scientific philosophy. It
seems to the present reviewer to have almost as much philosophy in it as
Harold Hoffding's well-known sentence has of psychology: ("the unity of
mental life has its expression not only in memory and synthesis, but also in
a dominant fundamental feeling, characterized by the contrast between
pleasure and pain, and in an impulse, springing from this fundamental
feeling, to movement and activity"). It might be the creed of the

Hobhouse's discussion of mechanism in relation to teleology and to the
universal harmony and reality is fairly representative of the drift of
thought as set forth by recent English and French writers such as J. S.
Haldane, Oliver Lodge and some of the prominent biologists, and by Henri
Bergson: "An organic whole is therefore like a machine in being purposive,
though unlike it in that its purpose is within." "A purposive process is one
determined by its tendency to produce a certain result, purpose itself being
an act [sic] determined in its character by that which it tends to bring
about. As such it differs fundamentally from a mechanical cause."  "The
empirical and philosophical arguments point to the same general conclusion,
that reality is the process of the development of Mind."  As a guide to
one's thinking, and as integrators of one's subconscious intuitions and
resultants, such concise formulae certainly have much value, especially
when, as here, clearly and ably expounded in the text proper. Tufts College.


ABNORMAL PSYCHOLOGY. Isador H. Coriat. Pp. xvi and 428. 2d Ed. Moffat,
Yard & Co., 1914. $2.00 net.

MENTAL MEDICINE & NURSING. Robert Howland Chase. Pp. xv and 244. J. B.
Lippincott Co., 1914. $1.50.

THE TEACHING OF DRAWING. S. Polak and H. C. Whilter. Pp. 168. Warwick &
York, Inc. 85 cents.

OUTLINE OF A STUDY OF THE SELF. Robert M. Yerkes, A.M., Ph.D., and David W.
LaRue, A.M., Ph.D. Pp. 24. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1914.

EROS. Emil Lucka. Pp. xx and 379. G. P. Putnam & Sons. 1915. $1.75.

COLLECTED PAPERS OF MARGARET BANCROFT. Ware Brothers Company, Philadelphia,

EUGENICS: A SCIENCE AND AN IDEAL. Edgar Schuster. Pp. 263. Warwick &
York, Inc. 40 cents.

LIFE AND WORK OF PESTALOZZI. J. A. Green. Pp. 393. Warwick & York, Inc.

by Guy Montrose Whipple. Pp. 160. Warwick & York $1.25.



[*] Read at a meeting of the American Psychopathological Association, New
York City, May 5, 1915.


THE exact sciences consist of a body of truth which all accept, and to which
all experts strive to contribute. Philosophy, however, like religion, has
always been broken into sects, schools or parties, and the body of truth
which all accept in these fields is relatively far less, and the
antagonistic views far greater. Normal psychology, which a few decades ago,
started out to be scientific with the good old ideal of a body of truth
semper ubique et ad omnibus, is already splitting into introspectionists,
behaviorists, genetic, philosophical and other groups, while in the new
Freudian movement, Adler and Jung are becoming sectaries, the former drawing
upon himself the most impolitic and almost vituperative condemnation of the
father of psychoanalysis. With this latter schism we are not here concerned,
but we are deeply concerned with the more general relations between the
psychologists of the normal and those of the abnormal; with a very few
negligible exceptions psychoanalysis has hardly ever had a place on the
program of our American Psychological Association, and the normal has had
little representation in your meetings and publications. This I deem
unfortunate for both, for unsatisfactory as this sadly needed rapprochement
is on the continent, it is far more so here. That the normalists in this
country so persistently ignore the unique opportunity to extend their
purview into the psychopathological domain at the unique psychological
moment that the development of Freudianism has offered, is to me a matter of
sad disappointment and almost depression. In reading a plea for Freud in our
association of normalists, I am a vox clamantis in deserto and can evoke no
response, and even the incursions of psychoanalysis into the domain of
biography, myth, religion and dreams, have not evoked a single attempt at
appreciation or criticism worthy of mention by any American psychologist of
the normal. I have sought in various ways the causes of this reticence, not
to say ignorance. While I received various answers, the chief one was to the
effect that the alleged hypertrophy of sex in its gross pathological forms,
and the conviction of the kind and degree of sex consciousness found in the
many hundreds of analyzed cases, are so unique and constitute the very
essence of the neurotic and psychotic cases, and conscious and unconscious
sex factors are slight or absent in most normal cases, that these patients
and their doctors alike are sex-intoxicated, and that the Freudian
psychology applies only to perverts and erotomania or other abnormal cases.
To ascribe all this aversion to social or ethical repression is both shallow
and banousic, for the real causes are both manifold and deeper. They are
part of a complicated protest of normality, found in all and even in the
resistance of subjects of analysis, which is really a factor which is basal
for self-control of the varying good sides of which Freudians tell us
nothing. The fact is that there are other things in the human psyche than
sex, and its ramifications. Hunger, despite Jung, fear despite Sadger, and
anger despite Freud, are just as primary, aboriginal and independent as sex,
and we fly in the face of fact and psychic experience to derive them all
from sex, although it is freely granted that in morbid cases each may take
on predominant sex features. In what follows I can only very briefly hint at
the way in which some of the Freudian mechanisms are applied to one of the
emotions, viz., anger.

Anger in most of its forms is the most dynamogenic of all the emotions. In
paroxysms of rage with abandon we stop at nothing short of death and even
mutilation. The Malay running amuck, Orlando Furioso, the epic of the wrath
of Achilles, hell-fire, which is an expression of divine wrath, are some
illustrations of its power. Savages work themselves into frenzied rage in
order to fight their enemies. In many descriptions of its brutal aspects,
which I have collected, children and older human brutes spit, hiss, yell,
snarl, bite noses and ears, scratch, gouge out eyes, pull hair, mutilate sex
organs, with a violence that sometimes takes on epileptic features and which
in a number of recorded cases causes sudden death at its acme, from the
strain it imposes upon the system. Its cause is always some form of
thwarting wish or will or of reduction of self-feeling, as anger is the acme
of self-assertion. The German criminalist, Friedrich, says that probably
every man might be caused to commit murder if provocation were sufficient,
and that those of us who have never committed this crime owe it to
circumstances and not to superior power of inhibition. Of course it may be
associated with sex but probably no human experience is per se more
diametrically opposite to sex. Some temperaments seem to crave, if not need,
outbreaks of it at certain intervals, like a well-poised lady, so
sweet-tempered that everybody imposed on her, till one day at the age of
twenty-three she had her first ebullition of temper end went about to her
college mates telling them plainly what she thought of them, and went home
rested and happy, full of the peace that passeth understanding. Otto Heinze,
and by implication Pfister, think nations that have too long or too
assiduously cultivated peace must inevitably sooner or later relapse to the
barbarisms of war to vent their instincts for combat, and Crile thinks anger
most sthenic, while Cannon says it is the emotion into which most others
tend to pass. It has of course been a mighty agent in evolution, for those
who can summate all their energies in attack have survived. But few if any
impulsions of man, certainly not sex, have suffered more intense, prolonged
or manifold repressions. Courts and law have taken vengeance into their
hands or tried to, and not only a large proportion of assaults, but other
crimes, are still due to explosions of temper, and it may be a factor in
nearly every court case. Society frowns on it, and Lord Chesterfield says
the one sure and unfailing mark of a gentleman is that he never shows
temper. Its manifestations are severely tabooed in home and school. Religion
teaches us not to let the sun go down upon our wrath and even to turn the
other cheek, so that we go through life chronically afraid that we shall
break out, let ourselves go, or get thoroughly mad, so that the moment we
begin to feel a rising tide of indignation or resentment (in the
nomenclature of which our language is so very rich, Chamberlain having
collected scores of English expressions of it), the censorship begins to
check it. In many cases in our returns repression is so potent from long
practice, that the sweetest smile, the kindest remarks or even deeds are
used either to veil it to others, or to evict it from our own consciousness,
or else as a self-inflicted penance for feeling it, while in some tender
consciences its checked but persistent vestiges may become centers of morbid
complexes and in yet other cases it burrows and proliferates more or less
unconsciously, and finds secret and circuitous ways of indulgence which only
psychoanalysis or a moral or religious confessional could trace.

I. Anger has many modes of Verschiebung, both instinctive and cultivated.
One case in our returns carries a bit of wood in his vest-pocket and bites
it when he begins to feel the aura of temper. Girls often play the piano
loudly, and some think best of all. One plays a particular piece to divert
anger, viz., the "Devil's Sonata."  A man goes down cellar and saws wood,
which he keeps for such occasions. A boy pounds a resonant eavespout. One
throws a heavy stone against a white rock. Many go off by themselves and
indulge in the luxury of expressions they want none to hear. Others take out
their tantrum on the dog or cat or perhaps a younger child, or implicate
some absent enemy, while others curse. A few wound themselves, and so on,
till it almost seems, in view of this long list of vicariates, as if almost
any attack, psychic or physical, might thus be intensified, and almost
anything or person be made the object of passion. Be it remembered, too,
that not a few look, do, think, feel their best under this impulsion.

II. Besides these modes of Abreagierung there are countless forms of
sublimation. In anger a boy says: I will avenge myself on the bully who
whipped me and whom I cannot or will not whip, by besting him in his
studies, class-work, composition, or learn skilful stunts that he cannot do,
dress, or behave better, use better language, keep better company, and thus
find my triumph and revenge. A man rejected or scorned by a woman sometimes
makes a great man of himself, with the motivation more or less developed to
make her sorry or humiliated. Anger may prompt a man to go in to win his
enemy's girl. A taunt or an insult sometimes spurs the victim of it to
towering ambition to show the world and especially the abuser better, and to
be able to despise him in return; and there are those who have been thus
stung to attempt greatness and find the sweetest joy of success in the
feeling that by attaining it they compensate for indignities they suffered
in youth. In fact, when we analyze ambition and the horror of
Minderwertigkeit that goes with it, we shall doubtless find this factor is
never entirely absent, while if we were to apply the same pertinacity and
subtlety that Jung in his "Wandlungen" has brought to bear in working over
the treacherous material of mythology, we might prove with no less
verisimilitude than he has shown the primacy of the libido that in the
beginning was anger, and that not Anaxagoras' love or the strife of
Heraclitus was the fons et origo of all things, that the Ichtrieb is basal,
and that the fondest and most comprehensive of all motives is that to excel
others, not merely to survive, but to win a larger place in the sun, and
that there is some connection between the Darwinian psychogenesis and Max
Stirner and Nietzsche, which Adler has best evaluated.

III. Anger has also its dreams and reveries. When wronged the imagination
riots in fancied humiliation and even tortures of an enemy. An object of
hate may be put through almost every conceivable series of degradation,
ridicule, exposure and disgrace. He is seen by others for what our hate
deems him to be. All disguises are stripped off. Children sometimes fancy a
hated object of anger flogged until he is raw, abandoned by all his friends,
an outcast, homeless, alone, in the dark, starving, exposed to wild animals,
and far more often more prosaic fancies conceive him as whipped by a parent
or stronger friend, or by the victim himself later. Very clever strategies
are thought out in detail by which the weaker gets even with or vanquishes
the stronger, and one who suffers a rankling sense of injustice can hardly
help day-dreaming of some form of comeuppance for his foe, although it takes
years to do it. In these reveries the injurer in the end almost always gives
up and sues for mercy at the feet of his quondam victim. So weird and
dramatic are these scenes often that to some minds we must call anger and
hate the chief springs of the imagination. A pubescent girl who was deeply
offended went off by herself and held an imaginary funeral of her enemy,
hearing in fancy the disparaging remarks of the bystanders, and when it was
all over and the reaction came, she made up with the object of her passion
by being unusually sweet to her and even became solicitous about her health
as fearing that her revery might come true. We all too remember Tolstoi's
reminiscences when, having been flogged by his tutor, he slunk off to the
attic, weeping and broken-hearted, and finally after a long brooding
resolved to run away and become a soldier, and this he did in fancy,
becoming corporal, lieutenant, captain, colonel. Finally came a great
battle where he led a desperate charge that was crowned with victory, and
when all was over and he stood tottering, leaning on his sword, bloody and
with many a wound, and the great Czar of all the Russias approached, saluted
him as saviour of his fatherland and told him to ask whatever he wanted and
it was his, replied magnanimously that he had only done his duty and wanted
no reward. All he asked was that his tutor might be brought up and his head
cut off. Then the scene changed to other situations, each very different,
florid with details, but motivated by ending in the discomfiture of the
tutor. In the ebb or ambivalent reaction of this passion he and the tutor
got on better.

IV. Richardson has collected 882 cases of mild anger, introspected by
graduate students of psychology, and finds not only over-determination,
anger fetishes and occasionally anger in dreams with patent and latent
aspects and about all the Freudian mechanisms, but what is more important,
finds very much of the impulsion that makes us work and strive, attack and
solve problems has an element of anger at its root. Life is a battle and for
every real conquest man has had to summate and focus all his energies, so
that anger is the acme of the manifestation of Schopenhauer's will to live,
achieve and excel. Hiram Stanley rather absurdly described it as an epoch
when primitive man first became angry and fought, overcoming the great
quaternary carnivora and made himself the lord of creation. Plato said
anger was the basis of the state, Ribot made it the establisher of justice
in the world, and Bergson thinks society rests on anger at vice and crime,
while Stekel thinks that temper qualities should henceforth be treated in
every biography and explored in every case that is psychoanalyzed. Hill's
experiments with pugilism, and Cannon's plea for athletics as a legitimate
surrogate for war in place of James' moral substitute, Frank Howard's
opinion that an impulse that Darwin finds as early as the sixth week and
hardly any student of childhood later than the sixth month, and which should
not be repressed but developed to its uttermost, although carefully directed
to worthy objects, are all in point. Howard pleads for judicious scolding
and flogging, to be, done in heat and not in cold blood, and says that there
is enough anger in the world, were it only rightly directed, to sweep away
all the evils in it. In all these phenomena there is no trace of sex or any
of its symbols, and sadism can never explain but must be explained by it. My
thesis is, then, that every Freudian mechanism applies to anger as truly as
it does to sex. This by no means assumes the fundamental identity of every
feeling-emotion in the sense of Weissfeld's very speculative theory.

In this very slight paper I am only trying to make the single point which I
think fear and sympathy or the gregarious or social instinct would still
better illustrate, although it would require more time, that the movement
inaugurated by Freud opens up a far larger field than that of sex. The
unconscious that introspectionists deny, (asserting that all phenomena
ascribed to it are only plain neural mechanisms, and therefore outside the
realm of psychology,) the feelings which introspection can confessedly never
tell much about and concerning which our text-books in psychology still say
so little: studies in these fields are marking a new epoch, and here the
chief merit of Freudism is found.



SOME years ago, at the Weimar Congress of the International Psychoanalytic
Association, I read a paper on the importance of a knowledge of philosophy
and metaphysics for psychoanalysts regarded as students of human life.
Perhaps if I had had the experience and ability to contribute the results of
some original analytic investigation on specific lines, I should not then
have ventured into the philosophic field. Perhaps, indeed, if those
conditions now obtained I should not be bringing forward similar arguments
again, and if any one feels tempted to maintain that philosophic speculation
is a camp of refuge for those who, in consequence of temperamental
limitations and infantile fixations which ought to be overcome, draw back
from the more robust study of emotional repressions on scientific lines, I
should admit that the allegation contains an element of truth. But in spite
of this, and in spite of the fact that there is some truth also in the
statement that the effects--good and bad--of emotional repression make
themselves felt, as a partial influence, in all the highest reaches of human
endeavor, including art, literature, and religion;--in spite of these
partial truths, philosophy and metaphysics are the only means through which
the essential nature of many tendencies can be studied of which
psychoanalysis describes only the transformations. And this being so it is
perhaps reasonable that one paper should be read at an annual meeting such
as this, where men assemble whose duty it is to study the human mind in all
its aspects.

I presume that just as, and just because men have minds AND bodies, an
evolutional history in the ordinary sense and a mental history in a sense
not commonly considered, so there will always be two, or perhaps three,
parties among psychologists and men of science, and each one, in so far as
it is limited in its vision, may be considered as abnormal, if one will. I
decline, however, to admit that the temperamental peculiarities of one group
are more in need either of justification or of rectification through
psychoanalysis than those of the others. It is probably true that emotional
tension often plays a larger part among persons who love a priori
reasoning--the "tender-minded" of Dr. James--than it does in those who work
through observation; but on the other hand exclusively empirical attitude
has its limitations and its dangers. Philosophy and metaphysics deal more
distinctively with essential function--that is with real existence,--while
natural science and the genetic psychology (of which psychoanalysis,
strictly speaking, is a branch) deal rather with appearances and with
structure. Both are in need of investigation. The FORM which art, religion,
and literature assume is determined by men's personal experiences and
special cravings. The essential motive of art and religion is, however, the
dim recognition by men of their relation to the creative spirit of the

No one can doubt that function logically precedes structure; or if any one
does doubt this, he need only observe his own experience and see how in
every new acquisition of knowledge or of power there come, first, the
thought, the idea, then the effort, next the habit, and finally the
modification of cerebral mechanism, in which the effort and the habit become
represented in relatively permanent and static form. In fact, the crux of
the whole discussion between science and metaphysics turns on, or harks back
to the discussion between function and structure; and it is the latter, in
the sense in which I mean the word, that has had of late a too large share
of our attention.

The enterprise on which we are all of us embarked,--whether we define it as
an investigation, pure and simple, into human nature and human motives, or
as a therapeutic attempt to relieve invalids of their symptoms,--is a larger
one than it is commonly conceived of as being. Each physician and each
investigator has, indeed, the right to say that for practical reasons he
prefers to confine his attention to some single portion of one or the other
of these tasks, be it never so small. But each one should regard himself as
virtually under an obligation to recognize the respects in which this chosen
task is incomplete. Every physicist is aware that there is some form of
energy underlying, or rather expressing itself in, light and heat and
gravitation. Physicists do not study this form of energy, not because they
do not wish to but simply because they cannot do so by the only methods that
they are allowed to use. But, as a reaction of defense, they sometimes
assert that no one else can do so either, that this underlying energy cannot
be explained. To say this is, however, in my judgment, to misappreciate
what an explanation is.

To explain any matter is to discover the points of similarity, or virtual
identity, between the matter studied and ourselves. But in order to do this
thoroughly, or rather in order to do it with relation to the essential
nature of some form of energy (the "Libido," for example, considered as an
unpicturable force) one must first consider what we, the investigators, are,
not at our less good, but at our best. It is with us, as given, with our
best qualities regarded as defining in part the Q. E. D. of the experiment,
that the investigation must begin. The nature of any and every form of real
underlying energy or essence must be defined in terms of our sense of our
own will and freedom. And this means that we must conceive and describe
ourselves, and expect to conceive and to describe the powers that animate
us, no longer as a system of forces subject to the so-called laws of nature
(which are, in reality, not immutable) but as relatively free, creative
agents; no longer as the product of the interplay of instincts, but as
individuals possessed of real reason, real power of love and real
self-consistent will. To claim to study the effects of the "Libido," to
which we ascribe the vast powers with which we are familiar, yet fail to
seek in it what would correspond to our own best attributes, would be to lay
aside our duties as students of human nature. It would be to confine our
attention to the "structure" of the mind, the form under which it manifests
itself, without having studied the laws of its action under conditions which
are more favorable to its development.

It must, now, have struck students of psychoanalytic literature that a
marked tendency has been shown toward supplementing the study of
structure,--that is, the detailed history of men's experiences and
evolution, regarded as sequences of phenomena,--by the study of the function
or creative energy for which the experiences stand. Silberer, whose work is
endorsed by Freud, has gone to a considerable length in this direction; and
the whole tendency of Freud's insistence on the relevancy, in the mental
sphere, of the law of the conservation of energy has been a movement,
though, I think, a narrow one, in this direction. More recently, Jung has
emphasized the importance of this tendency, and has dwelt more strongly, as
I think, than the facts warrant, on the supposed unwillingness of Freud to
recognize its importance.

Behind the experiences of childhood, for example, lie the temperamental
trends of childhood, and it is these with which we really need to get
acquainted; for these trends, if not the whole causes and equivalents of the
experiences which are recounted to us by our patients, constitute the
conditions without which the latter would not have been what they became.

But Jung himself, strangely enough, in both of his carefully prepared
arguments, specifically rejects all intention of dealing "metaphysically"
with this theme, in spite of the fact that every movement toward a fuller
recognition of creative energy is nothing less than metaphysics, even though
not in name.

The skilled observer, scrutinizing the motives and peering into the history
of the person whose traits and trends he is called on to investigate, must
see, in imagination, not only a vast host of acts, but also a vast network
of intersecting lines of energy of which the casual observer, and even the
intimate friend, may be wholly unaware. We call these lines of energy by
many special names,--"Libido" or "Urlibido," first of all, then love and
hate and jealousy, and so on.

What are these lines of energy, and how can we study them to the best
purpose? Obviously they are incomplete editions of the love and reason and
will the laws of which we can study to best advantage in ourselves and in
men where they are displayed in their best, that is, in their most
constructive form. To make such studies is to recognize metaphysics, but
instead of doing of doing this tacitly and implicitly we should do it openly
and explicitly.

The study of human nature should, in short, begin at the top, rather than at
the bottom; just as, if one had to choose what phase of a symphony one would
choose in order to get an idea of its perfection, one would take some
culminating moment rather than the first few notes simply because they were
the first. To be accurate, one could not do justice to the symphony except
by studying it as a whole, and similarly one should study the man as a
whole, including his relations to the universe as a whole. It is as wholes
that great poets conceived of their poems and great artists of their
pictures, and it is as a whole that each and every human life, standing as
it does as the representative of the body of the universe, and the spirit of
the universe, on the other, should implicitly be viewed.

The psychologist should sympathize deeply with the anatomist and the
physiologist and the student of cerebral pathology, but equally deeply with
the philosopher and the metaphysician who study the implications, present
although hidden, that point to the bonds between the individual and the
universe. To fail to recognize that these bonds exist,--as is done when the
attempt is made to study human beings as if they were really and exclusively
the product of their historic past conceived of in an organic sense,--would
be to try to build one-half of an arch and expect it to endure. The truth
is, we do not, in my opinion, genuinely believe that a human is nothing but
the product of his organic past, or the product of his experience.

We believe, by implication, in our metaphysical selves and our corresponding
obligations, more strongly than we have taught ourselves to recognize. But
to this fact we make ourselves blind through a species of repression, just
as many a child, confident of its parents' affection, assumes, for his own
temporary purposes, the right to accuse them of hostile intentions which
they do not entertain.

We forget, or repress, the fact that the mind of man cannot be made subject
to the laws of physics, and yet we proceed to deal with the phenomena
dependent on the working of the mind of man as if these laws actually did

The misleading effects of this tendency are clearly seen where it is a
question of the conclusions to be drawn from the researches, admirable in
themselves, made under the influence of the genetic method.

The notion seems to prevail that we should prepare ourselves for the
formation of just ideas with regard to the mode in which the higher
faculties of men come into existence by wiping the slate clean to the extent
of assuming that we have before us no data except some few acts or thoughts
that are definable in the simplest possible terms, and then watching what
happens as the situation becomes more complicated. But one is apt to forget,
in doing this, that there is one thing which we cannot wipe off the
slate,--namely, ourselves, not taken in the Bergsonian sense alone, but as
fully fledged persons, possessed of the very qualities for which we
undertake to search, yet without the possession of which the search could
not begin. This does not, of course, militate against the value of these
genetic researches in one sense. The study of evolutional sequences is
still, and forever will be, of enormous value. But it does not teach us
nearly as much of the nature of real creativeness as we can learn through
the introspection of ourselves in the fullest sense; and I maintain that
psychoanalysts are persons who could do this to advantage.

Is not the notion that through the careful watching of the sequences of the
evolutionary process, as if from without, we can get an adequate idea of the
forces that really are at work, exactly the delusion by which the skillful
juggler tries to deceive his audience when he directs their attention to the
shifting objects that he manipulates, and away from his own swiftly moving

My contention is that there are other means of studying the force which we
call "Libido" besides that of noting its effects. The justification for this
statement is that the force itself is identical, in the last analysis, with
that which we feel within ourselves and know as reason, as imagination, and
as will, conscious of themselves, and capable of giving to us, directly or
indirectly, the only evidence we could ever hope to get, for the existence
of real creativeness, spontaneity and freedom.

Every work of art, worthy of the name, gives evidence of the action not
alone of a part of a man, but of the whole man; not only of his repressed
emotions, but of his intelligence and insight, and of relationships existing
between his life and all the other forms of life with which his own is

Unity must prevail throughout all nature. Either we are,--altogether, and
through and through, our best as well as our less good,--nothing but the
expression of repressed cravings, in the sense that they or the conflicts
based on them constitute the final causa vera of all progress; or else the
best that is in us and also our repressed cravings are alike due to the
action of a form of energy which is virtually greater than either one of
them, inasmuch as it has the capacity of developing into something greater
than either.

This is the agency which we should preeminently study and it is best studied
under conditions when, instead of being obviously subject to repression, it
is most free from repression. That is, it is best studied as it appears in
the thoughts and conduct of the best men, at their best, their most
constructive moments.

We cannot use our power of reason to deny our reason; for in so doing we
affirm the very thing which we deny. Nor are we under the necessity of using
our reason to affirm our reason, since that is the datum without which we
cannot undertake our task.

If this view is sound, what practical conclusions can we draw from it? I
wish to insist on this question because it was distinctly and positively
with the practical end in mind that I ventured to write this paper, and I
suggest the following as a few of these conclusions.

(I) We should not speak of the "Libido," in whatever sense this word is
taken, as if it were a fixed quantity, like so much heat, or so much fluid,
that is, as representing so much mesaurable force. One current notion which
has played a very useful part in psychoanalytic work, yet is misleading in
its tendency, is that the "Libido" may be likened to a river which if it
cannot find an outlet through its normal channel is bound to overflow its
banks and perhaps furrow out a new path. This conception is based on this
same law of the conservation of energy to which reference has been made.
If, however, I am right in my contention that the "Libido" is only one
manifestation of an energy,-- greater than simply "vital,"--which can be
studied to the best purpose only among men whose powers have been cultivated
to the best advantage, then it will be seen that this conception of "Libido"
as a force of definite amount is not justifiable by the facts.

One does not find that love or reason is subject to this quantitative law.
On the contrary, the persons whom most of us recognize as of the highest
type do not love any given individual less because their love takes in
another. The bond of love holds not only three, but an indefinite number.

The same statement may be made with regard to reason and to will. The power
and quantity of them are not exhausted but are increased by use.

I maintain, then, that although the "Libido," in so far as it is regarded as
an instinct, does not stand on the same footing with the reason and
disinterested love of a person of high cultivation and large views, neither
does it stand on the same footing with the physical energy that manifests
itself in light and heat and gravitation.

When we come to deal with man and any of his attributes, or as we find them
at any age, we ought to look upon him, in my estimation, as animated in some
measure by his self-foreshadowing best. And whether it is dreams with which
we have to do, or neurotic conflicts, or wilfulness, or regression, we shall
learn to see, more and more, as we become accustomed to look for evidences
thereof, the signs of this sort of promise, just as we might hope to learn
to find, more and more, through the inspection of a lot of seeds of
different plants, the evidences which would enable us to see the different
outcomes which each one is destined to achieve, even though, at first, they
all looked just alike.

(2) The next point has reference to "sublimation." This outcome of
individual evolution, as defined by Freud, has a strictly social, not an
ethical, meaning. Jung also, in the interesting paper referred to, in his
description of the rational aims of psychoanalysis, makes sublimation
(though he does not there use the word) the equivalent of a subjective sense
of well being, combined with the maximum of biologic effectiveness.

"Die Psychoanalyse soll eine biologische Methode sein, welche das hoechste
subjektive Wohlbefinden mit der wertwollsten biologischen Leistung zu
vereinigen sucht."

But in my opinion, while it may be true that the psychoanalyst may often
have reason to be thankful if he can claim a therapeutic outcome of this
sort, the logical goal of a psychoanalytic treatment is not covered by the
securing of a relative freedom from subjective distress, even when combined
with the satisfactory fulfillment of one's biologic mission. A man has
higher destinies than this, and the sense of incompleteness felt by the
neurotic patient, which was emphasized by Janet and is recognized by us all,
must be more or less painfully felt by every man whose conscience does not
assure him that he is really working for an end greater than that here
specified. The logical end of a psychoanalytic treatment is the recovery of
a full sense of one's highest destiny and origin and of the bearings and
meanings of one's life.

On similar grounds I think that the conflicts to which all men find
themselves subjected, must be considered, in the last analysis, as conflicts
of an ethical description. For it is only in ethical terms that one can
define one's relation to the universe regarded as a whole, just as it is
only in ethical terms that a man could describe his sense of obligation to
support the dignity of fine family traditions or the ideals represented by a
team or a social group of which he felt reason to be proud. I realize that a
man's sense of pride of his family, his team, or his country may be a
symptom of narcistic self-adulation; but like all such signs and
symbols--the symbol of the church tower, for example--this is a case where
two opposing meanings meet.

Every act and motive of our lives, from infancy to age, is controlled by two
sets of influences, the general nature of which has here been made
sufficiently clear. They correspond on the one hand, to the numerous partial
motives which psychoanalysis studies to great advantage, and on the other
hand, to the ethical motives which are only thoroughly studied by

(3) Another conclusion, which seems to me practically of great importance,
follows from this same view. Every one who has studied carefully the life
histories of patients, especially of children, and has endeavored in so
doing to follow step by step the experiences through which they reach the
various mile-stones on their journey, must have been astonished to observe
the evidences of PREPAREDNESS on their part for each new step in this long
journey. Human beings seem predestined, as it were, not only in a physical
but in a mental sense, for what is coming, and the indications of this in
the mental field are greater than the conditions of organic evolution could
readily account for. The transcendency of the mind over the brain shows
itself here as elsewhere.

We are told that our visions of the unpicturable, the ideal world, which our
imagination paints and which our logical reasoning calls for as the
necessary cap or final corollary to any finite world which our intelligence
can actually define,-- that such visions are nothing but the pictures of
infantile desires projected on to a great screen and made to mock us with
the appearance of reality.

I have nothing whatever to say against the value of the evidence that a
portion of our visions are of this origin. In fact, I believe this as
heartily as does any one. But I desire strenuously to oppose the view
tacitly implied in the statement of the projection theory just cited, the
acceptance of which as an exclusive doctrine would involve the virtual
rejection of our right, as scientific men, to rely on the principle that the
evidence afforded by logical presuppositions and logical inference is as
cogent as that furnished through observation.

It is, in my opinion, just because we all belong to a world which is in
outline not "in the making" but completed,--because, in short, we are in one
sense like heirs returning to our estates,--that this remarkable
preparedness of each child is found that impresses us so strongly. The
universe is, in a sense, ours by prescriptive right and by virtue of the
constitution of our minds. But the unity of such a universe must, of
course, be of a sort that includes and indeed implies diversity and conflict
as essential elements of its nature.

Psychoanalysts should not make light of inferential forms of reasoning, for
it is on this form of reasoning that the value of their own conclusions
largely rests. We infer contrary meanings for words that are used
ostensibly in one sense, and we infer special conflicts in infancy of which
we have but little evidence at hand, and cravings and passions of which it
may be impossible to find more than a few traces by way of direct testimony.

Our immediate environment and the world that surrounds us in that sense,
appear to our observation, indeed, as "in the making." But besides the power
of observation which enables, and indeed forces us to see the imperfection
in this environmental world, we possess, or are possessed by, a mental
constitution which compels us, with still greater force, to the belief in a
goal of positive perfection of which our nearer goals are nothing but the

It is because I believe in the necessity of such reasoning as this that I am
not prepared to accept the "Lust-Unlust" principle (that is, to use
philosophical terms, the "hedonistic" principle) as representing the forces
by which even the child is finally animated. Men do not reach their best
accomplishments, if indeed they reach any accomplishment, through the
exclusive recognition, either unconscious or instinctive, of a utilitarian
result, or a result which can be couched in terms of pleasure or personal
satisfaction as the goal of effort. They may state the goal to themselves in
these terms; but this is, then, the statement of what is really a fictitious
principle, a principle in positing which the patient does but justify
himself and does not define his real motive. Utilitarianism and hedonism
and the pleasure-pain principle, useful though they are, are alike imperfect
in that they refer to partial motives, partial forms of self-expression;
whereas that which finally moves men to their best accomplishments and makes
them dissatisfied with anything less than this, is the necessity rather than
the desire to take complete self-expression as their final aim. The partial
motives are more or less traceable as if by observation. The larger motives
must be felt and reached through inferential reasoning, based on observation
of ourselves through careful introspection.

Finally, the practical, therapeutic question arises, as to what measures the
psychoanalyst is justified in taking to bring about the best sort of outcome
in a given case?

It is widely felt that the psychoanalyst would weaken his own hold on the
strong typically analytic principles through which painful conflicts are to
be removed if he should form the habit of dealing with ethical issues, and
talking of "duties", instead of stimulating his patients to the discovery of
resistances and repressions, even of repression the origin of which is not
to be found within the conscious life. Yet,--parallel, as one might say,
with this clear-cut standard of professional psychoanalytic obligation, the
force of which I recognize,--it has to be admitted that there are certain
fairly definite limitations to the usefulness of psychoanalysis. As one of
these limitations, well-pronounced symptoms of egoism, taking the form of
narcissism, are to be reckoned. These symptoms are not easily analyzed away.
But if one asks oneself, or asks one's patients, what conditions might, if
they had been present from the outset, have prevented this narcistic outcome
(Jehovah type, etc.), the influence that suggests itself--looming up in
large shape--is just this broad sense of ethical obligation to which
repeated reference has here been made. If these patients could have had it
brought home to them in childhood that they belonged, not to themselves
conceived of narrowly (that is, as separate individuals) but only to
themselves conceived of broadly as representatives of a series of
communities taken in the largest sense, the outcome that happened might
perhaps have been averted.

And what might have happened may still happen. What is to be done? Each
physician must decide this for himself. He should be able both to do his
best as a psychoanalyst and at the same time help the patient to free
himself from that sort of repression in consequence of which he is unable to
see his own best possibilities. But he cannot do this unless he has trained
himself to see and feel in himself the outlines of this vision any more than
he could help the patient to rid himself of an infantile complex if he did
not appreciate what this complex means. We must trust ourselves, as
physicians, with deadly weapons, and with deadly responsibilities, and we
ought to be well harried by our consciences if we should do injustice, in
using them, either to our scientific or our philosophic training.


[*] It should be stated as possibly bearing on the interpretation of the
dreams recorded by the author, who is well known to me, that she is the
subject of an intense and unusual obsession of hatred of an obtrusively
pathological character against a relative. The psycho-pathology of the
obsession, of which I have an intimate knowledge, has not been determined.
A reasonable interpretation is that the main etiological factor is jealousy.
She has undergone prolonged psychoanalytic treatment by a skilled
psycho-analyst without improvement of the obsession and without revealing a
satisfactory explanation of its pathology. To what extent the contents of
the dreams have been determined or coloured by culture acquired by this
treatment and by the study of Freudian doctrines is also a question
deserving of consideration.--Editor.

The Contribution of a Woman

IT is an easy matter to accept upon authority a given scientific theory and
bring to its support certain selected evidence, but quite another to
carefully observe and report phenomena, inspired, influenced and guided
indeed by the scientific-theory but drawing conclusions no wider or deeper
than individual insight warrants. Scientific knowledge advances not by ready
acceptance of theories but by original observation and experiment and the
following study of dreams is offered as fulfilling in some degree the latter
requirement. While there is a certain familiarity on the part of the writer
with the general theory advanced by Freud and with his principles of
interpretation, there is no acquaintance at first hand with his Die
Traumdeutung, the reading of which has been postponed lest there be excess
of influence.

No apology is offered for this invasion of the domain of psychology by a
layman. The laboratory of the mind is open to all and he who has missed
conventional training may yet chance upon valuable facts and their
interpretation. Neither is apology offered for the intimate nature of the
data reported. Belonging as dreams do to the most personal and private life
of the individual it is nevertheless true that continued and careful study
of this form of mentation insensibly alters one's attitude so that at length
the dream appears as a fact of nature, impersonal and objective.

It is a common remark that if one tells his dreams their number will
increase but this increase is probably only apparent. With attention the
products of the dream-self become more accessible until one who is practiced
in introspection can raise the number of his remembered dreams from one in
two or three nights to five, ten, or even fourteen in a single night. Even
at this maximum of remembrance one feels that but a fraction of the mind's
nocturnal activity is recalled. Images emerge in consciousness and fall back
into obscurity before the waking thought can grasp them. Or it may be more
accurate to say that upon awakening consciousness rises from level to level.
It sometimes happens that when first awake I recall several dreams which
vanish utterly as a sudden shifting of consciousness occurs. Then, upon this
new level, a new set of dreams appears. There is reason to believe that in
thinking again of a dream which has once been recalled it is not the
original dream experience which comes to mind but the copy made in the
waking consciousness when it first emerged. On the other hand visions
recognized as dreams belonging to a long past time occasionally float into
the mind giving rise to the suspicion that they have not before reached the
waking consciousness. It is possible that all dreams are recorded in the
depths of the mind, themselves influencing and merging with later dreams.

The number of my dreams recalled and written out during three years closely
approaches five thousand and without doubt the total number far exceeds
this. I am inclined to the belief that constantly, by day as well as by
night, we are dreaming; that unnoticed and independent trains of thought are
carried on. At times when resting if I fall into an abstracted state--not
of set purpose--I find myself in the midst of a stream of thought appearing,
for the moment, perfectly natural, familiar and intelligible, as if I knew
the beginning and end of the matter. But only for a moment will
consciousness remain at this lower level. There is a sudden return to the
normal plane, the passage fades from memory and I wonder what on earth it
was all about. These phases of subconscious activity differ from dreams
proper in the absence of visual images. The ideas are embodied in words,
heard with the mind one might say. The source may be the same as that of the
night visions but it is evident that during the day the incessant
stimulation of the eye from without leaves no opportunity for the emergence
of the secondary visual images pertaining to subconscious ideas, which, we
are told by Dr. Morton Prince, furnish the perceptual elements of the dream.
The other senses are sometimes represented. Often we are performing, or
trying to perform, some action. But dreams are predominantly visual. Goethe
has said, "I believe men only dream that they may not cease to see."

An account of the probable genesis of the memory images not only furnishes a
clue to the mechanism of dreaming but to the underlying conditions as well.
The lowest forms of life possess no image-forming power. They have no sense
organs; sensation is diffused over the entire form and undifferentiated.
Gradually, as the scale of life is ascended, certain parts of the organisms
become specially sensitive to certain stimuli and eventually individual
organs give separate and distinct reports of phenomena. A substance
hitherto merely felt, is seen, heard, smelled, tasted. The passage from
sensation to perception occurs when but one or two of the sense organs are
stimulated by an object, yet, because of nervous connections established
during former more close and complete experience of the object the remaining
sense organs are faintly roused, sending into consciousness copies of former
sensations. Thus the whole is present to mind while but a part to sense. In
the developing brain the store of memory images of various kinds would
rapidly increase and these images would come at length to have a more or
less independent existence. It is probable that the next step in the making
of mind was the synthesis of one set of sense impressions to form an idea of
the object, the first abstraction, and thenceforth a sensation gave rise to
an idea. There is at this stage no impulse to explain sensations, but
involuntarily, from the store of memory images, and from the reservoir of
ideas above, emerges a representation of the exciting object. If this is one
to which the organism is accustomed the resulting complex in the highest
nerve centers fits the subject, but as evolution proceeds and environment
and capacity for sensation grow more complex, new stimulations occur. In the
absence of the capacity for knowledge and understanding of the object the
developing mind, true to its law, brings forward mental images most nearly
related--those which fit in one or two respects,--and thus we have the birth
of analogy, "the inference of a further degree of resemblance from an
observed degree of resemblance."

To look at one's self is a late endowment. The kitten pursues its own tail
but would chase that of its mother with equal ardor. I once saw a monkey
searching industriously with eyes and hands upon its own body. The sight
was startling. I had never before seen an animal look intelligently at
itself. It was long before man distinguished his self from the world
without, and longer still before he began to understand himself. Physical
and mental phenomena, pain and pleasure, could not be tracked to their
sources and so came to be expressed in terms of the world of nature, and for
a reason precisely similar that portion of the self functioning in sleep
makes use of symbolism. Occasionally the higher thought centers are involved
but the typical dream is the product of a restricted, primitive self,
lacking the resources of the complete personality and limited in power of
expression. In dreams we are deficient in self-consciousness because it is
only a partial self that dreams. Our wishes are rarely given clear and
definite expression for the reason that the section of the mind then active
is incapable of clear, definite and adequate concepts. Symbolism and
reasoning by analogy are the resources of the mind until the power of
knowledge dawns.

Predicating then a dream-self by its nature largely restricted to the use of
symbolism and having at its disposal a vast store of images endlessly
susceptible to influences which combine and alter their form, we reach the
crucial question, what initiates the dream? This is by no means a mere
purposeless thronging of visual images as occasionally happens in the period
preceding sleep when faces, forms and scenes flit aimlessly before the
mind's eye, some bare replicas of stimulations of the eye from without,
others the attendant visual images of past thoughts and experiences and
their distorted combination. Somewhat closer to actual dreaming is the rise
of images accompanying present bodily and mental states. I sometimes see a
body in the posture my own body has that moment assumed and one night, when
recalling a passage from Wilhelm Meister, I saw a young man seated
bareheaded on a doorstep, plainly a picture of Wilhelm at Marianna's
threshold. In the last example we come definitely upon a vision induced from
within, an idea working downward upon the visual centers. Still nearer
dreams, indeed if occurring in sleep they would be classed with them, are
the purely imaginative pictures whose cause is as mysterious as that of the
actual dream. Fire in the wall near the pantry door, a garden with a woman
rising from a clump of bushes, high, rocky mountain tops, a perpendicular
wall of rock and against it a man on a ladder reaching for a flower, a long
vista ending with a pillared temple on a hill,--these are a few of my
visions before sleep. But to return,--why the dream? Are all or most dreams
sexual? Can we say with Freud that they express the fulfillment of repressed

It is not my purpose to attempt a complete answer to this question as I am
far from understanding even the majority of my own dreams. Broadly speaking
I should say that considering the amount and complexity of the material on
hand which the mind may use and the probable inconceivable number of dreams
it is unlikely that all are concerned with this matter. This question may
well be allowed to rest for the present. But certain convictions have arisen
in my mind as the result of the study of hundreds of personal dreams,
convictions which do not rest upon the arbitrary interpretation of accepted
symbolism, though I am far from questioning the validity of this procedure.
I venture little beyond the region illuminated by individual insight though
examples are cited far exceeding my power of interpretation.

The sexual theory of dreams has by some authorities been characterized as
greatly over-emphasized, as failing to take account of other factors and
interests of human personality. To those critics let me present the matter
briefly and simply. The very fact of a person's being alive today
presupposes an ancestry stretching backward through uncounted ages, an
ancestry whose chief function, up to very recent times, was sexual and
reproductive. Modern interests, business, social, intellectual, religious,
artistic and philanthropic, which today loom so large, are a recent
innovation, occupying in comparison with the period when they were not but a
moment of time. In a vertical section of man--both racial and individual,
they are seen to constitute but a superficial layer, from a contemporary
standpoint predominant and paramount but in the light of the ages secondary
and unstable. Biologically a woman is only an agent for the reproduction of
her kind; more than this, with mind, all save the conscious, socially and
ethically restricted sections, set toward the same end and toward the means
for its accomplishment. There is no gainsaying this fact and in my dreams
which yielded to analysis it stands paramount. I am inclined to disregard
the theory of a "censor" for the reason that after I had admitted to my
thought and frankly considered certain facts, by a thousand devious hints,
by a thousand subterfuges, my subconsciousness continued to express these
same facts by means of obscure symbolism. As the savage seizes upon one link
in a chain of events expecting thereby to repossess the whole, as the native
of Borneo makes a wax figure of his enemy in the belief that as the image
melts, the enemy's body will waste away, as the women of Sumatra when sowing
rice let the hair hang loose down their backs in order that the rice may
grow luxuriantly and have long stalks, so this woman, this under-self,
ignorant of the true law of cause and effect, and unable to form definite
concepts, instinctively selects from the innumerable memories and visual
images at her disposal those having relation to her unfulfilled function and
forms a picture or weaves a tale, expecting through the performance of some
remotely associated act the complete result.

To the events of an hour or so, supremely significant from a biological
standpoint, are related a very large number of my dreams. Again and again
events of that day and of the preceding days form the basis of dreams;
trivial circumstances are revived one by one and fragments of the experience
itself are seized, distorted and each woven into what I can no longer term
"the baseless fabric of a vision."  For instance the day preceding I broke
my umbrella and found a shop where it was mended. In dream after dream
appears that broken umbrella under various circumstances and when I ask the
reason for its apparent importance I can not escape the conclusion that the
article in question stands for a period of time, a series of events, in
which the dream-self would again be placed. Apparently on that road
opportunity lay in waiting, therefore by any means at her disposal must that
path be regained. Involuntarily the language of metaphor is assumed in
attempting to describe a process so far removed from actual knowledge. Still
are we driven to avail ourselves of the expedient of primitive man.

Of the dreams presently to be cited only a part fall within the category of
analogical reasoning. In none of the examples is a complete analysis
attempted. The mind of each reader may carry the solution of the problem as
far as it will. I am content merely to furnish a clue. That each dream is
of great significance must not be assumed. But that each one, even though it
appear a mere fanciful reverie, means SOMETHING can hardly be doubted. At
the outset it is acknowledged that the dreams recorded followed a period of
intense emotion when, through the exigencies of life the strongest instinct
of humanity required control and repression. Further the writer is a
musician and a botanist, and especially interested in biological and social
problems. Study of the latter subjects was continued throughout the period
in question. It must be confessed also that though loth to accept the
sexual theory of dreams, once convinced of its at least partial truth I was
on the watch for confirmation. I expected sexual symbolism. On the other
hand each dream was absolutely spontaneous, an utter surprise, having no
slightest likeness to any creation of my waking mind and seeming to rise
from a region so remote as to be not myself. It should be noted also that
the greater number of the nearly five thousand remembered dreams, all but
very few in fact, would have remained in the limbo of the unconscious but
for the persistent and trained effort which rescued them from oblivion.
Neither by, nor apparently for my waking self were they formed.

Each individual mind, besides sharing in the symbolism common to mankind,
has doubtless its own particular and special forms. For instance during the
period covered by my study no less than ninety different varieties of plant
life figured in my dreams, not including indefinite ferns, moss, grass,
weeds and trees, and several plants noted somewhat in detail yet unlike any
form known to me. Of the recognizable plants a number were used somewhat
cleverly for their analogical significance. Of these may be mentioned the
snowball and hydrangea whose flowers as every botanist knows are sterile,
the size of the individual blossom being gained at the expense of loss of
stamens and pistils. These plants were plainly used to indicate barrenness
and the predominance of traits other than sexual. The keen critic will here
interpose an objection. How is the primitive, unreasoning dream-self able
to make use of symbolism whose import is known only to higher and developed
states of mind? The force of the objection is granted and without attempting
fully to answer it I will say that the likeness of the primitive mind of the
race to that surviving in the highly evolved individual is only partial.
Like tendencies exist but the influence of a great body of knowledge above
inevitably alters the action of the latter. Maidenhair fern stood
indubitably in several instances for the pubic hair, once surrounding a
cluster of trailing arbutus when talcum powder of that fragrance had been
used on the body. I dreamed of Linnaea borealis, the little twin-flower, in
connection with a woman who a few days before when told of the birth of
twins to a friend, said, "That is the way to have them come." Lettuce, for
its milky juice obviously, appeared in two bunches on the front of the waist
of a woman into whose house I had broken by leaning against a screen door,
and a lawn bordered by cowslips, our common name for Caltha palustris,
certainly represented a certain lawn that a friend told me had been kept
mown by the cows feeding upon it when driven from pasture.

In each of the above instances the floral symbolism was part of an elaborate
dream having wider significance leaving no doubt as to the accuracy of my
conclusions. A particularly interesting and devious use of flowers occurs
in the following dream--I am in front of a certain house over which, in the
dream, is growing a vine having white, star-like, fragrant blossoms. I want
one flower and the woman living there says I may have it. The name of the
vine seems to be "Dyak."  There is no plant having that name but a few
months before I was reading of the Dyak girls of Borneo who "are very
careful of their clothing, and often very vain, but when they are married
they frequently become exceedingly untidy." I quoted the passage in an
article thus fixing it in my mind. The link with the dream consists in the
fact that the woman living in the vine-decorated house is, in reality,
notoriously untidy. Her two daughters as they approached womanhood greatly
improved in the daintiness of their garb, and one had become pregnant--
outside marriage. Another dream:--I see a friend, by name Anna, stoop and
pull from the ground a tiny lily-of-the-valley plant. It has no roots. I
say, "What a pity."  This dream had no meaning until into my mind came the
thought of another Anna, a young girl who was led astray and who, I had just
been told, had taken medicine to terminate her pregnancy. When I learned of
this I had thought of the loss of the incipient life. The same night I
dreamed of going upstairs in a shed or barn. At the top of the stairs
something--a door--is in the way. I go by it. A child is there. Again:--I
am crossing a level field and come upon little star-like flowers which I try
to analyse. I find many with pistils but no stamens,--the pollen bearing
organs which effect fertilization. I wonder if they will keep fresh until I
reach home. Once more:--I approach a city. I see woods and two gardens,
either flower or vegetable, from which comes music. On a mound wild flowers
are growing, some white, some small and dark. I gather them. Then very
remote and vague,--my brother is there. I see a long snake which my brother
puts on(?) and covers my flowers. Still another vision was of a branch of
beautiful; fragrant apple blossoms growing through the wall of a room. Some
of the flowers were pistillate, some staminate,--a condition false to nature
as regards the apple.

A dream, which in common with many others, seems not the fulfillment of a
wish but the symbolical expression of a bodily and mental state, is the
following:--After a day of very great physical restlessness I dream that I
am walking in a path by a river. I can not see the water for the
over-hanging trees beneath whose branches grow quantities of Impatiens
fulva, the spotted touch-me-not,--named from the sudden bursting of the pod
when touched. The plant in question I had not seen for some time and the
fitness of the symbolism to the bodily state was too close to be accidental.
After a walk in the spring when the ground was white with the cotton-tufted
seeds of the poplar and I thought if all germinated how overwhelmed we
should be with poplars, I dream that I am sweeping a floor upon which cotton
is scattered, some of which flies and is caught in my hair. I dream of
walking under pine trees whose pollen falls on me, and finally--though
examples of the significant use of plants are by no means exhausted--I have
upon awakening the vision of a pine tree growing from my nose. This strange
anomaly becomes intelligible when I recall that a friend told me that the
pores of her nose were enlarged, and I said mine were also; we had been
talking of a quotation from Emerson relating to nature's fecundity; my
friend was soon to be married; and a line from Emerson often in my thought
is that in regard to pines "throwing out pollen for the benefit of the next

For a musician to dream of playing, or of trying to play, upon an organ or
piano is apparently the most natural thing in the world and an attempt at
interpretation is, to uninstructed common sense, a journey far afield. Yet
the strange and striking variations introduced and the hindrances to my
accomplishment of the act invest the dream with marked significance. For
instance:--It is after church service and I want to play upon the pipe
organ. I find my music. The stool is a kettle of water with a board over
it. A stream of water comes from the organ. There is a horse near which
kicks or bites me. Again:--I play on the piano to a friend who is a German
scholar the opening theme of the Tristan and Isolde Prelude. My friend
tells me the pronunciation of the title of the opera and it sounds to me
like Froebel. That the name of the world-famous music drama, the apotheosis
of passion, should be transformed to that of the notable child educator is
nonsense or otherwise according to the observer's point of view. Another
dream:--Some children want me to play and I go to the piano and try to play
the Spring Song. But the piano stops sounding; only a few bass notes
respond. I dream that a table of sheet music is on fire. Sometimes the
music is too far away or too high for me to see: the notes are flowers, or
books, or animals, or "hanging objects," or queer figures; in the book from
which I play are pictures of the sea, a ship, a person, and birds--sea
gulls, among them. The bed becomes an organ upon which I try to play. I
begin to play the Witches' Dance and there are not enough keys to the piano.
Again the keys are covered by a cloth or there are no keys. An organ behind
me is played and I see no organist, or I move the pedals of an organ and
music begins before the instrument is open. I try to play and the stops are
wrong. Often I search frantically for the hymn given out by the minister
and can not find it. Once I picked flowers in its place, drooping racemes of
sweet alyssum, which I gave to a woman. Oddest of all on the keys of a
piano I see a small boy who salutes me. Lastly, I play for children to
sing. At the top of the page of music are whole notes--easy to play; below
there are whole notes in groups of two, joined like confluent living cells.

There are several examples of punning to record--not brilliant, even
somewhat vulgar yet interesting as exhibiting varieties of mental action. I
dream that I am at a barn yard trying to hold the gate shut. In the yard are
two men, each with an animal, a kid, one light, one dark. The light kid is
unmanageable, pawing and shaking its head. Some days elapsed before the
interpretation dawned upon me but once noted could not be doubted. Several
weeks previously I had a business engagement and of two pairs of
gloves--kids--I hesitated which to wear. I was to do some writing
necessitating their removal and as one fastening of a light glove was
difficult I fixed upon the dark pair, as to ask help would under the
circumstances, have proved exceedingly embarrassing.

A friend had informed me of her approaching marriage. I dream of eating at
a table with her. I take meat but she wants me to do she does. So I return
the meat I had chosen and take spare-rib. This variety of meat I had neither
eaten nor thought of for months and the conclusion that the reference is to
the story of Adam and Eve is inevitable. I dream of eating at the table of
a friend. I am a little sick and cannot eat all that is given me. My friend
points smilingly to a package of stuffed dates on my plate. One date is
apart from the package. This dream relates unmistakably to a day when I had
a pressure of engagements and had not time to eat; when I did feel slightly
ill, and when one very significant engagement was made unexpectedly--a date
apart from the others. A kiss of her lover upon the lips of a young girl
becomes in my dream a piece of court plaster on her upper lip, and a woman
about whose prospective marriage some one asked, returns, in my night vision
to a university to obtain the degree of B. Ed., which in sleep I took to
indicate Bachelor of Education but which is open to a different

Visions of natural scenery are most remote, strange, beautiful and
delightful. They are doubtless composites of actual localities but in their
construction and use fine powers of imagination are at work and real life
seems left far behind. In my dreams of this type the ocean stands as a
symbol of Life itself, of the mighty and profound procreative force the
entrance into whose domination is the crisis of existence. For this
experience is demanded the mightiest symbol. It is evening. I am on the
seashore with my father and mother. Greatwaves are rolling in. I look
backward and see one wave break where we have passed. My mother is afraid
but we cannot turn back. I am calm. Then--this immediately follows--I am
in a kind of tunnel and fear that I shall suffocate. This and the following
might be construed as symbolising my own birth. I am in a boat on the ocean
with my mother. The waves are tremendous and as she goes out on deck to
close a great door I fear she will be washed away. But she is safe. Next
there is a violent jar and the boat is aground. Then I see down a city
street. In a particularly impressive dream I approach the sea at early
morning. I think I shall see the sun rise from the water. I go over a hill
to reach the ocean which is frozen near the shore. I go into a little house
and when I come out I can not close the door. The wind is high and the
waves enormous. Then there is calm and I see a man on horseback in the
water. Next a fog rises and out of the mist a little boat comes toward me,
the oars flashing like silver. Then a little boy comes ashore. There are
strange dreams of a frozen ocean, and of being out in a small boat with a
friend, soon to be married, with ships passing and we afraid. I am near the
ocean and longing to see it, and once trying to go with some one to see the
foundation of the sea but am hindered.

Among visions of mountains is the following.--I see high and beautiful
mountains as I stand on a bridge. I hear the squeal of a horse. Then stones
fall from a mountain-top into the stream and spirals of bright water rise to
meet them. After receiving from a man of vigorous, vital personality an
atomizer for a slight hay fever, I dream of high mountains and at the foot
of one is an irregular patch of red sunlight. Above are two houses, not
side by side. In front of them is a fine, slanting veil of rain. A dream in
which indications of the reputed "father complex" may be found is one of my
father and myself in a team at the top of a high mountain, at the end of the
road. My father wants to drive off among the peaks but I fear that we shall
be lost. I dread the night there but think I can call for help. Somewhat
similar is the following.--I am in a high, steep place with my father. I
fear. He moves a stone and in the hollow of a rock I see moss or fungus.
There are often brief, passing dreams in which no person figures. I see a
bridge across a chasm; it is long and extends beyond where a bridge is
necessary. I see two rivers join and wonder what the resulting stream is
called. I see a river from the side of which emerges a spring of water and a
new stream. A small, steep hill, snow-capped. A river with water above the

To dream of moving to an old house--what signifies this? Apparently
nothing. If one is to dream it must be of something--houses or people or
scenery. But to dream often of going to live in an ancient house,--of trying
to find in it my room; mosquito netting at the window, not quite tight; from
my room into a smaller one a door which I try to fasten but can not because
at the bottom it is a swaying curtain, the wall paper loose and a mouse hole
near the floor; a long, sunshiny room where I see what appears to be a rat
but which becomes a little kitten, weak from long confinement, that follows
me from room to room and at last through a door leading to a porch;--why all
these accessories? Once I go through many rooms--furnished but
uninhabited--and come to an upper bed chamber where, upon a couch, lies a
woman, quite dead I think; but presently she moves one hand. Again I go
through room after room until I reach one where still another woman--or is
it the same--lies dead on the bed. As I look she becomes a beautiful child
who has lain there forty years. The child stirs and opens its eyes; I think
something should be done to keep it alive but the eyes close, and sleep, or
death, reigns again. After calling upon an expectant mother who showed me
her layette, all white and blue, I dream that I go in an old house to a room
with blue papered walls, a blue and white spread on the bed and a case of
books, one of which is Dickens' Great Expectations. In one old house I find
the bulbs of some plant sprouting on a shelf; in another I open the stove
and find to my surprise that fire is still there. In still another house I
see behind the stove a closed door which I long to open. I go about the
house, up steep, worn stairs, down again and out into a garden where there
is a single strawberry and I think staminate and pistillate plants should be
set out to insure fertilization. Always I think of the closed door and
presently I return to the house and enter the room behind the stove. On the
floor is a green veil of firm texture. And at last there are cobwebs on the
ceiling of my old house and I still search for my room.

After the presentation of this array of symbolism quite spontaneously the
interpretation arose in my mind. The old house is the recurring abode of
life. I would dwell there and take my place in the line of succession.
Quite in line with this symbolism was the very beautiful dream of a young
woman not many months before her bridal which I give in her words--"With a
crowd of unknown people I was to visit and go over a haunted house. The
living room was nicely furnished in antique furniture and the whole house
was very still. We went upstairs, and it passed through my mind that people
who were dead and gone had moved through the rooms. I was coming down the
stairs when suddenly a pipe organ burst forth. That was the haunted
part--music in the air, no organ at all. We were awestricken and I awoke
with the same feeling." In dreams of this character we find it necessary to
predicate a creative, myth-making tendency in the structure of the mind by
means of which currents of life flowing beneath all thought become

Coming now to examples of reasoning by analogy directly expressive of the
desire for maternity, I wish to make still more plain my view of the reason
for symbolism. Maternity is untold ages old; intelligent comprehension of
the function very recent. That portion of the mind functioning in
dreams--that is in the majority of dreams--is unable to picture the process
and its necessary antecedents. (Frankly sexual dreams occurred to me very
rarely.) Instinctive acts are the last to be made objects of thought; a
relatively high degree of mental development is necessary before the
requisite detachment from the process can be obtained and as we have seen
this detachment is beyond the power of the self that dreams. Hence the
recourse to analogy and symbolism.

I call upon a woman who is pregnant and whose face is slightly bloated. In
that night's dream I look in a mirror and see that my face is plump. I think
I am too old. I see on the street a young girl in short skirts wheeling a
baby carriage. My friend tells me that the girl is a mother. That night I
dream of being in a shop to buy an article which I in reality intended to
purchase and in addition looking at a dress for a girl of twelve or
fourteen. I hear of a pregnant woman who ran away and worked for a time in
a mill and a night or two after I have a dream of a devious walk with many
details which finally ends at a kind of factory. An expectant mother tells
me of her trip to a neighboring town where a friend gave her a tiny
crocheted jacket. Soon after I start in a dream for that town, afoot, in
the dark, without lantern or money, and hampered and stumbling, make the
weary journey.

A dream which upon analysis proves extremely interesting is the following:--
I come out from a house and stand looking at other houses. I am waiting for
some one, and look toward the street. In the yard I see a large elm tree
nearly sawed off but at one side the wood is continuous,--to indicate that
the tree is still alive. I look up. A bough sways and I am dizzy. I think
the bough will fall. Beneath the tree is a sick woman on a couch. Until the
clue was found this appeared a mere aimless mixture of imagery but one
circumstance makes it very clear. Shortly before I was reading a book on
biology and in the section devoted to the influence of environment on
organisms a portion of the trunk of an elm tree was shown and the influence
of various factors noted as indicated by the annual rings of growth. One
considerable variation was due to the fact that children had swung from one
limb of the tree. At the time of reading the fact made so slight an
impression that after the dream some time elapsed before I recalled it and
then so faintly that I had to refer to the book for verification. Thus we
see upon what slight and obscure basis a dream may be constructed.

That all dreams do not originate in one section or at one level of the mind
is quite evident. The range extends from those which almost merge with
waking thought to creations strangely remote and primitive. When I dream
that Goethe is a guest at my home and I am trying to ask him in regard to
Faust, Wilhelm Meister and Mignon,--when after reading of x-rays, ether
waves and electrons wake with the thought, "To solve the problem of matter
would prove materialism,"--when I dream that I am conversing with a
conservative friend who says that he does not like new religions and I reply
that Moses and Jesus were new once, it is plain that a different stratum of
mind is operative than when I dream that I am in an old fort and chased by
three rats, or that a snake is on my bed and my father kills it with a
pitchfork, or strangest of all, that I throw an egg at the plug of a sap
bucket which it hits and then flies to the left; it is rotten. Again, a
very vague dream, I, see two eggs and then am climbing inside a kind of
tower. A dream which immediately preceded the menstrual period, is as
follows:--I pass a narrow, dark canal which seems to be under cover. On the
very brink is a child and I fear it will fall in. A man is there whose
business it is to save the child but be does not. That this indicates the
impending passage from the body of the ovum can hardly be doubted. Under
like conditions--this before sleep--I see a doorway filled with flowers.

It was natural that after a time I should wonder what event of the day would
be woven into a dream; as I performed certain acts I found myself wondering,
will this appear tonight, and how? One Sunday I walked across lots to church
and on the way picked a twig of balm of Gilead poplar keeping it with me
through service for its fragrance. That night I dream that I am in a
pasture looking for fertile fronds of the cinnamon fern which I fail to
find. I see cows and am afraid.--This based on reality of a few days
before.--At length by a stone I find a fern coiled as in spring. This
becomes a squirrel, the male comes, and then they are lions. The male has a
sprig of leaves which he lays at the feet of the female and which she eats.
I want to know what the leaves are but fear to look closely because of the
lion. I found it difficult to deliberately influence dreams by suggestion.
The dream-self is not to be coerced and usually I over-did the matter. Most
of my examples deal with flowers and perhaps the most apposite is the
following:--I plucked a stem of blossoms of white everlasting and wore it
inside my waist on my bosom all day, asking as I fastened it in,--How will
this reappear in my dream? The following morning as consciousness returned,
I had a vision of a baby's bottle filled with milk and beyond it, more
faint, another similar bottle. It is fair to say that this outcome was
entirely unexpected. Another night after watching Venus, low in the
southwestern sky, I dream that I am molding a statue--strangely enough the
arms as the reference is to the Venus de' Melos--and the figure is that of a
young woman of immoral life.

My store of dreams is so great and varied that the forms of symbolism are by
no means exhausted. The reception of mail is a favorite subject and here
again one may say that this is the most natural of dreams and quite its own
excuse for being. But strange things come in the mail,--pieces of turf in
which are growing tiny plants, boxes of rice, jelly, breakfast food, cooked
fish still warm; and once a sack of mail is emptied upon my door-stone--not
by the postman but by a man who the day before drove past with a little
child. Other recurring motifs are strawberries, yeast, Bologna sausage, ice
cream-- once poured over slices of clear, transparent fruit which I eat,
this very plainly referring to the fertilization of the eggs of fish about
which I read the preceding evening:--"As soon as the female finishes
spawning the male will approach the eggs and eject a milky fluid over them
to effect fertilization. If this is successful the spawn will have a clear,
glassy appearance." The dream-self can turn anything to its use,--I read of
certain suffrage activities in England and forthwith dream that I attend a
suffrage meeting. But the house at which it is held is in reality the home
of a woman nearly my age, who is pregnant.

I pass over all the dreams obviously of an infantile character, and likewise
those of travelling and of packing for a journey. More unusual is the dream
of a flight of birds which twice occurred under conditions which left no
doubt as to its sexual character. A house having a wet sink and a dry one is
the verdict of my dream-self regarding a home in which the woman can bear no
more children because of physical disability; and a railway station where I
go down the steps, pick from the floor a flower--wondering if it is all
right,--reach a restaurant in which seventy have that night been served and
where I lose my flower, symbolizes a house of prostitution mentioned in
Chicago's famous report where one woman served sixty men in one night and
was said to have seven thousand dollars in the bank. Beneath convention
strange unconvention lurks. A young woman of irregular life appears in my
dream as one with soiled skirts, and, very vaguely, some one's else skirts
are soiled also. After seeing a print of Tompkins' painting, Hester Prynne,
heroine of The Scarlet Letter, I dream that I go to a shop, where I have
great difficulty because of darkness, to buy some dark green silk for
embroidering a letter somewhere on my dress. Not to pander to the base in
human nature are these details given but to make known life's realities to
those who are blinded by theories. The frank and honest truth is never foul
and monstrous. Society can be renovated only when all the facts are brought
to light.

In conclusion I give the dreams of a single night:--First, a drunken man and
girl in the same team; I think they should not be there. Then I am on a
porch looking off at a headland with ice at the foot. Farther up the hill
are quantities of ice--a sheet of it over the ground and in one place it is
as if water had been poured and allowed to freeze. In the midst of this
last, which is not on the hill, is a fine and shapely tree with the ice
about it very smooth and shining and slanting somewhat. I think it is a good
place for skating. In the morning as I recalled this dream, quite abruptly
into my mind came the remark of Philina in Wilhelm Meister, after seeing a
woman "great with child," "It were prettier if we could shake children from
the trees." Next I see far off high mountains with sunlight on the summits.
Then I am in a porch enclosed by a wire screen; by me is a woman. From the
window of a building outside, which seems to be a hospital without funds, a
woman looks at me. I want to see far off and shade my eyes with my hands.
I think I must cut the screen in order to see clearly. Then I see a rampart
and beyond it is the ocean. I hear a bird, a robin, on the rampart. Near
it is another bird, large, gray and strange. Then it is a rooster. The key
to this dream lies in the fact that the day before I received an appeal for
financial aid from a hospital and the printed request showed the picture of
a row of nurses each with a tiny baby in her lap. Finally I go into a
bed-room. On the bed is a baby. I uncover it and it moves and cries. It
wants its mother and I go to find her.

That the mind which dreams is not uncognizant of the hopelessness of its
aspirations is strangely indicated by the following for which at the time I
found no direct exciting cause:-- I see two long lines of seeds planted and
at the end of the rows tiny lettuce plants. Near by are apple trees in
blossom. But it is autumn.

Bergson at the close of his essay on dreams hints that the mind may
transcend its conjectured limits and be influenced in profound slumber by
telepathy. This is but an hypothesis which must long await verification. My
own dreams which apparently forecast the future are out-numbered by
erroneous forecasts and one vivid dream of the death of a friend though
coinciding as to the day, is not of great value as evidence as I had been
expecting the news for weeks, and further, beyond the surface portent the
dream is remotely allied in certain details with more personal and vital

Though the dream process may to a certain extent be made verbally
intelligible he who studies it most best realizes the attendant mystery.
Dream-self, subconscious ideas, visual images,--these are but terms which
bridge the abyss of our ignorance. Further exploration of the mystery is of
value not only from the standpoint of pure science, to whose domain there is
no limit, but also in the interest of education, health, sanity and
morality. It is neither necessary nor wise for all persons to study their
dreams, but for those who shape the growing thought and conduct of the world
a knowledge of even the remotest outposts of human mentality is supremely


[1] Dr. Isador H. Coriat's paper with this title appeared in the Journal of
Abnormal Psychology, Volume IX, No. 6, February-March, 1915.



I have frequently wondered whether those of us who oppose the dissemination
of the Freudian theories, at least as they are being and have been applied
to the psychoneuroses and to psychopathology in general, have solved the
problem as we should have solved it or fought the fight as we should have
fought it. It has not infrequently seemed to me that our plan of battle, our
campaign, the battle we have in a way waged, was not as consistently planned
and as well organized as it should have been and as the occasion really
demanded. There were many lines of attack open for us. We could, if we so
wished, have made generalized and wholesale attacks upon all that Freudism
stood for regardless of whether, in certain principles, it was right or
wrong. This some have actually done. Although this method is not in my
opinion fair or scientific, yet, so reckless and so uncritical have been
many of the Freudians, and the foremost Freudians at that, in their
declarations and conclusions, that I can readily see how one may be prompted
to resort to unmitigated ridicule and general condemnation of the entire
system, the standpoints and the conclusions that have been made the bulwark
of the Freudian movement. Others have adopted a different method of dealing
with the situation. They have entirely ignored the Freudian school and all
that it stands for, and have permitted the members of this school to go to
ever greater and greater extremes and excesses, with the more extensive
elaboration of their system, so that eventually the error of their ways
would be apparent to all, since the final conclusions to which they would be
led would be openly fallacious and give proof positive that the foundation,
the psychology upon which as a basis the Freudian system of interpretation
and analysis has been erected, was defective to such an extent that it would
crumple into disintegrated portions under the heavy load of the unsupported
superstructure. This method has by no manner of means been unsuccessful.

A third standpoint to be assumed is that in which replies to or criticisms
of individual articles, rather than criticisms of a general nature and
applicable to the Freudian psychology or method or conclusions in toto, is
adopted as the proper method of dealing with the situation with which we
found ourselves with the advent and spread of the Freudian movement. This
last-mentioned method is probably the most desirable of the three methods
which have been here mentioned.

And it is the method which I shall follow in this criticism of Dr. Coriat's
paper, because, among other reasons, I believe it is the fairest to all

It is not my purpose to take up for discussion the various statements, made
by Dr. Coriat, with which I disagree, but rather to consider only the
question of the correctness or incorrectness of the general thesis which he
has presented.

The reasons for my entering into a criticism of this particular article by
Dr. Coriat may be stated as follows: In the first place I am interested in
the general problems of psychopathology, and of the psychoneuroses in
particular. In the second place I am somewhat unusually interested in the
problem of stuttering.[2] This latter interest has two main sources of
origin: (1) I am deeply interested in the question of stuttering because of
my general interest in neurology and psychiatry, including the speech
disorders, under which heading stuttering finds its place; (2) I have
myself, from earliest childhood, suffered from this affection and so find
myself naturally much interested in the subject.

[2] In this paper I shall use the terms "stammering" and "stuttering"

It is not out of place, it seems to me, to at once answer one of the stock
arguments which certain Freudians have been in the habit of offering as a
reply to those who criticized their theories and conclusions. I refer to the
argument or rather the insistence that those who oppose the spread of the
Freudian ideas are themselves unconscious illustrations of the truth and
accuracy and general applicability of the Freudian dicta. In this argument
they accuse their opponents of unconsciously indulging in or being victims
of a defense mechanism, as a means of self-justification and
self-rationalization, based on repression, sexuality, etc., in order that
their hidden, unconscious, repressed, forgotten desires, tendencies and
inclinations may not be brought to the surface and consciously acknowledged.
In other words, in my particular case (my present criticism of Dr. Coriat's
paper), I could, perhaps, be accused, by those Freudians who are in the
habit of resorting to this charge as their own method of self-justification
and self-rationalization, as the path of least resistance and as a loophole
through which they can escape from meeting the situation presented to them
by a frank self-examination and acknowledgment of error or by a fair and
satisfactory response--I could be accused, I repeat, of showing, by the very
fact of my criticism, that all that Dr. Coriat stated concerning the origin
and nature of stammering was true.

In replying to this oft-repeated and oft-resurrected assertion, I need not
be detained for any great length of time from proceeding to the
consideration of those facts which are the real purpose of this paper. I
need only say, in parentheses, that it does seem to me that there surely are
a few anti-Freudians (and I may here include myself) who are perhaps, who
knows, capable of that degree of unprejudiced self-criticism and intensive
self-analysis which is necessary for the purposes of making ourselves
eligible for candidacy as critics of the Freudian theories and dogmata. I
may go further and gently suggest that it even seems to me that there may be
some others of us who are capable of as great a degree of such
self-criticism and self-analysis as, and it may even be of a greater degree
than, many of those who have been making this claim. I am content to leave
this point to the sound judgment and good sense of the average reader of
these pages.

The second point that I should bring out in this connection is as follows:
That which is of fundamental importance and of basic significance in the
life of the psychoneurotic or the stutterer, that which is the fundamental
and essential motive force which controls the psychoneurotic and the
stutterer is also true, but in greater or less degree, for all of those who
are not within the confines of this group.[3] And as a further statement I
must assert that whatever is deemed to be the essential and primary cause
for stuttering must also be applicable, in the same way but in different
degree, to all the other manifestations of speech disorder such as the slips
of the tongue, and many other of the psychopathologic acts of everyday life.
Consequently, if the Freudian theories of sexuality are directly applicable
to the problem of stuttering, it follows that they must likewise be
applicable to all the other disturbances of speech just referred to. For,
if followed out to the very end, we shall find that the possible mental
content and mental mechanisms are the same for all psychopathologic acts,
whether of everyday life or distinctly abnormal and outside the pale of our
average range. If sexuality lies at the bottom of stuttering, it must be at
the root of all other psychopathologic acts, of whatever nature, of whatever
degree and wherever and whenever found. I cannot devote the time in this
place to enter into an elaborate discussion to prove the truth of this
thesis. But I can gain my point more easily and more directly in another
way. Although Freud and his followers have not stated, in just so many
words, that the psychopathologic acts of everyday life have the same hidden
mental content that the psychoneuroses have (although it is my contention
that this conclusion is but a natural extension of their sexual theories
concerning the psychoneuroses), yet we do find that Freud and the Freudian
school in general apply their sexual theories to the whole group of the
psychoneuroses. Now, since stuttering is a psychoneurotic disorder of a
certain special type, it is understood that they must believe that
stuttering, as a matter of course, comes within the rubric of their
generalization. As a matter of fact, if their sexual theories were at first
applied only to stuttering, as they were originally applied to hysteria, it
would mean that, by a process of reasoning, the Freudian school would have
to apply their dicta to all of the psychoneuroses. This was, in truth, just
what did occur, beginning with hysteria. And it is seen that the same thing
would have happened had they begun with stuttering. I contend, further, but
I shall not endeavor in this place to prove the correctness of my
contention, that what is absolutely and without exception, fundamentally and
essentially true of the psychoneuroses is likewise true, in different
degree, of the psychopathologic acts of every day life. This would be the
conclusion to which I would be forced if I started with any one of the
psychoneuroses, whether it be hysteria or stuttering. One can thus see that
my statement that if Freud's theories are true for stuttering they must of
necessity be true for all psychopathologic acts of whatever sort is quite
true.[4] I could go much further and prove that if Freud's theories were the
primary and basic explanation for stuttering they must be applicable to all
manifestations of human mental energy, which to me would mean that they are
no less true of all vital energy, human or otherwise. In other words, the
solitary application of Freud's conception to the problem of stuttering
would lead us, by logical steps, to the ultimate conclusion that the vital
energy was sexual--a conclusion with which Jung will not agree. And let us
not forget, too, that the term "sexual" would here be used in a
psychological sense, so that, in fact, Freud's theories of sexuality as the
explanation of stuttering would lead us, step by step, to a psychosexual
conception of the universe. And is this not exactly what the Freudian school
has assumed?

[3] Freud himself agrees that his sexual theories apply to all mankind and
that the psychoneurotic differs from others in not being able to
successfully and completely repress or sublimate the undesirable sexual

[4] Freud himself agrees psycho-pathologic acts of everyday life are the
formes frustes of the psychoneuroses and that this shows that we are all
slightly nervous.

I fear that I have not made myself as clear as I should and as I should like
to, but at the risk of being misunderstood, or of not carrying the reader
with me in my argument, I shall not enter into any further discussion of
this aspect-- the wider meanings of Dr. Coriat's paper.

As can be judged from the above remarks, it was no surprise to me to see
such a paper on stuttering as Dr. Coriat's. To be sure it was tacitly
understood, by those who could read between the lines, that this must be the
belief of the Freudian school, since their conclusions were said to be true
of all the psychoneuroses.

I had also known that a few Freudians abroad had arrived at conclusions
similar to those presented by Dr. Coriat, but since, so far as I knew, no
paper along this line had appeared in the English or American journals, I
did not give the subject any serious or special consideration and had not
the slightest idea of refuting the statements. When, however, Dr. Coriat's
paper appeared, I concluded that it was not out of place for me at this time
to enter into a criticism of these views.

I have felt on many occasions that too many of the statements made by
members of the Freudian school have been left unchallenged, with the result
that the views promulgated have received quite widespread dissemination; so
much so that many believe that the sensational and unsupported views which
have come to their ears are accepted as the untarnished truth by most or all
psychopathologists, and were a definitely proven and generally accepted part
of psychopathology. It is therefore not at all surprising to find so many
workers in other fields of medicine who believe that the terms
"psychopathology" and "Freudian psychoanalysis" are synonymous, one and the
same thing.

This also is one of the motives which prompts me to write these lines.

I am furthermore impelled by the purely scientific desire for truth and
accuracy, as applied in particular to the problem of stuttering.

And last, but by no means least, I see a serious danger to the community in
the uncritical acceptance and the widespread dissemination of the views
promulgated by the Freudian school.

Let me assure Dr. Coriat that I regret very much that I find myself
compelled to take the field against him or rather his paper in this
connection, and that no personalities enter into the question at issue, but
that it is a purely scientific problem, which demands the freest discussion,
from all sides. Each of us is entitled to his personal opinions in this
matter. The question of sincerity and honesty of purpose is not at all
breathed. It is purely a matter of "What is the truth?"

And it shall be my object in the following brief discussion not to give my
personal views upon this subject, nor even to dissect each and every
statement in Dr. Coriat's paper with which I find myself at issue, but
merely to show wherein Dr. Coriat is in most serious error.

I shall confine myself to the question of the application to stammering of
the sexual theories so rampant in Freudism. Besides, I shall avail myself
of the privilege of giving, in Dr. Coriat's own words, the gist of his
theory or concept.

"The attempt to repress from consciousness into the unconscious certain
trends of thought or emotions, usually of a sexual nature, is the chief
mechanism in stammering."  This is the only place in the article where Dr.
Coriat expresses any doubt as to the universal validity of his theory for
all cases of stuttering. But I consider this merely as a slip of the tongue
or pen, because in the other portions of the paper the conclusion concerning
the sexual basis of stammering is unqualifiedly made general, and I find
that even on the very next page, at the conclusion of the paragraph of which
the sentence just quoted is the beginning, there occurs the statement that
"the fear in stammering is a deflection of the repressed sexual impulse or
wish." With this beginning Dr. Coriat proceeds to explain: "Thus the
repressed thought, because of fear of betrayal, comes in conflict with the
wish to speak and not to betray (the secret through words[5]). Hence, the
hesitation in speech arises and as the repressed thoughts gradually are
forced into the unconscious, there finally develops the defective speech
automatism, either stammering or a spastic aphonia. This arises in childhood
after the child has learned to speak."

[5] Words in parentheses mine but taken from Dr. Coriat's paper; for
explanatory purposes.

Moreover, "the hesitation of stammerers on certain words or letters is due
to disturbing complexes. The stammering does not cause the inhibition, it
is the inhibition which is at the bottom of the stammering."

"Two types of stimuli lead to stammering, either internal conflicts, or
external instigators which throw these conflicts into activity. The internal
conflicts are either conscious or unconscious fear of betrayal (and
therefore a wish to retain a secret), and this mental attitude leads to the
dread of speaking, a genuine conversion of morbid anxiety into defective
speech. . . . The external stimuli act like dream instigators, for instance
the fear of speaking to relatives or to intimate friends may be based upon
the fear that the unconscious wishes may be discovered and this stimulates
the unconscious anxiety, whereas with strangers, speech is free, because the
dread of discovery is absent."

"Thus," says Dr. Coriat, "the beginning of stammering in early childhood . .
. is caused by the action of unconscious repressed thoughts upon the speech
mechanism, the repressed thought obtruding itself in speech."

In brief it is contended by Dr. Coriat that the stammering arises as a
defense or compensation mechanism, the object of which is to keep from
consciousness certain painful memories and undesirable thoughts, in order
that they may not be betrayed in speech. In fact, as Dr. Coriat says, "all
stammering, with its hesitation, its fear, its disturbing emotions, is a
kind of an association test in everyday life and not a phonetic disturbance.
It is a situation phobia, the same as phobias of open or closed places."

Consequently, according to this view, stammering is purposeful and
intentional and not accidental. This purposiveness is psychological and
individualistic. It is resorted to by the individual for very definite,
intimate, personal reasons. It is due to unconscious, repressed hidden
complexes which crowd or press between the words of syllables, as Stekel
puts it, and which produce the inner resistance which inhibit the free flow
of speech.

It is asserted that these hidden, repressed, unconscious thoughts are
related to the sexual impulse or wish.

Dr. Coriat enumerates the types of repressed complexes in childhood which
may bring about stammering as follows:

1. Repression of sexual acts or secrets and the fear of betrayal. 2.
Typical Oedipus complexes, with a fear of betrayal of the hate for the
father and a consequent embarrassment of speech in his presence. 3.
Masochistic phantasies, wondering and imitating how it would sound to talk
with the tongue cut out. 4. The fear of pronouncing or saying certain
sexual and, therefore, tabooed words, and thus betraying what the child
thinks, his hidden thoughts.

The stammering may then arise as a wish to say or think certain tabooed
words and the wish encounters a prohibition from within. These words may
relate to certain anal, urinary or sexual functions which are recognized by
the child as unclean, and thus forbidden to pronounce. 5. As a
manifestation of anal eroticism, that is, holding the feces so that he could
talk while trying to conceal the act.

. . Talking at these times would be difficult, because talking would take
away the muscular tension for withholding the feces."

At another place Dr. Coriat assures us that "the dreams of stammerers are
interesting because these dreams reveal their wishes to talk freely, their
resistances and transferences and, also, their reversions to childhood when
the stammering arose as an embarrassment complex or as a gainer of time to
conceal their sexual thoughts or libido."

I have presented Dr. Coriat's views so fully and quoted him so much at
length in order that there may not be any question of the absolute accuracy
of my statements.

What does this mean to the one who has followed the trail of the Freudian
movement? The meaning is plain. It is like the handwriting on the wall.
Dr. Coriat has permitted himself to be deluded by the Freudian sexual
theories and their application to the psychoneuroses, and in this special
instance to stammering.

What does this imply? It implies that Dr. Coriat accepts the Freudian
theories en masse. Hence, to discuss this subject in a thorough way I
should have to take up for discussion the various aspects of Freudian
psychoanalysis. This would include a consideration of the method employed,
the psychology, the attitude or standpoint assumed, the "art of
interpretation" developed, and the real meanings, in their wider and more
extended sense, of various unsupported, unfounded, dogmatic and untrue
conclusions of a theoretical and practical nature. This cannot, it is
obvious, be expected in this place. Attempts of a certain sort in this
direction have been made by me in previous communications.[6] In the not
very distant future I shall endeavor more successfully to cope with some of
the problems mentioned.

[6] See, for example, the Psychoanalytic Review, January 1915 and the
Journal of Abnormal Psychology, June-September, 1914.

With respect to the general problem of sexuality I may say that I have
recently[7] taken up, for separate dissection, the conception of sexuality
assumed by Freud and his followers. The present paper should, I feel, be
read in connection with this particular paper, since it will, in a way,
clear the field of many of the misunderstandings in interpretation.
Everything depends upon what one means by "sexuality" or "sexual impulse" or
"sexual tendency."  Unless a mutual understanding is arrived at on this
subject of sexuality, little advance toward the dissipation of conflicting
views of Freudians and anti-Freudians can ever be had. And permit me to
mention in this place that it is the Freudians themselves and not their
opponents who are most to blame. Until the Freudian school decidedly and
once for all gives up its false and distorted viewpoint of man's sexual
impulse and of human mental life, little progress of a worth-while nature
can be made by them.[8]

[7] "A Critical Review of the Conception of Sexuality Assumed by the
Freudian School."  Medical Record, March 27, 1915.

[8] Owing to the fixed, systematized theories of the Freudian school, I
believe that little co-operation can be expected from it. We can only
prevent the dissemination of their dangerous sexual theories.

Starting out, then, with certain concepts or theories which are basically
wrong and can be summed up by stating that they assume an individualisitic,
psychosexual conception of life and interpretation of vital phenomena, and
with a psychology and a sexology which is radically wrong in its sweeping
and dogmatic conclusions, Dr. Coriat, who has obviously accepted these
theories as actualities, else he could not have arrived at the ideas
concerning stammering which he presents in his paper, builds up or accepts
an imaginatively constructed theory which he applies in full force to the
problem of stuttering, and into which he crowds the phenomena of a physical
and mental order which are manifest in this intermittent, special
psychoneurotic disorder. As a natural consequence all the faults of Freudism
have been transported to the elucidation of the genesis, nature and
evolution of stammering. And this means that the theories of universally
acting psychical repression, of the unconscious, of the endopsychic censor,
of the significance of resistance and amnesia, of the employment of highly
complicated and phantastic symbolism, of the manifestations of sexuality and
so forth have been made use of in a high-handed, uncalled for, unnecessary
and unscientific manner to prove the truth of the thesis with which the
author set out upon his journey.

It is no wonder that in such a fashion and with such concepts the
conclusions above cited were arrived at. Indeed, work along this line was
unnecessary, except in a purposively corroborative way, if the theories of
Freud in the case of the whole group of psychoneuroses is once seized upon
and accepted as the basic truth. The problem for Dr. Coriat is to prove the
truth of Freud's conceptions as laid down in his psychology and sexology,
upon which his psychopathology is built.

I must stoutly protest against an evasion of the real issues by the leaders
of the Freudian movement. Let them retrace their steps and first prove the
truth, soundness and validity of their psychological and sexual theories and
cease pressing on to pastures new, as Dr. Coriat has done here in the case
of stuttering. If they are not prepared to do this, or are unwilling so to
do, I do not believe that they are entitled to continue to inflict upon
others views which have little real foundation in fact, which are unproven,
unfounded, purely speculative, imaginative, pure figments of the
imagination, a delusion and a snare. I have elsewhere[9] given credit to
Freud and his co-workers where I think they deserve it. But that should not
deter me from protesting against their evasion of the issues, their
befogging of the problems involved, their failure to prove their case or to
offer satisfactory replies to criticism which is given in a fair and frank

[9] "A Plea for a Broader Standpoint in Psychoanalysis." Psychoanalytic
Review, January, 1915.

The method of burying one's head in sand, after the manner of the ostrich,
and the refusal to see that which is pointed out or which stares one clearly
in the face, cannot go far to establish one's case or as a method of
defense. And the same thing applies to that oft-repeated and tiresome
retort: "You do not (or perhaps you cannot) understand our theories and
viewpoints." Or that other evasive accusation, rather than reply: "Your
lack of understanding is of itself proof positive that our theories are
absolutely correct in every detail."  Or "Your attack or criticism just
completely and undoubtedly proves our case. You are prompted by those very
mental mechanisms and by that self-same mental content--meaning all the time
the sexual content and sexual mechanisms--which we have been trying to
explain to you so that you might understand us."

In response to this I should like to ask the Freudian school what it means
by "censor," "wish," "unconscious," "sexual," and other similar and
constantly used terms which form the stronghold of their defenses. I have
shown,[10] at least to my own satisfaction, that the conception of sexuality
is not at all clear to any of the Freudian school, including Freud himself.
This should by no means be so. Surely the terms which are constantly used
and are the sine qua non of their theories should have a definite meaning of
some sort, at least to the Freudians themselves. Mystical and metaphysical
implications should not continue to find a sheltering place in the province
of psychopathology. They should be uprooted and driven forth from the dark
and hidden recesses into the light and open highways.

[10] Loc. cit.

These statements have a direct application to the paper which I have
undertaken to criticize. It is all very well and very commendable to come
forward with new theories. They are entertaining, interesting and make one
think, even if they are not at all true. But it should be definitely and
plainly stated that we are dealing with theories and not with facts, that
the theories will be considered theories until they are proven to be facts,
and that if they are disproven, they should be thrown into the rubbish heap
or discarded, or else they should be modified to meet with the facts and
actual conditions--as they are and not as they ought in our opinion to be or
as we should like them or as we imagine them to be. Here we are confronted
with a problem (stammering) which has been the subject of much study and
discussion by many men. Theories have been carefully and guardedly
formulated by most workers in this field. Many of them were, it is true, in
error in their conclusions or viewpoints. They were, as it were, on the
wrong trail.

Here is a problem of the greatest interest and of the greatest importance--
one which should demand the most careful research and the most positive
deliberation and consideration, with prolonged and intensive study and
observation of cases, combined with self-scrutiny and self-analysis and
self-knowledge (which means a keen insight into human nature and the human
mind in its manifold workings). Here is a serious, concrete problem of great
practical importance. Its solution and elucidation means much. And he who
comes forward with an explanation of this problem should be expected to give
conclusive proof of his conception and for his conclusion. And we should,
justly and as a matter of course, expect and demand it.

And what proof has Dr. Coriat given us for his conclusions? Here and there
scattered through his paper one finds a few conclusions or explanations of a
concrete nature, but they are his interpretations of the facts and not the
facts. No real, in fact not a vestige of proof is offered. The few dreams
which he presents do not, to the inquiring and demanding reader, show
anything which permit of the conclusions which Dr. Coriat draws with
reference to their meaning or significance. He seems to have interpretated
(rather than analyzed) them in typical Freudian fashion. And, furthermore,
even if his interpretations of the few dreams which he presents and which
were taken from different cases were true, of what significance would that
be? What right would we thus have of drawing conclusions which apply to all
cases of stuttering (and, as mentioned earlier in this paper, to many other
related states of a normal and abnormal nature)? Not the slightest.

Not a single case has been presented in proof of the conclusions drawn in
the paper. Surely this is not what we have been accustomed to expect in
other fields of medicine, especially when the conception newly put forth is
entirely novel, sensational, revolutionary, contrary to all former beliefs,
and based on theories and conclusions which have been for some time and
still are a centre of storm, of wordy argumentation, and even of insult and
abuse--at any rate sub judice,

Has the science and practice of psychopathology come to the stage when
theories of any sort can be given to the reading public as fact, and no
actual proof therefor presented?

I venture to say that in no other department of medicine or in fact in no
other aspect of life would scientific men tolerate such presentation and
promulgation, despite opposition and disproof and with no tangible or
definite evidence or proof. Nor would men come forward to offer
revolutionary, let alone dangerous theories, for general consumption, with
so little proof, as is being laid on the platter for psychopathologists.

I find no evidence offered by Dr. Coriat to bolster up the conclusions of
his paper.

In response to a question asked by one of those who discussed his paper in
which he was requested to explain how he knew that stammering begins by
concealing something, Dr. Coriat stated: "I have had an opportunity of
examining a number of stammerers and subjecting them to a complete
psychoanalysis, studying all the paradoxical mental reactions and in nearly
every case this concealment of some sexual secret of childhood came up. It
is easy to establish a certain relationship between the speech embarrassment
and the concealed sexuality."

There is, as is seen, no other proof for this theory (that is all that one
call it) of Dr. Coriat and the Freudian school in general, than his or their
say-so. Those who are acquainted with the method of arriving at conclusions
adopted by the Freudian school will demand more than this as proof of either
the "concealment" of some "sexual secret" of childhood (and where lives
there a man or woman that has not sexual memories, not necessarily secrets,
of some sort or other, related to the period of puberty or antedating it by
a certain varying period?) or the establishment of a relationship other than
co-existence or coincidence, between the speech embarrassment and the
"concealed sexuality" (just as if even proof of the existence of this
relationship was sufficient testimony of the causative operating influence
of the latter).

I could discuss Dr. Coriat's paper from many angles, and in each case show
that its conclusions were not only unsupported but impossible.[11] But in
the above remarks I have presented sufficient evidence, I believe, to carry
out the objects of this criticism.

[11] The ideas in the paper are, in fact, absurd. If definite, practical,
clinical issues were not involved matters might be different. But the
situation is serious yes, dangerously antisocial, since the practical
application of these theories to human beings is the point of greatest

The reader should not lose sight of the cold but important fact that the
application of Freud's sexual theories to stammering in children is, in my
humble opinion, fraught with the greatest danger. I cannot do otherwise
than look upon this as positively anti-social. It would, it is my belief, be
a glaring and rife source of danger to the community and to society in
general for these ideas to be spread broadcast. Freud himself has shown that
the child, before puberty, with his more or less undifferentiated sexual
impulse, may be swept along into any one or more of the sexual aberrations
or to intrafamilial sexuality. These goals exist only as POSSIBILITIES and
should not, I contend, be referred to as predispositions or tendencies
(almost as if they were instincts). The direction of the child's thought
along this line before or at or after puberty may prove disastrous in one or
more of many different ways.

Think of hinting at or talking about or harping upon matters of this sort to
children, let alone to adults of the usual sort! It would be nothing less
than a crime to society, to the family and to the growing child. In this
respect I look upon the application of the Freudian theories as a distinct
and glaring danger to the individual, to the family and to the community.

Efforts to stem the tide from flowing in this direction should be
unfettered. It means much for humanity.

Even hinting (to the children) in a remote way about the various aspects of
sexuality described by the Freudian school should not find its place and has
no place in treating stammering per se in children.

Think of the effect of continual conversation and thinking of this sort upon
a child at or before puberty, or at adolescence, or even upon an individual
in adult life! His thoughts are continually drifted to his urogenital organs
and the sexual possibilities of all sorts of human relationships,
intrafamilial as well as extrafamilial.

The Freudians may object to any statements to the effect that they tell
their patients about these sexual theories. I find Jones,[12] for instance,
declares that Freud "deliberately withholds from his patients all knowledge
of psychoanalyses except what they discover for themselves." Even granting
this, the patient doesn't have to wait long or think much before he does
discover for himself just what the Freudians mean.

[12] Ernest Jones: Professor Janet on Psychoanalysis; A Rejoinder. Journal
of Abnormal Psychology, Feb.-Mar., 1915, p. 407.

But Freud[13] himself contradicts this statement by Jones when he says: "If
with my patients I emphasize the frequency of the Oedipus dream--of having
sexual intercourse with one's own mother--I get the answer: 'I cannot
remember such a dream.'  Immediately afterwards, however, there arises
recollection of another disguised and indifferent dream, which has been
dreamed repeatedly by the patient, and the analysis shows it to be a dream
of this same content--that is, another Oedipus dream."

[13] Brill's translation of Freud's Interpretation, p. 242. Italics mine.

Then again, listen to Brill:[14] "With reference to the question of
determining that a person is homosexual.

[14] The Conception of Homosexuality, Journal of American Medical
Association, August 2, 1913. See Brill's discussion on pages 339-340.

"A patient came to me who was said to have nothing the matter with his
sexual life, but who had convulsions. I had seen him not more than three
times when I said to him: 'You are homosexual,' and I explained what I
meant. He told me that while at college he never indulged in sexual acts,
and that for this reason he used to wrestle, during which he would have
ejaculation, and he selected his partners. Unquestionably from the beginning
of his existence he was homosexual, although he was able to have sexual
intercourse with his wife, but he was compelled to marry when quite young;
he was 'prodded into it,' as he said. He came to me to be treated for
neurosis, but the neurosis was simply the result of homosexual lack of

"We should be particularly careful not to suggest anything. I never tell a
patient that he is homosexual. Be reasonably sure that he is homosexual and
you need not hesitate to tell him so."

It all depends on what one means by "reasonably sure" or what kind of and
how much evidence one requires or demands to be "reasonably sure."

Furthermore the mass of popular Freudian literature is not by any means
hidden from the patient.

In conclusion I may remind the members of the Freudian school that it
behooves them to undergo that same self-analysis and self-scrutiny which
they justly advise others to have. If they do this in a truly critical and
impartial way they will find that the opposition which they have met has not
been without foundation. They will find that there are serious and
all-pervading flaws in their psychology and sexology, and that this is
responsible for their one-sided and distorted analyses and interpretations.
Most of the trouble will be found in the method of interpretation, flowing
out of their attitude. They will find that they have been advocating a
system of theories and conclusions which have been followed as a religion, a
cult, a creed. And they will correct the errors which are so patent to so
many of the rest of us.

It is or should be evident to him who reads between the lines and surveys
this question as from a mountain top, that there is not the slightest proof,
not one jot of testimony in support of the ideas which Dr. Coriat has given
us in his paper.

As a final word I cannot refrain from remarking that it will be a sad day
for humanity and for society when psychoneurotics of whatever sort,
stammerers, normal individuals with their psychopathologic acts of everyday
life, and all the rest of us, particularly children, shall be subjected to
Freudian psychoanalyses, with the numerous sexual theories and sexual
implications with regard to everything of vital or human concern, as seen
especially in family and social relations. A study of the origin, nature and
evolution of these is not only not out of place, but on the other hand finds
a distinct place of honor for purely scientific purposes. Theories, however
unfounded and untrue, may, not inappropriately, be offered for this purpose.
But we come upon a decidedly different situation when we have to deal in a
practical sort of way with individuals, particularly children, who are the
objects of the experimental application of full-blown theories. Especially
is this so in the case of sexual theories.

Propagation of such views concerning the origin and nature of stammering as
are presented to us in Dr. Coriat's paper should be sternly discountenanced.
Nay more, they should be unflinchingly denied and even severely condemned.
I, for one, protest vigorously against the propagation of such views,
especially when they represent nothing more than an inflated theory.

The writer wishes to assure Dr. Coriat and the reader that his remarks are
intended in a thoroughly impersonal sort of way. He is concerned only with
the problems involved. Personalities do not at all enter into the
proposition. He hopes that his criticism will be accepted in the same spirit
in which it is given. If, to the reader, it may seem at times that the
writer has spoken too strongly, he can only say in defense that he has
seized upon this occasion as the time and the place to so express himself
briefly, frankly but without malice. The situation more than demands such
outspoken expression of opinion.


Insanity. Vol. LXXI, No. 4, p. 691.

The writer has taken the scheme of the instincts which William McDougall has
given in his book, entitled "An Introduction to Social Psychology" and has
attempted to show how it may be used in studying the problems of mental
disorder. The paper falls into three parts. In the first part McDougall's
conception is presented, modified, however, so that it may be better fitted
to the needs of the psychiatrist. Briefly it is as follows:

Man has instincts as well as the animals and all his mental activity is due
to impulses coming from these instincts. An instinct may be defined as an
innate specific tendency of the mind which is common to all members of any
one species and which impels the individual to react to certain definite
kinds of stimuli with certain definite types of conduct, without having
first learned from experience the need of such conduct. For example, there
is an instinct of pugnacity which impels us to attack that which injures us
or interferes in any way with the attainment of our desires, an instinct of
flight which impels us to seek escape from danger, a parental instinct from
which come the impulses that lead us to protect and care for our young.
But, beside impelling the individual to react to certain definite kinds of
stimuli with certain definite types of conduct, an instinct, when
stimulated, gives rise in every case to an emotion which is characteristic
of it. For example, with the instinct of pugnacity, we have the emotion of
anger; with that of flight, the emotion of fear; with the parental instinct,
the emotion of love or tender feeling. An instinct, therefore, is regarded
as a mechanism made up of three parts:

First, an afferent or cognitive part, through which it is stimulated.

Second, an affective part through which it gives rise to the emotion which
is characteristic of it.

Third, an efferent or conative part through which it gives rise to a
characteristic type of conduct.

McDougall gives a list of about twelve instincts, each with its accompanying
emotion. These he regards as primary and the source of all thought and

Considering the instincts from the standpoint of evolution, one may assume
that they first developed in extremely low forms of life in order to produce
the few and simple reactions of which animals low in the scale are capable.
One might almost say in regard to such primitive organisms, that for each
situation an instinct is provided and the situation calls forth its
appropriate reaction almost as automatically as the pressing of an electric
button causes the ringing of a bell. But, as animals rise higher in the
scale, the kinds of conduct required become more varied and complex. For
example, an impulse from the flight or fear instinct, in the lower animals,
will always produce some simple reaction such as flight or concealment.
But, in man, the forms of conduct, to which it gives rise, may be extremely
varied. Thus in one case a man may be impelled to run away, in another to
work hard at some disagreeable task in order to escape the harm which might
result if he failed to do so. This capacity to direct the instinctive forces
into various forms of activity, we call the capacity for adjustment and we
may assume that it depends upon the operation of certain mechanisms which we
may call the mechanisms of adjustment. The mind may, therefore, be regarded
as made up of certain instincts from which come the impulses that give rise
to all our mental reactions and certain mechanisms of adjustment by which
these impulses are directed into the most useful forms of activity.

This conception of the human mind enables us to form some idea of how a
mental disorder may arise from purely mental causes; for it is obvious that
conditions may sometimes arise when the mechanisms of adjustment will prove
inadequate to the demands made upon them, when they will be unable to
control the instinctive forces or find for them satisfactory outlet and, as
a result, these impulses will escape by undesirable channels, giving rise to
forms of thought and action which we recognize to be abnormal. To show that
this theory may be successfully applied to explain the facts of abnormal
psychology, the analysis of an illustrative case is presented. This case,
which is worked out in considerable detail, forms the second section of the
paper. It is the case of a young man who, partly owing to inherited
tendencies and partly to environment, developed during early life certain
habits and characteristics which, when he approached maturity and the sexual
instinct awoke to its full activity, caused the impulses from this instinct
to be directed into wrong channels, giving rise to a psychosis which took
the form of a catatonic stupor.

The conception of mental disorder here presented inevitably leads to certain
views regarding the causes which give rise to it. Since mental health is
dependent on capacity for adjustment being equal to the demands made upon
it, mental disorder must always be due to failure to maintain this
relationship between capacity and needs. The causes of insanity must
therefore be of two kinds:

First, those which make the task of adjustment so difficult as to overtax
the capacity.

Second, those which lessen the capacity so that it is unequal to the demands
made upon it.

The third section of the paper is a brief discussion of what these causes
are and how we should deal with them. Author's Abstract.

Journal of Animal Behavior, September-October, 1914, vol. 4, No. 5, pp.

The writer asserts that the work and problems in sexuality in human beings
place upon the animal behaviorist an obligation to lay the necessary
foundations for a scientific and thoroughly comprehensive investigation of
sexual life. This has led him to formulate the following two problems in
animal behavior: (1) Are there any types of infra-human primate behavior
which cannot be regarded as expressions of a tendency to seek sexual
satisfaction, but which have the essential objective characteristics of
sexual activity? (2) Do such sexual reaction-types as homosexual
intercourse, efforts to copulate with non-primate animals and masturbation
normally occur among any of the primates, and if so, what is their
biological significance?

The author presents a list of the subjects (monkeys and baboons) employed in
his study; gives a description of the environmental conditions in his
laboratory which is in the midst of a live oak woods In Montecito,
California, about five miles from Santa Barbara; gives a list of the types
of situations that were arranged by the observer or encountered by the
subjects in consequence of their spontaneous activities, and under each
description of a typical situation one or more detailed descriptions of
typical responses thereto; and finally offers the classification of sexual
tendencies as expressions of reactive tendencies observed.

The author then enters into a discussion of the use of the term reactive
tendency, and explains that this term, according to his definition, is meant
to explain something more specific than an inclination to direct activity
toward one of a limited number of general ends, and to include both the
innate and the acquired features of an individual's reactive mechanism.

He then presents his conclusions which I shall here include in full and
verbatim, because of the fact that these findings should prove of great
importance, especially in the light of Freud's theories of infantile
sexuality. The author states that "At least two, and possibly three,
different kinds of hunger, or needs of individual satisfaction, normally
impel the macaque toward the manifestation of sexual behavior, viz., hunger
for sexual satisfaction, hunger for escape from danger and, possibly, hunger
for access to an enemy.

"Homosexual behavior is normally an expression of tendencies which come to
expression even when opportunities for heterosexual intercourse are present.
Sexually immature male monkeys appear to be normally impelled toward
homosexual behavior by sexual hunger. The fact that homosexual tendencies
come to less frequent expression in the mature than in the immature male
suggests the possibility that in their native habitat these animals may
wholly abandon homosexual behavior (except as a defensive measure), on
arriving at sexual maturity.

"Homosexual behavior is of relatively frequent occurrence in the female when
she is threatened by another female, but it is rarely manifested in response
to sexual hunger.

"Masturbation does not seem to occur under normal conditions.

"The macaque of both sexes is apt to display sexual excitement in the
presence of friendly or harmless non-primates.

"It is possible that the homosexual behavior of young males is of the same
biological significance as their mock combats. It is clearly of value as a
defensive measure in both sexes. Homosexual alliances between mature and
immature males may possess a defensive value for immature males, since it
insures the assistance of an adult defender in the event of an attack."

Journal of Psychology, April, 1914; Vol. XXV, pp. 201-255.

This paper is a dissertation submitted to the faculty of Clark University,
Worcester, Mass., in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree
of Doctor of Philosophy. It is thus from the Psychological Laboratory of
Clark University.

This interesting study of Fletcher includes some general remarks in the
introduction, the question of differentiation and definition, the
physiological aspects (including breathing, vocalization, articulation and
accessory movements), psychophysical changes (including volumetric changes,
changes in heart rate and galvanic changes), a consideration of the
interpretation of the results, the psychological relations (including
emotions, attitudes, imagery, responsibility for Aufgabe, psychoanalysis,
and association), heredity and conclusions. A valuable bibliography is
added, and seven illustrative plates complete the paper.

Fletcher would reserve the word "stammering" for mispronunciation or
incorrect speech, this stutter being anatomical (due to malformation of one
or more organs of articulation) or developmental (due to incorrect
functioning of the organs of articulation resulting in certain cases of
immaturity, such as lisping). Stammering, in this sense, is of no
psychological interest. The reviewer is in favor of employing the terms
"stammering" and "stuttering" synonymously, as is the practice in England
and America. The writer (Fletcher) finds that he cannot accept the Freudian
interpretation of stuttering which has been offered by a number of different
members of that school.

Although the entire paper is of interest and of value to the student of
psychopathology, the purposes of this review can best be served by citing
the following conclusions of the author: The motor manifestations of
stuttering are found to consist of asynergies in the three musculatures of
speech--breathing, vocalization and articulation. Certain accessory
movements, which tend to become stereotyped in each individual and which
consist of tonic and clonic conditions of other muscles not involved in
normal speech, accompany these asynergies. The type of asynergy and more
particularly of accessory movements differ so widely that it is impossible
to state that any special form of breathing, or articulation, or of
vocalization is the fundamental factor in stuttering. Disturbances of pulse
rate, of blood distribution and in psychogalvanic variations, appearing
before, during and after the speaking interval, and the intensity of which
varies approximately with the severity of the stuttering, accompany the
motor manifestations of stuttering. The essential condition in stuttering is
the complex state of mind, the quality rather than the intensity of these
feeling states governing the rise of stuttering. Such feeling states as
fear, anxiety, dread, shame, embarrassment, in fact, those feelings that
tend toward inhibition and repression, are most likely to precede
stuttering, and probably operate in a vicious circle as both cause and
effect. The permanent condition of nervousness thought to be characteristic
of stutterers should be regarded as effect rather than cause. The states of
feeling that have to do with the production of stuttering vary in degree
from strong emotions to mere attitudes or moods, the latter being often so
slight in degree that it is difficult for the subject to report their
presence. Stuttering also seems to be affected by the quality of mental
imagery, by attention and by association. The affective and emotional
experiences associated with the pronunciation of sounds rather than the
nature of the sounds themselves determine the rise of stuttering. The
author's final remarks are: "Stuttering, therefore, seems to be essentially
a mental phenomenon in the sense that it is due to and dependent upon
certain variations in mental state. Hence the study of stuttering becomes a
specifically psychological problem; and it seems evident that a detailed
analysis of all the various aspects of the phenomena of stuttering will
furnish important contributions to general psychology."  MEYER SOLOMON.


THE FOUNDATIONS OF CHARACTER. By A. F. Shand. Macmillan and Company,
London, 1914. Pp. xxx, 532.

In his preface the author says: "A great difficulty which I have found in
the course of my work has been to collect the facts or observations of
character on which I had to rely. Such material as I have obtained has been
drawn much more from literature than from any other source; and this was
inevitable, because psychology has hardly begun to concern itself with these
questions." This reproach levelled against psychology rebounds on the
author, for throughout the book he shows himself evidently unacquainted with
those branches of psychology, notably the medical ones, that have
contributed so brilliantly and extensively to the science of characterology.
It need hardly be pointed out, further, that to rely on second-hand
material, which cannot be checked, analysed, or immediately studied, as the
living facts can is a procedure that is open to insuperable objections.

The author repudiates any analytical approach to his problems, preferring
what he terms "a concrete and synthetic conception of character," and so
"avoids breaking up the forces of character into their elements, and being
driven to consider the abstract problem of their mutual relation." His
method consists in assuming the existence of these forces, as part of his
working hypothesis, and in formulating general laws based on a study of
them. As he himself puts it, "It is in the first place a method of
discovery rather than of proof;--a method reaching no further than a
tentative formulation of laws; for organising the more particular under the
more general; for interpreting the generalised observations which every
great observer of human nature forms for himself, and by this interpretation
making some advance towards their organization. "It follows from this that
the book is predominantly descriptive in nature, and in this field it must
be said that the author has accomplished great work, one that will be of
almost indispensable value to future students of the various emotions.

The book is really a study of the emotions rather than of character, and so
we have to pay special attention to what the author has to say concerning
them. As is well known, he formulated some years ago a special
conception--it can hardly be called a theory--of the emotions, and the most
novel part of the present work is the way in which this conception is
expounded and elaborated in detail. He rejects the usual sense of the term
in which it is taken to express a certain degree of elaboration of the
affective aspect of the mind, and adopts a much wider definition in which
the conative, affective, and cognitive aspects are all represented.
"'Emotion' for us will connote not feeling abstracted from impulse, but
feeling with its impulse, and feeling which has essentially a cognitive
attitude, however vague, and frequently definite thoughts about its object."
He distinguishes, none the less, between an emotion and the entire system to
which it belongs. It is the part of the system that is present in
consciousness, there being two other parts that are not; namely, the
processes connected with it in the body, and the executive part concerned
with its outward expression and modes of behaviour. The three main primary
emotions are fear, anger, and disgust; other are curiosity, joy, sorrow,
self-display, and self-abasement. The four emotional systems of anger, fear,
joy and sorrow have an innate connection not only with one another, but also
with every other primary system. Most of the book is taken up with a very
detailed study of the emotions just enumerated, and in this study the author
insists on the functional point of view, constantly enquiring into the
dynamic aspects and tendencies of the emotion under consideration. This is
perhaps the only respect in which it could be seen that the book was written
within the last forty years.

Mr. Shand's view of the relation between the emotions and the instincts has
led to an animated controversy with Dr. McDougall, published in the
Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society for 1914-1915. According to the
latter writer, every emotion has a corresponding instinct, and is merely the
affective aspect of this instinct. Mr. Shand, on the contrary, holds that
there are vastly more instincts than emotions, that a given instinct may
enter into several different emotional systems, and that each emotional
system may at various times, and according to its needs, make use of almost
any number of different instincts. The reviewer is unable to determine
whether these different points of view have any further implications than a
difference in the definitions adopted by the two writers. McDougall
obviously employs the term instinct in a much more comprehensive and
inclusive sense than Shand does.

In the discussion of this interrelation there occurs, by the way, the
following suggestive passage: "There are no fears so intense as those which
arise in situations from which we cannot escape, where we are forced to
remain in contemplation of the threatening events. There is no anger so
intense as when the blood boils and all the sudden energy that comes to us
cannot vent itself on our antagonist. The arrest of an instinct is that
which most frequently excites the emotion connected with it; and therefore
we feel the emotion so often before (or after: Reviewer) the instinctive
behaviour takes place, rather than along with it."  This seems to
after-shadow the modern views on intrapsychical conflict and abreaction.

Another conception peculiar to the author, first propounded in 1896, is that
regarding the sentiments. Sentiments, in the author's sense, are "those
greater systems of the character the function of which is to organize
certain of the lesser systems of emotions by imposing on them a common end
and subjecting them to a common cause." A constant conflict seems to go on
between the organizing tendency of these sentiments and the tendency of the
constituent emotions to achieve freedom and autonomous action, a conception
quite in harmony with the modern views of "complex-action," although Shand's
"sentiments" are far from being synonymous with either "complexes" or
"constellations" in our sense. The implications that follow from his
conception of the sentiments, and the importance he attaches to it, are well
shown by the following interesting passages. "The result of the modification
which the systems of the emotions undergo in man, and especially the
multiplication of the causes which excite and sustain them, is (1) to make
man the most emotional of animals, and (2) to render possible the debasement
of his character. For that which is a condition of his progress is also a
condition of his decline,--the acquired power of ideas over emotions, and
the subsequent power of each indefinitely to sustain the other. Hence the
existence of the emotions constitutes a serious danger for him though not
for the animals, and the balance which is lost when the emotions are no
longer exclusively under the control of those causes which originally excite
them can only be replaced by the higher control of the sentiments. There are
then three stages in the evolution of emotional systems; the first and
primitive, in which they are under the control of the stimuli innately
connected with their excitement, undergoing a certain change through
individual experience, but not radically altered; the second, in which they
become dangerous and independent systems; the third, in which they are
organized under the control of the new systems which they are instrumental
in developing." "There are three principal stages in the development of
character. Its foundations are those primary emotional systems, in which the
instincts play at first a more important part than the emotions; in them,
and as instrumental to their ends, are found the powers of intelligence and
will to which the animal attains. But even in animals there is found, some
inter-organization of these systems, or, at least, some balance of their
instincts, by which these are fitted to work together as a system for the
preservation of their offspring and of themselves. This inter-organization
is the basis of those higher and more complex systems which, if not peculiar
to man, chiefly characterize him, and which we have called the sentiments,
and this is the second stage. But character, if more or less rigid in the
animals, is plastic in man: and thus the sentiments come to develop, for
their own more perfect organization, systems of self-control, in which the
intellect and will rise to a higher level than is possible at the emotional
stage, and give rise to those great qualities of character that we name
"fortitude," "patience," "steadfastness," "loyalty," and many others, and a
relative ethics that is in constant interaction with the ethics of the
conscience, which is chiefly imposed upon us through social influences. And
this is the third and highest stage in the development of character, and the
most plastic, so that it is in constant flux in each of us; and the worth
that we ascribe to men in review of their lives, deeper than their outward
success or failure, is determined by what they have here accomplished."

We have given some indication of the positive side of the book, one which
deserves great praise for both its matter and style. On the negative side we
have to remark on the following important omissions. As was mentioned to
start with, no acquaintance whatever is shown with either the methods or
findings of what may broadly be called medical psychology, the only
psychology that has at its disposal the material on which a science of
character could be founded. That the important work of Klarges on
characterology is not considered may be accounted for by the fact that there
is not a single German reference given in the whole book. In the second
place, the genetic point of view is almost completely overlooked, one of
cardinal importance in such a field. Thirdly, the whole subject of the
unconscious is treated as non-existent. It is a complete misnomer to entitle
a book on descriptive psychology "The Foundations of Character" when no
notice whatever is taken of that region of the mind where the very springs
of character take their source, and where the most fundamental features of
character are to be found. Last, but not least, is the absence of any study
of the sexual instinct and emotions, surely of cardinal importance for any
investigation of character. Apart from the general contributions made by
this instinct to character, one thinks of such clearly-cut pictures as the
masochistic, voyeur, and anal types of character.

An inadequate index closes an unsatisfactory, though in many respects
valuable, book. We note no fewer than twelve references to "Seneca," but
none to "sex" or "shame;" sixteen to Hudson, but none to Freud, Janet,
Prince, Adler, or Klarges. ERNEST JONES.

John W. Luce & Co., Boston, 1910.

Although this book was published a few years ago, nevertheless it seems
sufficiently important to the reviewer to have it brought prominently before

In the introduction McDougall reminds us that the instincts are the prime
movers, the mental forces, the sources of energy, the springs of human
action, the impulses and motives which determine the goals and course of all
human activity, mental and physical. These instincts, being the fundamental
elements of our constitution, must be clearly defined, and their history in
the individual and the race determined. For this purpose, comparative and
evolutionary psychology is necessary, for the life of the emotions and the
play of motives in mental life are the least susceptible of introspective
observation and description. "The old psychologising," says McDougall, "was
like playing 'Hamlet' with the Prince of Denmark left out, or like
describing steam-engines while ignoring the fact of the presence and
fundamental role of the fire or other sources of heat."  A knowledge of the
constitution of the mind of man is a prerequisite for any understanding of
the life of society in any or all of its many aspects. And this applies to
psychopathology. I venture to assert that had certain individuals read and
digested a book of this sort it might have been a prophylactic against an
exclusively sexual conception of human conduct.

The work is divided into two sections. Section one deals with the mental
characteristics of man of primary importance for his life in society, while
section two is concerned with the operation of the primary tendencies of the
human mind in the life of societies. The successive chapters of the first
section take up in order the following questions: the nature of instincts
and their place in the constitution of the mind, the principal instincts and
the primary emotions of man; some general or non-specific innate tendencies,
the nature of the sentiments and the constitution of some of the complex
emotions; the development of the sentiments; the growth of
self-consciousness and of the self regarding sentiment; the advance to the
higher plane of social conduct; and volition. In the second section the
author considers the reproductive and the parental instincts, the instinct
of pugnacity, the gregarious instinct, the instincts through which religious
conceptions affect social life, the instincts of acquisition and
construction, and there is a final chapter on imitation, play and habit.

McDougall dividends the instincts into specific tendencies or instincts and
general or non-specific tendencies. He calls attention to the abuse of the
term "instincts" and himself defines an instinct as an inherited or innate
psychophysical disposition which has the three aspects of all mental
processes: the cognitive, the affective and the conative--or a knowing of
some object or thing, a feeling in regard to it, and a striving towards or
away from that object. "The continued obstruction of instinctive striving
is always accompanied by painful feeling, its successful progress towards
its end by pleasurable feeling, and the achievement of its end by a
pleasurable sense of satisfaction." He reminds us that "the emotional
excitement, with the accompanying nervous activities of the central part of
the disposition, is the only part of the total instinctive process that
retains its specific character and remains common to all individuals and all
situations in which the instinct is excited." We may experience the
emotional excitement and the impulse to the appropriate movements of an
instinct or the re-excitement of an instinctive reaction in its affective
and conative aspects without the reproduction of the original idea which led
to its excitation. Pleasure and pain but serve to guide these impulses or
instincts in their choice of means towards these ends.

One of McDougall's important conclusions is that "each of the principal
instincts conditions some one kind of emotional excitement whose quality is
specific or peculiar to it, and the emotional excitement of specific quality
that is the affective aspect of the operation of any one of the principal
instincts may be called a primary emotion." This is McDougall's definition
of emotion.

McDougall then takes up for discussion and analysis the principal instincts
and the primary emotions of man which include the following: the instinct of
flight and the emotion of fear; the instinct of repulsion and the emotion of
disgust; the instinct of curiosity and the emotion of wonder; the instinct
of pugnacity and the emotion of anger; the instincts of self-abasement (or
subjection) and of self-assertion (or self-display) and the emotions of
subjection and elation (or negative and positive self-feeling); the parental
instinct and the tender emotion, and such other instincts of less
well-defined emotional tendencies as the instinct of reproduction (with
sexual jealousy and female coyness), the gregarious instinct, the instincts
of acquisition and construction; and the minor instincts of crawling,
walking, rest and sleep. McDougall denies the existence of such instincts as
those of religion, imitation, sympathy and play.

There then follows a consideration of some general or nonspecific innate
tendencies or pseudo-instincts which are not specific instincts with special
accompanying emotions, and this leads to the analysis of sympathy or the
sympathetic induction of emotion, suggestion and suggestibility, imitation,
play, habit, disposition and temperament.

The sentiments are now taken up for analysis and definition. A sentiment,
according to McDougall, who accepts Shand's definition, is an organized
system of emotional tendencies or dispositions centred about the idea of
some object. Among the complex emotions not necessarily implying the
existence of sentiments McDougall includes admiration, awe and reverence,
gratitude, scorn, contempt and loathing, and envy. Among the complex
emotions implying the existence of sentiments he considers reproach,
anxiety, jealousy, vengeful emotion, resentment, shame, joy, sorrow and
pity, happiness, surprise. The nature and the constitution of the sentiments
and the complex emotions comes in for very illuminating analysis. The
chapters on the growth of self-consciousness and of the self-regarding
sentiment, the advance to the higher plane of social conduct, and volition
are to be considered among the best chapters of this very excellent work.
The discussion and analysis is very penetrating and clear. It is well worth
while presenting the following abstract of the chapter on volition: All
impulses, desires and aversions, motives or conations are of one of two
classes: (1) from the excitement of some innate disposition or instinct; and
(2) from excitement of dispositions acquired during the life of the
individual by differentiation from the innate dispositions, under the
guidance of pleasure and pain. When in the conflict of two motives the will
is thrown on the side of one of them and we make a volitional decision, we
in some way add to the energy with which the idea of the one desired end
maintains itself in opposition to its rival. The idea of the self, or
self-consciousness, is able to play its great role in volition only in
virtue of the self-regarding sentiment. The conations, the desires and
aversions, arising within this self-regarding sentiment are the motive
forces which, adding themselves to the weaker ideal motive in the case of
moral effort, enable it to win the mastery over some stronger, coarser
desire of our primitive animal nature and to banish from consciousness the
idea of the end of this desire.

Volition, therefore, following McDougall, may be defined as the supporting
or re-enforcing of a desire or conation by the cooperation of an impulse
excited within the system of the self-regarding sentiment. The sentiment of
self-control is the master sentiment for volition and especially for
resolution. It is a special development of the self-regarding sentiment. The
source of the additional motive power, which in the moral effort of volition
is thrown upon the side of the weaker, more ideal impulse, is ultimately to
be found in that instinct of self-display or self-assertion whose affective
aspect is the emotion of positive self-feeling. These remarks are given more
or less verbatim.

McDougall next analyzes strength of character which he differentiates from
disposition and temperament which are innate. In section two, as stated
previously, the author takes up for separate and more minute analysis the
family (the reproductive and the parental) instincts, the instinct of
pugnacity, the gregarious instinct, the instinctive bases of religion, and
the instincts of acquisition and construction. Imitation, play and habit
receive separate treatment in the final chapter.

The reviewer can freely recommend this book as one of the best, if not the
best book of this sort that has come into his hands. His personal opinion is
that it is the best. McDougall presents us with an acceptable and clean-cut
classification of the instincts, emotions and sentiments, he accurately
defines these terms, he gives the analysis and constitution of these
instincts, emotions and sentiments, and develops the motive sources of human
conduct. He adopts many original and novel standpoints. He is an
independent thinker. He has here presented us with a book which, because of
its clearness and its frank meeting of the problems, is of the utmost value
to the psychopathologist and the psychiatrist. In fact the contents of just
such a work as this should be the first lesson of every worker in this
field. In this way only can he really begin to understand human conduct.

This work should find its place in the forefront of those books which should
be read and digested by all workers in any of the social sciences.

For the reviewer it has been a genuine pleasure to read and to review this
book and he most heartily recommends it to the reader of these pages. MEYER


THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS. By C. G. Jung. Pp. 133 and Index. Nervous
and Mental Diseases Monograph Series, No. 19, 1915, $1.50.

PSYCHOLOGY AND PARENTHOOD. By H. Addington Bruce. Pp. IX plus 293. Dodd,
Mead & Co., 1915. $1.25 net.

THE INDIVIDUAL DELINQUENT. By William Healy. Pp. XV plus 830. Little,
Brown & Co., 1915. $5.00 net.

HUMAN MOTIVES. By J. J. Putnam. Pp. XVII plus 179. Little, Brown & Co.,
1915. $1.00 net.



[*] Read at the sixth annual meeting of the American Psychopathological
Association, May 5, 1915, New York City.

JOHN T. MACCURDY, M. D. Psychiatric Institute, Ward's Island


WALTER L. TREADWAY, M. D. Assistant Surgeon, U. S. Public Health Service

MOST psychiatrists state or tacitly assume that dementia praecox is a
disease of a steadily progressive nature, where the first symptom of
dementia is a signal for relentless degradation of the patient's mental
capacity except in the sphere of the more mechanical, intellectual
functions. Yet the experience of every institutional physician denies the
universality of this deterioration, and the statistics in any good text book
demonstrate that many cases are "chronic" rather than "deteriorating."
Woodman[1] has made a careful study of 144 such chronic cases, and shows
what a surprisingly large proportion of these develop a good adaptation to
the artificial environment of the institution. So far as we know, however,
no one has attempted to formulate any definite features of onset which could
be taken as a guide in determining the gravity of the mental derangement.
In fact Bleuler states categorically that "up to the present no correlation
has been discovered between the symptoms of onset and the gravity of the
outcome."  Kraepelin has split off from dementia praecox a separate
psychosis--Paraphrenia systematica--which he timidly defends as a clinical
entity apparently because the course is a long one and the deterioration
less marked than in dementia praecox. But he gives us no concise prognostic
data; in fact one feels on reading his paper that the diagnosis must be made
post hoc. This problem is manifestly of equal importance from the social
and the scientific standpoint: until we can predict the outcome our
treatment must be empiric and palliative; we confess ourselves ignorant of
the disease process if we cannot make a prognosis.

[1] R. C. Woodman, N. Y. State Hospital Bulletin, Vol. II, No. 2, 1909.

It is possible to make certain a priori speculations as to prognostic
criteria based on classification and what that implies. We know that pure
paranoia is not a deteriorating psychosis--that it does not necessarily
preclude the possibility of considerable social usefulness--and that it
grades off almost imperceptibly into dementia praecox. The features
differentiating these two diseases should therefore supply us with data for
determining the prognosis. A case undoubtedly, praecox, which shows markedly
the differential features of paranoia, should have a proportionately better
outlook. In a vague way our common sense uses this standard when it makes us
"feel" that the case will have a long course which shows a relatively well
retained personality in conjunction with praecox symptoms. But "feelings"
are hardly objective criteria. What symptoms may we make use of? We may
say that the praecox patient as opposed to the paranoia has a poverty or
inappropriateness of affect, a scattering of thought and a lack of
systematization in his delusions. The weakness of will on which Kraepelin
lays so much stress may be included, though that can probably be derived
from the scattering of thought. What of these symptoms may be analyzed for
our purpose? Affect changes and dissociation in the stream of thought are
themselves signs of the deterioration we wish to predict; to make use of
them we should have at hand some theory as to the relation between their
quality and quantity, and that we have not. There remains the content of
the psychosis, a definitely objective material with which to work. This is
naturally a big problem--almost as wide as insanity itself--and one brief
communication cannot pretend to solve it. What we wish to do is merely to
put forward tentatively the claim of one type of delusion formation to
prognostic value.

Now if delusions are to be an index to deterioration they must in some way
hold a mirror to the changes in the personality, repeat them or prefigure
them. If we generalize our conception of functional dementia, we can say
that one of its most striking features is a destruction of the faculty of
appropriate reaction, a loss of what one may term the sense of reality. The
patient in direct proportion to the degree of his dementia loses his
capacity to recognize the reality of his environment or his relationship to
it, and builds up more and more a world of his own in which he lives
untroubled by the demands of adaptation. No one who has ever argued with a
paranoic will forget how keen a sense of reality he may retain, how logical
his arguments are, and how reasonable his delusions appear, if only some one
point be granted. With the praecox, however, the opposite impression may be
quite as striking. His delusions are bizarre, inconsistent, kaleidoscopic;
he has no logical explanation and cannot even state them consecutively. And
all gradations from pure paranoia to dementia praecox seem to have
corresponding losses in the sense of reality as embodied in delusions.

May we not hope to find in the content of the psychosis some objective
criterion as to the degree in which the sense of reality is lost, with all
that it implies?

But what takes the place of the sense of reality or what causes it to go?
With what tendency of the psychotic individual is it in conflict? The answer
is a psychological truism--the indulgence in fancies. Imagination, of
course, is essential to every human being, no purposeful action can be
instituted without its first being carried out in imagination. Phantastic
thinking begins when the subject fails to apply the test of reality to his
mental image and exclude it if it be not adapted to realization. If
environment or internal inhibitions prevent this realization, however, the
craving: lying back of the fancy must be diverted to a more practical
channel--the normal solution--or the fancy must persist in spite of its
impracticability. This latter process is the germ of the psychosis. But not
its development. A certain compromise may be reached--he who digs for gold
in his back-yard is not so crazy as he who reaches out his hand for the
moon. Nor is the paranoic who chooses to put his interpretation on the
surliness of his employer as far estranged from reality as the praecox who
recognizes his employer in the person of the physician. The content of the
psychosis may then express the relative strength of the two antagonistic
factors, sense of reality and fancy, the two factors whose relative
importance decide the issue for sanity or insanity.

It is easier to imagine than to act, so no human being is free of this
tendency. But what does the normal man do? He diverts these thoughts into
channels where fancy has a legitimate place--he writes romances; he imagines
himself using an instrument to talk with his friend miles away and invents
the telephone; he imagines a better society than the one which galls him,
and writes a "Utopia"; above all he theorizes and speculates. According to
his age or ability these speculations give us alchemy or chemistry,
astrology or astronomy, magic or religion, spiritism or psychology, the
were-wolf or psycho-analysis, phrenology or psychiatry, and so on. Now
three generalizations can be made about these primitive or elaborated
philosophizings: first, they all represent a constructive tendency; second,
the degree to which this constructive tendency is exhibited is historically
a measure of the cultural development of any age, an index of the
development of the sense of reality of the time, that is, the particular
speculation is not only accepted as reasonable but has its practical
application for the period; and third, the more primitive forms of these
speculations are represented in the delusions of insane, particularly
dementia praecox, patients. Following a suggestion of Dr. Hoch we have
termed these ideas "constructive delusions." As they correspond to what was
historically a compromise between reality and phantasy, they should
represent a corresponding mildness or severity in the psychosis where they
appear. Our observations--far from being extensive--have so far demonstrated
this that we feel justified in offering the hypothesis that when such
delusions are present one can base a mild prognosis on their presence with a
rather specific relationship between the crudity of construction and the
degree of deterioration. It must be borne in mind, however, that we make no
claim as to the invariable presence of such delusions when marked
deterioration does not take place. We hope only to show that when present
this particular form of content may constitute a valuable prognostic guide,
as it represents the degree to which the patient has gone in recapitulating
the history of his civilization.

It should be understood that we are not describing highly unusual cases;
many such have been published. A highly typical one is given by Freud in
his analysis of the Schreber case.[2] In this extremely stimulating paper
Freud puts forward the claim that all delusions are an attempt at regaining
health on the part of the psyche. From a broad psychological standpoint,
this is undoubtedly true but the generalization is too wide to be of any
practical psychiatric value. Moreover, by choosing for analysis a case
which was neither dementia praecox nor paranoia but a combination of the
two, he reaches conclusions which are valuable additions to our knowledge of
psychotic processes but merely confuse the issue as to the specific
mechanisms of paranoia and dementia praecox. In Schreber a profound
psychotic reaction corresponded to crude formulations of his fancies,
whereas, when he built these ideas into constructive speculations, he became
relatively sane and an efficient citizen. If Freud had emphasized the point
that this later formulation was more than a vehicle for the cruder thoughts,
that it contained components which were potentially of social value, which
implied a broader contact with the world--had he done this--then the present
paper would be superfluous.

[2] Psychoanalytische Bemerkungen uber einen autobiographischen beschrieben
Fall von Paranoia (Dementia paranoides). Jahrb. f. psychoanalyt. u.
psychopath. Forschungen, Jahrg. III.

The first case we wish to present, John McM., is at present thirty-six years
of age, unmarried, a Catholic. For at least nine years he has been
objectively psychotic, though, according to his own account his delusional
habit of thought began seventeen years ago. He had little education but made
the most of it and has read widely (for one of his station) on such topics
as socialism. He was always somewhat distant and did not make friends
easily. From early childhood he was antagonistic towards his father and
brother and, since his mother's death six years ago, to whom he was strongly
attached, towards an aunt as well. He has struck both his father and his
aunt. His antagonism towards his father is of great importance as a
determinant for his later symptoms. When young he feared him, as he grew
older disputed his authority and, according to the father, always disobeyed
him. He was always shy with women and, as we shall see, his first conflict
in the sexual sphere was solved by a psychotic reaction. Once an efficient
salesman, for the past nine years he has drifted from one position to
another. As he says himself, he lost ambition after he decided not to get
married, and concluded he would not attempt to gain worldly possessions, but
merely enough to subsist on. His early life showed not so much tendency
towards elation and depression as towards imaginative thinking with a
leaning towards day-dreaming and "mysteries." Of late years his reading has
been confined to sexual topics, as discussed by various quacks, astrology,
phrenology, Christian Science, and religion. Although he said he discovered
God for himself he never gave up the Catholic religion. Gradually his energy
has been so engrossed by these interests that he lost position after
position as a result of continually talking of his ideas to his fellow
workers or employers. This tendency eventually led to his commitment, but as
long ago as 1906 a physician said he was insane. For the past six years he
has been cross, stubborn and self-willed so that none of family dared to
speak to him. He even left home and took a furnished room by himself. In
spite of this evident anti-social tendency he speaks of himself as having
been filled during this period with a great hope; he has been looking into
the future and content that he will reach the goal and sees happiness in the
future. For some months he had talked much of the world coming to an end
and said that those who had money should spend it as it would soon do them
no good. He wanted every one to divide his money with him as, he said,
everything belonged to God. Many people were against him and he wrote
letters about this to various officers. It was when he showed some of these
to an assemblyman that he was advised to go to Observation Pavilion.

When he arrived at Manhattan State Hospital he was quiet and agreeable,
cooperated readily with his examination and seemed to take his incarceration
as a matter of course, though he has always had mild arguments to prove that
he should be allowed parole. A certain degree of deterioration is evidenced
by his failure to make much of an effort in this direction, although such
effort would be immediately successful. In his manner he was quiet,
occasionally somewhat affected and when talking of his ideas was apt to
assume an expression bordering on ecstasy. At no time did he show an
inappropriate affect or any evidence of scattering or flight. He could talk
quite objectively of his idea. He had had only one halucinatory experience
and even it should, perhaps, be called merely an illusion. "On the 14th of
March, 1912," he said "I came face to face with God Almighty. He spoke in a
Jewish dialect and was dressed as a carpenter." The patient was in the
Cathedral at the time and that night he had a vision of this man, though
this may have been just a dream. He also heard Bishop H. speak of the man
who had come to prepare the world for the second coming of Christ. The
bishop looked at this patient which meant that he, the patient, was the man.

Before detailing his ideas it may be well to outline their general tendency.
In his psychosis he succeeded in fulfilling the wish of the Persian enemy of

"Ah, Love, could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits and then
Remould it nearer to the heart's desire."

By the simple expedient of translating his interest from this world to that
of spirits he built up a new Heaven and a new Earth, where he was supreme
and his chief enemy, his father, was subject to him. Beginning with
astrology he found that his father's sign and his showed different
characters, the father's strong in earthly affairs, while the patient's
showed preeminence in spiritual qualities. Passing from astrology to the
Heavens, he discovered that his father had been Jehovah, while he had been
Christ. There had been a struggle between them in which the father had been
temporarily successful. But when his father's spirit had entered into a
body, he had become subject to Christ. In the Heaven to come, Jehovah was
to give way to precedence to Christ, was to enjoy with the Virgin Mary, his
mother, a union of love, as much more fervid as it was to be free from
carnal features. In extolling this life of the spirit the patient excluded
that physical problem which had caused him so much trouble-- the adult
sexual demand which, in the form of marriage he could not agree to meet nor
yet to put out of his mind. At the same time this religious formulation
gave him a comfortable ascendancy over his hated rival, his father. But it
gives him more than this: he has a mission, he says, he must prepare the way
for the new world, the new heaven. This is an objective interest and it is
that, we think, which has a causal connexion with his mild degree of
deterioration-- for he has been what we must regard as a praecox for many
years and yet has lost so little of his personality that to a layman he
would certainly be regarded as little more than a crank. Where his system
fails of having a sane outlet it is of course in the fact that his prophecy
has little to do with anything of advantage to others. It is merely a cover
for self-glorification.

At nineteen he talked to his friend W. of sexual matters, and, being
troubled with constipation and "rheumatism" at the time, he asked the
physician who was treating him as to whether he should indulge himself
sexually. The physician told him to, but he worried over this advice and
went to a priest, who said for him to get married. This he did not wish to
do, and so turned his attention to astrology and phrenology, the other
subjects which his friend talked of. That this was only a cover for his
original sex problem is shown by his conclusions: that he had a weakness in
amativeness--"the faculty of sexual power," his "concentration" on sexual
matters was poor. "If I had more amativeness there would be trouble; I am
glad I haven't so much. I was always more of a companion to my mother, and
when I wasn't with her I went to the theatre with W." He and his father, he
learned, had strong faculties of destructiveness; the patient, however,
could control his by reasoning; his reasoning was so strong that he could
even control his father and settle disputes between father and mother.
Phrenology also taught him his intellectual superiority to his father in
other ways.

From phrenology he learned there was a time to be born; from this he passed
to astrology. His father had arranged that he should be born in the sign of
Virgo, which guaranteed his truthfulness and obedience to his father. He
explained this by speaking of Adam and Eve disobeying God, from whose sexual
intercourse all evils sprang. Manifestly, then, it was his father's
arrangement that he should have to abstain from sexual intercourse.

His father was born in the sign Gemini; this is a fighting sign; the father
selected this sign himself, by his great fighting power; the sign is not a
spiritual one but a worldly one, and shows avarice in great grasping of
worldly things. He never thought that his father was so great, until three
or four years ago. He wrote a minister, asking him what became of God the
Father; he asked another man about religion, and was told how obedient
Christ was to his foster-father Joseph. He thought of how disobedient he
was to his father, and then decided that his father was the God, the Father,
and in the Kingdom of Heaven he was called Jehovah. (Here he identifies
himself with Christ). He says about this "I tried to reason myself away from
it many times, but was finally convinced"--The father came to this world as
John; Jehovah was the patient's father in the other world. In the other
world he had a falling out with the father, and now the father has that
revenge in his soul. He had some kind of a falling out, a fight; his father,
then Jehovah, ruled the third Heaven; one of the twelve, which he says is
about the earth, the earth making the thirteenth; this formulation he
derived from astrology: the first Heaven Aries, the second Taurus, and the
third Gemini, etc.

His father was born in the sign of Gemini, whose symbol is the twins, which
means a duel; and people born in this sign have a dual nature; the father
had a dual nature; and when the father ruled in the third Heaven as Jehovah,
a duel took place between the patient and the father, and the son's spirit
was separated from a body and roamed about. After a time the patient's
spirit got back into the Kingdom by worrying the father, but he was never
admitted in the form of a body. The father and son while still in a body
could both create man and woman; the patient then knew all about creation,
and was endowed with all the powers the father possessed, and helped the
father to build up that kingdom; but when the patient's spirit was separated
from the body his powers became less, so that he could not create a human
being. His physical personality was weakened by this, but the spirit of love
was increased; the father had carried revenge in his soul since then. The
patient was never a ruler of a Heaven, but "I was my father's son--I was
next to him--the sons never become rulers unless they win out;" the
patient's spirit remained out of his body until he was born into this world;
the patient's father came to this world as John, and married Mary McE.; when
the father came on earth he placed himself under the jurisdiction of Christ
this came about automatically when the father was born.

In the next Heaven the patient will be on the same plane as Christ, but
perhaps in a lesser degree. There can be only one father, and he will be
under Christ's jurisdiction. Christ will be supreme. He is part of the
Trinity; there is one God as three united persons; they agree on everything;
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. These will be possessed of equal powers, but
one will be looked upon as the father, and another Son, and another the Holy
Ghost. In the new Heaven he will have equal rights and powers with the

After the father married two children were born, brothers, the younger being
the patient. He says about this that he was born in the usual way, "The
spirit entered the womb of the mother from outside, and from the seed of the
father, and I was born by the will of the father." Christ was born of Mary
through the will of Jehovah--simply the spirit entered the womb and the word
was made flesh. When the father lived as Jehovah he created Adam and Eve, "I
was simply my father's son and son of Jehovah--perhaps my name was John,
which had some great meaning"--Jehovah was the greatest spirit in the
universe, but is not now, for when he was born he placed himself under the
jurisdiction of Christ; his name is now John, the patient's father. Christ
was selected to be the son of Jehovah; he was selected by Jehovah because
Jehovah had a great personality; his father arranged all of this, and he
even selected the sign that the patient was to be born in. When asked who he
is, he said, "I am who I am--When I was positive that I am who I claim to

When the patient's spirit was thrown out of the body, it caused Adam and Eve
to be created--Eve was a great spirit in the third heaven--the father
thought that if he could create two persons, and they were congenial to each
other, that Adam's soul would be increased or developed by being in company
with Eve. When Adam and Eve were created they were not to have sexual
intercourse; they were merely to come in contact by spoken words--love could
exist without intercourse; it started all the trouble. To Adam and Eve two
sons were born, and the brotherly love that existed turned to fire and
hatred. They probably became jealous of each other, and so one deceived the
other. At one time he said that perhaps the mother made more over one than
she did the other; again, perhaps father and mother might have favored one
more than the other; hence jealousy arose; his brother was born in the sign
of Capricorn, which ordinarily is a sign which is congenial to Virgo; his
brother, however, is a crank and not congenial; the brother is jealous of
the patient, because the mother favored the patient.

He did not take his mother's death to heart, as he had expected for two
years that she would die. His aunt said that he told her it was a good
thing the mother was dead. He says that in the other heaven, Jehovah's wife
was Martha, a sister of the Virgin Mary. In this life she was Mary; the
father may have had many wives in the third heaven; perhaps his mother's
sisters were his wives, as they seem attracted to him. His mother's soul
existed before birth, lived in Jerusalem in the time of Christ, and was
Mary's sister. His mother was born in the eighth sign and could be trusted
with great secrets; his mother kept things to herself. She was both feminine
and masculine; that is, she was strong and sociable. In the sign in which
he was born they have great spiritual conception, keen, searching and
penetrating vision; The symbol is the Virgin, and pride makes them more
feminine than masculine, and they are sensitive; he at one time was more
feminine than now, which was due to his sensitiveness. The sign of Virgo is
the mid-heaven, where love is more intent; there they understand each other,
and there is no disagreement. "The magnet of the male and the magnet of the
female are attracted, and they agree with each other in words spoken; this
is true love, like that which existed between Christ and the Virgin Mother;
the Virgin Mother was born in that sign--there's where she got her name."

When he dies the soul of his mother will enter heaven.

In heaven Christ is to raise his mother's soul from purgatory, and she will
become the Virgin Mary. A spirit rapping in the house, which began shortly
after his mother's death, is her spirit and his guardian angel.

Jehovah was jealous of Christ as a greater spirit, so had him crucified.
Joseph was also jealous of Christ because Mary loved him more.

Further ramifications of his ideas are the cruder conceptions that semen is
the equivalent of thought, and that thoughts of women cause him to have
nocturnal emissions. Semen comes from food; to the sacrament he gives a
definitely sexual significance, and it was following communion that he
realized that he was Christ.

At one time he thought he could live, and that he could marry a girl and not
have sexual intercourse; because if he got married and had sexual love
trouble would arise. He was convinced by what he saw of his friends and
every one else he knew, his aunt, his mother and father, that they did not
get along well. The Divine Power knowing that this could not be in this
world, broke the affections he had for this girl; and he concluded he would
never get married. From a worldly point of view he knew that he was a
failure; he had failed in all his business. But he did not care for worldly
things. When he reached this point he knew that he had a mission to
perform, and began to write and preach religion to people who were qualified
to understand. He wrote many letters, all dealing with religion, saying that
he had to get things ready for the second coming of Christ; that he was the
successor of Christ; and that he was to get things in readiness for the
union of religion; when there should be one Shepherd and one Fold.

Case 2. The next case differs from the first in that the emphasis in the
ideas was laid more on spiritistic and astrological than on religious lines.
Another difference in the problems solved by the psychosis is that the
personality of the patient was not incompatible with an outlet to the adult
sexual demand through the channel of prostitution but a basic similarity
lies in the fact that the delusions center around attachment to her father,
again a family situation. The patient is an unmarried woman now forty-seven
years of age, of whose early life we know nothing. She had applied for aid
to a charity organization who, becoming suspicious on the report of a police
captain that the woman was a street walker, sent her to the Cornell
Psychopathological Clinic for mental examination. She had some petty
complaints of not being fed properly where she lived, of things not being
clean there and of the women around her being queer. Then she launched
spontaneously into her delusional story, needing very few questions to
stimulate a fairly complete recital. Throughout an her talk she showed no
abnormalities in her train of thought. She talked in a quiet way of her
"knowledge" but with enthusiasm, smiling frequently but more in a satisfied
or sociable way than with any silly expression. There was not a trace of
ecstasy in her expression. It would have been hard to say definitely that
she had any inappropriate affect. At a later interview, however, she
admitted recent acts of prostitution with no embarrassment whatever.

Her psychotic experiences began some ten years ago when she entered into
illicit relations with an elderly married man R., in the South. A year
before she had met a "mastermind" who told her that she would never be seen
in the right light. Everything came as he predicted. Her lover soon lost
his sexual capacity and so began to show his power by keeping her under his
control but still at arm's length. But she has fooled him for now she has
his power. This power was in the form of "influences." When they worked on
her she would have a throbbing like a typewriter in her head, and would then
be forced to some act. Such acts included affairs with various men and
through R.'s influences she also lost many positions. For some time she
tried to get him to support her, as it was his "influences" that had ruined
her, but he merely called her a blackmailer and had her put out of his
office. Soon, however, as the result of visions she learned that her father
(who is dead) had become Christ in the other world. It was all his influence
that had been acting on her through the medium of R. From Astrology she
learned that she had been born under two planets--Jupiter, Influence; and
Neptune, Spiritual. Her father's sign was Neptune and he was therefore a
spiritual man. Shortly after his death, she had a vision of him floating up
towards the moon and then she knew that he was joining her ethereally. She
had visions of this Father-Christ.

When we turn to the constructive side of these delusions we find that she
regards all her experiences as having been designed by the Father-Christ to
give her training, training that would increase her psychic powers. For
instance, she said part of her training had been frequent accusations of
dishonor with men she never knew. She had to acquit herself of these
charges; thus she gained power. Then she found that she did not even need to
expostulate. She could defy them, defy the whole world. As soon as she knew
she was not guilty she felt power. Things she WAS guilty of, she knew were
right for her, because she gained power by these experiences. This was
because through them she learned spiritistic facts and knowledge is power.
According to her system one mind acts over another by greater penetrating
power, though the recipient must be powerful too. Sometimes she found that
she had to be reduced by lack of food or other privation to receive
influence. Naturally, too, she could communicate with the dead and had many
examples of this power to offer. She had learned, also, about the influence
of the planets over the human brain and how to learn of conditions which
exist for any person--what he should avoid and what to accept. As the
patient was only seen for little over an hour the details of her system of
ideas could not be obtained but she assured the examiner that she never
could tell all she knows about the spirit world. In general, however, she
said that all her knowledge was useful to her and she could give it to
others individually without effort to herself but that she had no way of
giving it directly to the world. If she had a rest and got well connected
socially perhaps she might be able to do it. People who had met her casually
told her that she had done them good. But she could never tell them about
having seen Christ, they don't understand. The egoism of her faith is shown
by her statement that, having met Christ in practical life, she had no more
use for any church or ritual. Her great hope was for the future. When she
passed away, she was to develop her powers more and when reincarnated was to
come back with the big minds of the world. Once she had a vision of herself
in some high trees and the "Master mind" told her what it meant. In the
future she would have a great mind. She has it now, but the circumstances of
her life are such that it is not recognized.

The essential feature of this case, for our purpose, is that we have in this
woman a paranoid psychosis of a definitely dementia praecox type which after
ten years has shown only suggestive signs of deterioration in her lack of
purpose in work, and her dulling in emotional response. This failure to
deteriorate seems to stand in definite relationship to her system of ideas.
That these have a constructive tendency is shown by the translation of her
cruder thoughts into the setting of the occult with the suggestion of
propaganda and in their pragmatic value. With her "new religion" she has
provided herself with an argument in favor of a life of desultory
prostitution and general vagabondage. She was advised to go to a hospital
but refused, though she will certainly be committed soon, as it is
inevitable that she will run counter to society in some way.

Such cases as these first two are familiar to you all and these have been
chosen for this paper practically at random. Any large hospital will provide
dozens of similar history whose clinical pictures would serve as well as
what we have given. The next two cases represent two special types of
psychoses: one a chronic manic and the other a definite praecox with
recurrent attacks. Any institutional physician is familiar with the
chronically elated patient, who has become a hospital character-- a good
worker often who seems to be sufficiently repaid for his toil by the
privilege of stopping the passerby to expound his ideas. Such a case is
usually diagnosed as a chronic manic or a dementia praecox, according to the
taste of the examiner.

Numerous works have demonstrated how the symbolism of the modern fraternal
organization has grown out of alchemy, mysticism and rosicrucianism. Some
centuries ago these symbols were charged with a literal meaning. If a man,
however, in the 20th century attaches a similar significance to these
symbols he is rightly adjudged insane. For instance, no one in a modern
civilization can retain his mental balance and believe in a literal,
physical rebirth. The patient whose case we shall now briefly recite had
done this. He was observed at only one set interview because it was found
that a few questions, apparently innocent, led to the awakening of some
cruder ideas to which he reacted rather strongly with the statement that the
physician was accusing him of harboring murderous designs which were, as a
matter of fact, not even remotely suggested. The patient C. G., is a Hebrew,
married, age sixty-one. When forty he had an attack of excitement lasting a
few weeks. He was admitted to the Manhattan State Hospital in October 1899
and remained till April 14, 1900 with a similar attack. He was readmitted
in April 1901 again in an excitement and has remained there ever since. It
is claimed that these attacks were all preceded by a spree. The records of
these admissions state that he was excited for some years, apparently with
exacerbations, during which he is frequently noted as being delusional and
hallucinating. No content is noted so that we cannot give the development of
his ideas. He does not hallucinate now. All we know is that for five or six
years he was a rather intractable patient, who worked intermittently but
that of more recent years he has sufficiently adapted himself to the
hospital environment to be granted ground parole which he uses largely to do
a considerable amount of quite useful work. Any one who has once talked to
him is saluted from a distance with the words--"Pleased to meet you,
Doctor!"  "Five fingers up!" or "Da liegt der schwarze Hund begraben!"  All
this is followed by an elated volubility. When asked what "Pleased to meet
you!" meant, he said that was the password for entrance to the "Fellowship
Lodge" of a certain fraternal order. He produced a match box with the
insignia on it of a Grade in the Lodge. With this match box, once off
Ward's Island, he insisted that it could get him his bread all the world
over and hundreds of friends. He would never have been committed had he not
been drunk and forgotten to make use of his signs. The world belongs to the
Fellowship of Men. He spoke of his wife's ill treatment of him and then
went on to "I am married to the American flag and it will go to the grave
with me." This referred, he explained, to joining the red, white and blue
lodge. "Five fingers up!" was shaking hands, the clasped hands on his match
box. These hands, he said, were those of Moses and the Lord, for Moses was a
"Fellowman," which is like the Fellowship of the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost. However, he went on to say that Moses, the Trinity and God were all
a dream; Israel and the High Grade are real--the High Grade is the Lord. G.
stands for God and he belongs to the G Lodge, therefore he belongs to God's
Lodge. But he has a uniform of the High Grade at home, so he must be the
High Grade himself. By using the symbols of his order in this way he
disposes of his wife who has not treated him well, identifies himself with
God (while he abolishes the regular God) and endows himself with the
supremest power in a Lodge which he regards as omnipotent in the world.
Another group of his ideas refer to his race. He has been put on Ward's
Island as a result of the great struggle between Christians and Israel. But
Israelites are the head of the Fellowship Lodge, so all Christians must
follow him, the patient.

This is the explanation of "Da liegt der schwarze Hund begraben!" He is like
a dog in the house and he is considered to be nobody, a corpse on the floor.
But he really lies here buried--the missing man of the tribe. Once off
Ward's Island, therefore, he will come to life as head of Israel, and head
of the omnipotent Lodge. Patiently, hopefully, he awaits rebirth. The
egoism of these ideas is obvious. Wherein do the constructive factors lie?
Simply in this: this expansiveness could easily be formulated directly. But
he does not do so. His ideas include two objective and potentially
altruistic interests his lodge and his race. He is interested in them; in
fact one can probably say that it is just in so far as he is insane that the
selfish determination for these interests become manifest.

We have also studied two cases of recurring excitements in patients one of
whom was an evident praecox, the other of doubtful classification. Both
showed queer behavior during their intervals with mild indications of their
ideas which gained freer expression in their attacks. These episodes showed,
of course, markedly a typical feature in a tremendous amount of queer
behavior and more excitement than true elation. As there was nothing in
their ideas essentially different in principle from the cases already
quoted, they need not be further detailed.

The last case, R. E. O'M., is one of no less interest from a formal
standpoint than from a psychological one, while the trend presented is so
copious that it can well serve as a resume of the cases we have just
recited. He is now an unmarried man of thirty-three, and although he was
diagnosed dementia praecox ten years ago is now earning $1200 year as a
stenographer in the government service. His father was an Irishman banished
from Great Britain because of his political agitations. His mother was a
French woman of Huguenot extraction who died of cancer before the patient
reached his teens but to whom he was greatly attached. He has a sister two
years older than himself, given to hysteric attacks, for whom his love is
"Platonic," to use his own term. Although of more than normal intellectual
vigor, judging by his success in school work, he probably always had a
psychotic tendency. At seven or eight he saw a vision of God in the clouds;
at puberty he masturbated considerably and used to stand before the mirror
and "hypnotize" himself. In the fall of 1903 (then twenty-one) he was
staying at a summer hotel where he met a girl who made love to him, when he
began to have frequent emissions. Being caught together out in a storm, in
an effort to protect her his hand found its way to her hair. He was greatly
upset. On returning to the hotel he endeavored to avoid her, and, his father
being slightly ill, he became convinced he was going to die. A month or so
later he moved from Baltimore, which had been his home, and began employment
with the government in Washington. He had more emissions and immediately
developed hysterical heart trouble, and from his retrospective account also
had ideas of people influencing him. A year later (June 1905) a frank
psychosis with considerable manic flavor developed. Secretary of State Hay
had died, and peace negotiations between Russia and Japan were in progress.
He got the idea that he was to succeed Hay (whose face he saw in the clouds)
and that he would make peace between the nations. The accompanying
excitement was so intense that when he came to see his father in Baltimore
the latter had him committed to the Sheppard and Enoch Pratt Hospital.[3] He
remained there for one year and eight months, during which time his mood
showed great variability. At times he would be elated, again depressed or
anxious, often silly with irrelevant laughter. Towards the end of his
admission he had quite long intervals when he appeared normal. Eight months
after his discharge he began to have monthly attacks lasting from one to two
weeks. At the beginning of 1911 he came under the observation of one of us
at the Johns Hopkins Hospital Dispensary. His case was followed minutely
for some months when the following extraordinary clinical picture was seen
to develop with regular periodicity. His interest would gradually withdraw
from his work and an abstracted, "dim" look come into his eyes. He ceased
to sleep either day or night. Ideas, in the intervals latent, would become
more insistent, and he talked of them in a distracted way with occasional
silly laughter and some scattering. At the same time he would show
considerable physical unrest: rocking in his chair, nodding his head,
sucking with his lips, and making occasional grimaces. A sharp word would,
however, bring him to reality and normal behavior and speech, or the same
result could be obtained by his own volition. In fact sufficient effort from
either without or within could, it was several times demonstrated, postpone
the further development of these symptoms for several days. Inevitably,
however, control over his psychosis was lost. He became more excited; was
assaultive till chastised by his father, after which that symptom no longer
appeared; he would give none but irrelevant answers to questions; he
masturbated openly. In the next phase he refused to answer questions
altogether, sat in a chair by the window, rocking and tapping the floor or
wall with his feet; reading a paper in a whisper or tearing it into scraps;
spitting on the floor, his clothes or the window pane and then drawing
pictures with his finger on the wet glass; intermittently chanting the same
air over and over again with words, totally indistinguishable, except for
the name "Jesus Christ" apparently interpolated irregularly in the course of
the song. All this time he wore a silly smile occasionally breaking into a
low chuckling laugh devoid of real emotion. In a short time his clothes and
his immediate surroundings were in a state of horrid filth from his saliva
and the torn papers. Towards the end of the attack he ceased making any
sounds, simply rocked, spat and grinned. He would often pass twenty-four
hours without emptying his bladder, though he never wet nor soiled himself.
Few psychiatrists would have required more than a casual examination to give
a diagnosis of hopeless deterioration, if they saw the patient only in the
latter stage of one of these attacks. Yet in from seven to fourteen days
after the first onset he would go to bed, sleep well, and in the morning
appear perfectly normal and resume his efficient work. And this story had
been repeated regularly once a month for four years! When normal his memory
was hazy for the external events occurring during his attack, corresponding
with his objective lack of contact with his environment, but the
recollections of his ideas showed that he had been living in a perfect riot
of fancies. The inference from this is inevitable that what we regard as a
"Trendless praecox" or a taciturn dement may simply be one who does not
choose to talk and not necessarily a vegetative wreck with neither delusions
nor hallucinations.

[3] For the privilege of using observations made on this patient at the
Sheppard and Enoch Pratt Hospital, we wish most heartily to thank the
Superintendent, Dr. Edward N. Brush.

His ideas were found to be no less interesting than his formal picture. In
fact, if the theory we are now advancing be correct and we had had it then,
we believe it would have been possible to state at the time of his first
attack that his psychosis would not show rapid deterioration; we might even
have gone further and predicted that he would reach some such stage of
relative sanity as he now enjoys. He has presented three types of ideas.
The first is crude expressions of bald sexual fancies; the second is
transitional in that--as many praecox patients do--he gave these ideas a
religious or philosophical setting, but in the hallucinations and delusions
embodying them, still retained his personal connection with the fancies. For
instance, he identified himself with Christ, or he suffered from
psychological influences exerted by others on him. These two types occurred
only during attacks. The third type represented the real constructive
tendency, during his "normal" intervals when he objectivized these ideas in
the form of speculations as to the origin of life, the laws of society,
religion, etc. The second type--the transitional--represented reciprocally
two tendencies: in the psychosis it showed his constructive, healing
capacity, while the development of such fancies, as allied himself directly
with his speculations when "normal," was invariably the signal for another
attack, the severity of which was in direct proportion to the crudity which
his formulations reached. The complexity and number of his theories when
going about his work was tremendous, which could be partially accounted for
by his omnivorous reading. He read all sorts of historical, occult,
scientific and philosophical works, the material of which he absorbed only
in so far as he could weave it into the fabric of his depraved speculations.
This colored his transitional ideas as well, for in each attack he would
have a new dramatization of his fancies determined by what he had just been
reading. To present these ideas with anything like completeness would take
hours. We must be content, therefore, with a few fragmentary examples.

The more important of his crude ideas were: His trouble was caused by loss
of semen (his attacks were always ushered in by emissions), to prevent which
he sometimes put rubber bands around his penis; numerous homosexual fancies,
he was a woman, he had a vagina, there was a maiden head in his forehead
which was operated on to cause him to lose semen; different people made
immoral proposals or had designs on his virginity. These people he all
identified directly or indirectly with his father. Finally there was an idea
that his mother's marriage with his father was not right, that he was not
his father's son, and that his father was inimical to him. He talked of
killing different persons whom at other times he identified plainly with his
father. During an attack he assaulted his father; not infrequently he would
take his father's picture from the wall and spit on it. The relations
between his father and mother were adulterous, he claimed.

If we now take the crude homosexual fancies and study their first
elaboration we find that he had many ideas about eunuchs. They worked on him
by psychological influence. The eunuchs, who could control sun and moon,
influenced him through them. Once he had a vision of the sun approaching him
with which he was physically connected; the vision would disappear if he
lost his virginity. These influences when referred to himself were agencies
causing loss of semen, so that he would become a eunuch himself. At the
time of his heart attack and later he thought there was a snake around his
heart. This was a man who had turned himself into a snake in order to
incorporate himself into the patient's body. His religious fancies
apparently began with his delusion that he was Christ and in connection with
this we find he had the theory that Christ was a virgin. One setting of his
"psychological influence" experience, when he was in bed in one room and
eunuchs were influencing from the next. he duplicated by saying he was
Jesus Christ in one room and God was in the next. He explained after one of
his attacks that his attention was fixed on the windowpane on which he spat
because there was a flower there. During an attack he was heard to say
something about the struggle of men against being raped by ions and flowers.
In these primitive elaborations we find an effort at distortion, a getting
away from the absolutely crude and that the added elements which cause this
distortion are in the form of ideas which imply a certain degree of
philosophizing. The truly constructive delusions appear when he has ceased
to dramatize these theories with himself as the hero and treats them
objectively. We then find that eunuchs are very important people in his
philosophy (the medium of their power we shall see shortly). All women are
eunuchs because they have no testicles. There is no difference between men
and women; if a woman is stronger than her husband, he takes on her
qualities. In India men suckle the children. He says that this is a
well-known fact. A person could change himself into a cancer and so get into
another's body. This is perhaps an echo of something he had read of
Ribbert's theory of neoplasms. Another pseudoscientific theory concerns a
method of reproduction which could be developed, he thought. If a
beautiful, strong man reaches his normal growth, all life above that is
moulded by his ideals. He can develop within himself another personality
which may be divorced from his body. Immaculate Conception takes place this
way. An argument he had in favor of this view was prenatal influence and the
strong influence a woman's belief is supposed to have on pregnancy. Eunuchs
control the sun and moon. The Jews have a secret process of eunuchry; they
have a way of inserting an instrument (a drawing of which he made, showing
distinctly phallic features) by psychological means into the glands or
bodies of men, thus cleaning them out. The eunuchs of the Romans used to
cure their fellow countrymen of snakes growing around the heart by
ingratiating themselves into persons, thus displacing the snakes and killing
them. The government has many eunuchs in their employ. The influences of
these men are malign or beneficial. They can injure enemies of the
government or the government can incorporate them into bodies of other men
to save the latter. All cardinals, most diplomats and many missionaries are
eunuchs. The psychological influence exerted by such individuals may cause a
loss of blood to their victims or they may use this power beneficially. The
Romans, for instance, put blood of crucified people into the hands of
eunuchs, who impregnated it by psychological influence into others. This
would save their lives and eventually save the nation.

The ideas we have mentioned showing rivalry with his father, apparently in
relation to his mother, were largely elaborated in political and religious
disguises in their transition states, which in turn led to an objective
interest in politics and religions. He spoke of killing the President which
may be taken as a disguise for killing his father since he often claimed
that his father was this or that ruler. He also spoke of killing one of his
employers. He was prone to speak of his father as Edward VII. His envy of
this situation of authority was shown when he once told the physician that
his face was suspended in the face of the physician who was a King of
England. But not the real King, he added, Edward VII was the real King.
Again he said that he was Robert Emmet and the physician was Lord Norbury,
the judge who convicted Robert Emmet, after whom the patient was named. In
that role the physician told him it was all up, that there was no more Irish
race. (It must be remembered that his father was a Fenian.) A fruitful
source of speculations about international politics was found in the
transitional ideas he expressed about the extraction of his parents.
Beginning with his cogitations about the friction which actually existed
between his parents, he ascribed this to their differing nationalities and
religions. This led in turn to his fancying that on both sides his blood
was drawn from many sources. He was particularly fond, for instance, of
identifying his father with Hebrews, or Chinese; his mother with Romans,
Italians or Spaniards. His original interest in the union (or disharmony)
of his parents was easily transferred to this international setting and most
of his attacks were heralded by dramatizations of political ar international
situations with which he was intimately connected. This was true of his
first attack when he had an idea that he was to succeed Secretary Hay and
make peace between Russia and Japan (his mother and father). On recovery
these fancies were objectivized into a most intense interest in diplomacy.
He knew the history and achievement of every diplomatist in Europe, though
of course his data were always being distorted to fit with his insane
theories. Intermarriage, for example, was the cause of political trouble.
He developed the ideas as follows: When an Irishman marries one of another
race a confusion of races results; this was what took place in the tower of
Babel; this is what causes disunion between states. He elaborated, too, on
popular associations of certain customs with certain peoples. Gypsies, it is
popularly supposed, frequently abduct children. With the patient this became
an elaborate theory about an Egyptian custom or Egyptian influence. The
Egyptians, he said abducted children and brought them up as their own
acquiring a sinister influence over them because of the belief the children
had that these adults who were their guardians were their real parents. In
one attack he spoke of his father as "An Egyptian influence." This is
plainly the same idea as he put into another form when he remarked that he
would be all right if he could become English. When in his free intervals,
he made it a practice sedulously to cultivate English people.

This undercurrent of rivalry with the father came out in a religious
disguise as well. His first attack when he was for many months interned he
described as a religious mania. By means of identifying himself with Christ
he dramatized both his subjugation and defiance. He went through many
crucifixion experiences; said he was commanded by God. On the other hand he
said Christ was a virgin and retained his virginity in order that he might
discover the secrets of the elders. For this reason he was crucified. The
crudest expression he gave of defiance in a religious form was when he said
"I was two persons in one--God and Jesus Christ. God was damned." The more
constructive tendency was shown by his fasting. This was due to an
experience of some duration when he was translated back to the first
century, was in a convent (sic!) and was tempted by the devil to eat. His
fasting, he claimed, saved the other patients. His most constructive
delusion was that all the churches would come together and then there would
be only one church. During his first attack this was his "prophecy," during
his saner intervals there were endless ramifications of this idea which are
too tedious to recite. It is important to note as evidence of the purely
psychotic character of his ideas that he has never been either religious in
his spirit or in action a propagandist.

Perhaps the most luxurious fancies this patient evolved were around the
theme of semen. We have seen that his emissions were his constant worry, an
increase in their frequency heralded an attack and he was convinced that if
he could but retain this secretion he would be permanently cured; nay more,
if he could retain enough he would grow to be like the giants of old.
Whenever he had an emission he felt on waking a pain in his head and could
never get totally rid of the idea that this was cancer. In his attacks the
cancer was the result of a homosexual assault and in his intervals he
elaborated theories as to the origin of cancer; it came from friction,
therefore coitus could produce it, it might be the result of adultery or
cancer of the breast could come from a man rubbing his penis on the breasts
of a woman; the cancer germs might come from semen if one believed in cancer
and in germs. Life both as vital force and in the biological sense he
identified with semen. Psychic activities too had the same origin which he
explained thus: food taken into the mouth goes into the stomach and becomes
chyle, chyle passes to the scrotum, thence to the spine and brain. Brain
power is in direct proportion to the amount of semen retained. We see now
why eunuchs had such power according to his philosophy. By childish
reasoning, since they could not have emissions, their semen must be
retained. He spoke of psychological influence in these terms: "It is the
transformation from the moisture state of the life principle to the moist
electric state of warmth and its transference from the central ducts and
glands to the head and being thrown out of the head in waves from the top of
the head and eyes. It redounds to the other person's good. Have an eunuch
near you--it tends to make semen go to the head and gives the mental mouth
something to think of. It could be used in a baleful way if one had will
power over another person like hypnotism--(Svengali and Trilby)--In
hypnotism the will goes on the same lines as psychological influence." The
Jews, he said, lay around temples so much that their life had to go into
sensuality or wisdom and it mostly went into wisdom. Continual seminal
losses, he claimed, would lead to a change in personality. "Life," he said,
permeated nature, it could not be lost. Wind was thus identified with it:
"life" goes on a sheet (from an emission), the sheet is washed and the
"life" passes to the water, then is taken up by the air and breathed. Thus
he suffered both immediate and remote effects from emissions. The first
result was to make him incapable of work; by breathing in the "life" later
on he became a degenerate. Wind or the spiral movements of air was another
origin of life. Wind is a spirit, in defence of which he quoted the Greek
pneuma. The words wind and word are the same, the former being derived from
the latter through wird. (Cf. "In the beginning was the word," or "The word
was made flesh"). A cyclone is an effort hampered by civilization of what
the world was originally. Life began as a spiral movement of air. Wind as
the origin of life could be duplicated by mechanical methods or eunuchry.
The sun he claimed was an accident. Men lived for centuries without it,
till an accident, internally, led to vital forces being emanated and that
was the origin of sun. The accident was the cutting of some man's testicles.

Now what was his further course? We have seen that in his attacks he
expressed resentment against his father's domination. At the beginning of
one of them, for instance, which he said was brought on by "Egyptian
influence," he had a dream of an old Hebrew play of father and son. In this
play they were trying to make him return to the old situation of bondage to
his father. This bondage was an actuality. Owing to his monthly attacks he
could hold no regular position and so worked for his father. The latter gave
him no money except occasional small silver but bought for him clothes or
anything else he might need. A psychotic man of nearly thirty, with a
feminine character, he was hopelessly dependent on his father. It is small
wonder that he sought relief in recurring psychotic episodes. But a change
came. On May 12, 1911, his father died suddenly of heart trouble. The
patient was beginning to go into an attack at the time but pulled himself
together, managed the funeral three days later, got his sister home, who had
a hysterical attack at the grave, and then proceeded to indulge in his
postponed attack. The sister was unable to care for him so he was sent again
to the Sheppard and Enoch Pratt Hospital. In a few days he recovered. He
was then talked to, told that this baleful relationship was over and that
there was no longer any reason for his having attacks. With the exception of
one attack at the beginning of 1912 he has had none, and seems to be able to
maintain the mental equilibrium that previously characterized his intervals.
For two and a half years he has been employed in the Customs House,
Baltimore, a position which he secured by competitive examination, and has
received an advance in salary from $900 to $1200 a year. He was recently
written to and replied in exceptional literary form detailing more of his
ideas. They seem to be essentially similar to those held four years ago.
One may be quoted. A favorite "scientific" method with him has always been
(from boyhood, he said) to divide up or distort words so as to get at their
true meaning. This is now his explanation of the word "cancer."

"You may remember the origin of the word 'cancer' was once the topic of our
meeting and strangely this matter has kept revolving itself in my mind ever
since. My new solution is 'Kahns' and 'Ur.' You know there are a good many
people named 'Kahn' and as probably you have noted in the Bible allusion to
the ancient race of the name 'Ur.' Now, you can place what construction you
will on the combination. There are several; here is one: I have heard it
stated that the word 'Ur' originally meant 'wife' hence, from our point of
view the solution is easy, Kahn's Ur or Kahn's wife, but what has puzzled me
is what she is doing in so many people.

"Here's another: Signifying the overcoming of the Jew by Ur or Kahn by Ur
(Kahn by 'er) much on the same principle as the words 'Spanish-American' and
'Graeco-Roman' are used with reference to the late 'unpleasantness' and the
ancient one.

"Here's another: Simply meaning that Kahn is not a Jew at all but simply an

"So you see I have not altogether forgotten some of the topics of our

If our claims be allowed we should be able to make some deductions of value
to psychiatric theory. The first is an explanation of scattering of
thought. We find that, in all our cases showing constructive delusions, the
utterance of these highly elaborated fancies is not accompanied by
scattering. On the other hand it is an every day experience that a dementia
praecox patient may show no scattering when conversing on indifferent
subjects but that his train of thought loses logical sequence when he
launches into his ideas. These findings may be reconciled by studying the
reaction with types of ideas such as the last patient showed. In his
intervals he was (and is) continually busy with delusional thoughts but of a
constructive character, but was never scattered as long as these were alone
present. As soon, however, as an attack commenced and cruder ideas appeared
he became scattered. Where were these crude ideas in the intervals? They
were represented in his constructive delusions it is true, but in their
native form they did not appear. The cruder fancies must therefore have
been in the unconscious during his intervals. Now actual verbatim records
show with him that these crude ideas did not come to expression in logical
sequence but that each appeared in response to an idea previously in his
consciousness which was a distorted formulation of the crude fancy next to
appear. His utterances during these attacks would have a logical sequence if
they were translated into terms of the underlying crude ideas. The
scattering, therefore, was due to the fact that his utterances were a
mixture of crude and elaborated fancies. Had they been entirely one or the
other there would have been no scattering. During his intervals he dealt
with objective fancies and was logical. As these fancies, however, could be
easily demonstrated to be derived from the unconscious crude ones, which
appeared during his attacks, we are safe in assuming that one factor at
least in the production of an attack was the lifting of some inhibition
which kept the cruder ideas from entering consciousness except in a form in
which they could be objectively viewed and so logically arranged. Scattering
of thought therefore arises from the intermittent action of this censor or
from an incomplete abolition of the inhibition allowing varying formulations
of the crude ideas to gain expression which have no logic surface
connection. If entirely done away with, of course, the latent ideas
appearing in perfect crudity would have a logical connection. The content
of consciousness is what is within the sphere of introspection. We can
therefore say that the praecox who is scattered really does not know his own
ideas. This is, of course, an every day experience for those who examine
such patients. A suitable case left to himself will give expression to a
limited number of delusions which he does not correlate. A few suggestive
questions, however, will educe a mass of delusions, which when pieced
together demonstrate the logical unconscious ideas that give rise to them.
If such a patient be asked "What are your ideas?" he can give no reply. Ask
him, however, if any one is mistreating him and you will start a train of
thought in which one fancied insult leads to another or to delusions which
do not represent mistreatment at all. On the other hand approach a patient
with constructive delusions with the same question as to his ideas and he
will produce a theory of the universe, often with a chronological account of
how these ideas developed. He is insane in that his fancies do not reach an
outlet in action being an end in themselves; but he is sane in so far as he
keeps his ideas within the range of introspection and has not allowed them
to become autonomous. The inferences from this to the laws of normal
association are obvious.

The second point is really a historical one. Psychiatrists are often asked,
"Was Joan of Arc crazy?" "Was Saint Louis a dementia praecox?"  In an
endeavor to answer such questions wise books have been written detailing the
"psychoses" of historic or religious leaders. There is probably not a single
delusion expressed by any one of the patients whose cases have just been
recited that is not duplicated or paralleled by the belief of savants of a
few centuries ago or the uneducated of to-day. The last patient said "All
nature is artificial, man made it all. All the world would disappear, if man
lost the power of reproducing. The reproduction of nature by man is founded
on faith--constant reiteration and association with a thing will produce
that thing." Is this not analogous to the working hypothesis of the
alchemists? The more sincere among them sought salvation for their souls. To
gain this they worked with metals to which they ascribed abstract or moral
qualities. Their metallurgy was primarily symbolic, yet they seriously
hoped for results by working with symbols. And to what extent of absurdity
and crudity did they go? Many of their metallurgic terms were sexual
processes. Their "prima materia" was called by the name of many of the
secretions or excretions of the body. A whole school--the
Seminalists--adhered to the view that the great original substance was
semen. Other thought it was hermaphroditic. Paraceleus spoke of the birth
of monsters as a result of sodomy. A natural history[4] written three
centuries ago tells of semen being carried by wind. Notoriously there was
no limit either to the absurdity or crudity of these conceptions. Were these
men--the wisest of their time--insane? Here again we may quote the last
patient--"Insanity," he says, "is the elemental human mind left to itself,
unimproved by other minds." The last is the important phrase. What minds
were there to improve those of the alchemists? What critic was there to
tell Joan of Arc that visions and voices were pathological? That was the
regulation form of inspiration in her day. Comparative mythology like a
comparison of mysticism, alchemy, rosicrucianism and masonry shows that the
human mind left to itself will formulate similar ideas. These ideas,
however, are modified by the advance of learning as time goes on. The
individual whose critical faculty allows him to maintain an idea
incompatible with the knowledge of his age and his fellows is insane.

[4] The Historie of Foure-Footed Beastes, by Edward Topsell, London, 1607.

Our last point is a corollary to the claim we have just made. It has been
the sport of iconoclasts for many years to discount all religious beliefs as
psychopathic. This is not the forum where the problem of science versus
religion may be discussed but these cases have certain features which should
warn us to be wary of such generalizations. We have seen that religious
formulations have been used to embody crude fancies. That does not preclude
the possibility of the formulations having an actual basis. A flag may gain
its importance to a given individual because it symbolizes for him his
native land but that does not prove that the flag has not an existence of
itself. This, however, is a matter of logic and not of psychiatry. Let us
now grant that all religious formulations have an unconscious origin. But
there still remains a wide gulf between patients such as we have been
describing and the devout church-goers. The former show in their productions
how their religious ideas arise, their egocentric quality is patent, they
manifestly are but thin cloaks for selfish wishes. The latter, however,
never in consciousness connect their religious formulations with their
subjective creations. To the true believer his God is as objective a
reality as is the electron of the physicist. Finally, real religious faith
has a pragmatic value. Granting it be only a theory it nevertheless produces
results in conduct. This is in sharpest contrast to religious delusions.
They never lead to sustained effort, they bring with them no social
potentiality. They exist for the comfort of the patient alone.

To sum up: We have endeavored to establish the claim that delusions in
dementia praecox which takes the form of objective speculations rather than
subjective experiences are an evidence of a milder psychotic reaction and
hence warrant a prognosis of chronicity rather than deterioration. From the
cases presented we argue that scattering of thought arises from a failure to
formulate underlying fancies in an objective way; that the insanity of ideas
depends not on themselves but on the critical judgment of the age which
produces them, and lastly that there are essential psychological differences
between creeds and religious delusions.



Assistant Resident Alienist, Psychopathic Department of Bellevue Hospital of
New York

(Read before the Vidonian Club, New York, October 16, 1914.)

"CONSCIOUSNESS had reached this point in Greece, when in Athens, the great
forum of Socrates, in whom subjectivity of thought was brought to
consciousness in a more definite and more thorough manner, now appeared.
But Socrates did not grow like a mushroom out of the earth, for he extends
in continuity with his time, and this is not only a most important figure in
the history of philosophy--but perhaps also a world famed personage."

"When Columbus set sail across the untraversed western sea, his purpose was
to reach by a new path, a portion of the old, known world, and he lived and
died in the belief that he had done so. He never knew that he had
discovered a new world. So it was with Socrates. When he launched his
spiritual bark upon the pathless ocean of reflected thought, his object was
to discover a new way to the old world of little commonwealths and narrow
interests, and he probably died thinking he had succeeded. He did not dream
that he had discovered a new world--the world of humanity and universal
interests. But so it was; and tho mankind are still very far from having
made themselves at home in that world, and from having availed themselves of
its boundless spiritual treasures, it can never be withdrawn from their
sight, or, the conquest of it cease to be the object of their highest
aspirations."  Thomas Davidson.


The Hellenic influence upon the intellectual development of the world is
infinite. The intellectual force emanating from the sources of Greek art,
literature and philosophy permeated thru the ages and have helped to shape
the destiny of our civilization. "Except the blind forces of Nature," says
Sir Henry Sumner Maine, "nothing moves in this world which is not Greek in
its origin." [1.] Without a shadow of doubt, Greek Philosophy forms the firm
background of progressive and reflective thought in all its phases and

In the history and evolution of Hellenic thought, we find two tendencies of
inquiry,--one dealing with the objective manifestations of the universe, and
the other directed towards the study of the mind. To the former class
belong Thales, Anaximander, Anaximenes, Pythagoras, and others that
attempted to discover some principle for the explanation of the natural
phenomena. To accomplish this end, mathematics, physics, metaphysics, etc.,
were resorted to. The other great epoch, which may be termed the
Renaissance of Greek Philosophy, was conceived by the Supreme Greek thinker,
Socrates, who forms the subject thesis of this paper.

Socrates was the father of psychology and the grandfather of modern
psychopathology. He was the first one that attempted to study man from the
point of view of subjectivity. In the words of Snyder, "In Socrates, the
human mind burst forth into knowing itself as thinking."[2.] And Zeller very
thoughtfully remarks: "The interests of philosophy being thus turned away
from the outer world and directed towards man and his moral nature, and man
only regarding things as true and binding of the truth of which he was
convinced himself by intellectual research, there appears necessarily in
Socrates a deeper importance attached to the personality of the
thinker."[3.] In Phaedrus, Socrates speaks: "I am a lover of knowledge, and
in the cities I can learn from men; but the fields can teach me
nothing."[4.] Although Aristophanes pictures Socrates in the clouds as
preaching natural philosophy, yet there is no authentic record of this.

The source of information regarding the biography of Socrates and his
philosophy comes from two authors, Xenophon and Plato. The former portrays
him as a moral philosopher and in his book, Memorabilia, he seems to
eulogize his master. The latter however presents him as a thinker, and it
is maintained by many critics that Plato put into the mouth of Socrates his
own ideas. It is lamentable that this great philosopher committed nothing
of his monumental work in writing.


It is difficult to construct a biographic sketch of Socrates in a
chronological and systematic order. He was born in the year 469 B. C. His
father was Sophroniscus, a sculptor, and his mother Phaenarete, a midwife.
He followed his father's vocation and it is believed that he showed poor
skill in the profession. We know nothing of his early intellectual and moral
development. Since he was bred in Athens, he most probably received the
usual education peculiar to that age. He was a soldier and took part in
military campaigns and wars. It is maintained that in military life he
displayed considerable bravery, endurance and fortitude. The exact date of
his appearance in public arena is difficult to ascertain, however, "in the
traditions of his followers he is almost uniformly represented as an old, or
as a gray-headed man."[5.]

There are distinctive traits in the personality of Socrates that are worthy
of emphasis because of their dynamic import.

He was described as eccentric in his general mode of conduct. He "strutted
proudly barefoot along the streets of Athens; he was careless and shabby in
his dress; in his manner he was affected and haughty and was subject to
ecstatic trances and visions. During these trances he would maintain a
standing posture for hours, buried in his thoughts, and was quite oblivious
to the external world. There was a celebrated occasion in the camp at
Poteidaice, when Socrates was not quite forty; on that occasion he stood
motionless from early morning on one day till sunrise on the next, right
through a night when there was a very hard frost. When the sun rose he said
his prayer and went about his business." [6.] It is also claimed that he
would give vent to bursts of anger and fiery passion.

Ever since early boyhood Socrates is supposed to have heard an inner voice,
which he called a divine sign. It came to him quite often both on important
and on insignificant occasions. According to Xenophon, this voice gave him
both negative and positive warnings; however, Plato holds that this voice
only exercised its influence in opposing the execution of certain things.
"And not only was he generally convinced" says Zeller, "that he stood and
acted in the service of God, but he also held that supernatural suggestions
were communicated to him, not only through the medium of public oracles, but
also in dreams, and more particularly by a peculiar kind of higher
inspiration which goes by the name of the Socratic daimoviov."[7.]

Even by his contemporaries he was regarded as singular and eccentric and his
general behavior was ever foreign to his compatriots. Indeed Lelut [(8)]
boldly asserts that Socrates was "un fou." Nevertheless "attempts were not
wanting to excuse him," so writes Zeller, "either on the ground of the
universal superstition of his age and nation, or else of his having a
physical tendency to fanaticism."[9.]

Another interesting feature in the life of Socrates is that he married late
and that his matrimonial life was far from being happy, and in the words of
Schwegler, "He nowhere shows much regard for his wife and children; the
notorious, though altogether too much exaggerated ill-nature of Xantippe,
leads us to suspect, however, that his domestic relations were not the most
happy."[10.] It is also important to note that there was a turning point in
the history of his life when he took up the preaching of philosophy. It must
be borne in mind that he took no money for his teaching and at the same time
he left his wife and children destitute. In regard to this Draper remarks,
"There is surely something wrong in a man's life when the mother of his
children is protesting against his conduct, and her complaints are
countenanced by the community."[11.]

It is also significant that Socrates displayed a certain degree of
masochism; our historians tell us that Socrates would deny himself bodily
comforts and insist on enduring hardship. Xenophon in Memorabilia says:
"But they knew that Socrates lived with the utmost contentment on very small
means, that he was most abstinent from every kind of pleasure, and that he
swayed those with whom he conversed just as he pleased by his
arguments."[12.] Again, "Is it not the duty of every man to consider that
temperance is the foundation of every virtue, and to establish the
observance of it in his mind before all things? For who, without it, can
either learn anything good or sufficiently practice it? Who, that is a
slave to pleasure is not in an ill condition both as to his body and his
mind? It appears to me, by Juno, that a free man ought to pray that he may
never meet with a slave of such a character, and that he who is a slave to
pleasure should pray to the gods that he may find well-disposed masters; for
by such means only can a man of that sort be saved."[13.] And, "He appeared
also to me, by such discourses as the following, to exhort his hearers to
practice temperance in their desires for food, drink, sensual gratification,
and sleep, and endurance of cold, heat and labor."[14.]

Although he condemned poederastia, yet he was always fond of the male sex,
particularly of the young. This, however, may be explained on the ground
that his object was to appeal to the young. Nevertheless, dynamic psychology
demands a deeper meaning for such a motive. In this connection it would be
interesting to quote Xenophon: "As to love, his counsel was to abstain
rigidly from familiarity with beautiful persons; for he observed that it was
not easy to be in communication with such persons, and observe continence.
Hearing, on one occasion, that Critobulus, the son of Criton, had kissed the
son of Alcibiades, a handsome youth, he asked Xenophon, in the presence of
Critobulus, saying, "Tell me, Xenophon, did you not think that Critobulus
was one of the modest rather than the forward, one of the thoughtful rather
than of the thoughtless and inconsiderate?" Certainly," replied Xenophon.
"You must now, then, think him extremely headstrong and daring; one who
would even spring upon drawn swords, and leap into the fire."  "And what,"
said Xenophon, "have you seen him doing, that you form this opinion of him?"
"Why, has he not dared," rejoined Socrates, "to kiss the son of Alcibiades,
a youth extremely handsome, and in the flower of his age?" "If such a deed,"
returned Xenophon, "is one of daring and peril, I think that even I could
undergo such peril."  "Unhappy man!" exclaimed Socrates, "and what do you
think that you incur by kissing a handsome person? Do you not expect to
become at once a slave instead of a freeman? To spend much money upon
hurtful pleasures? To have too much occupation to attend to anything
honourable and profitable? And to be compelled to pursue what not even a mad
man would pursue?" "By Hercules," said Xenophon, "what extraordinary power
you represent to be in a kiss!"  "Do you wonder at this?" rejoined Socrates;
"are you not aware that the Tarantula, an insect not as large as half an
obolus, by just touching a part of the body with its mouth, wears men down
with pain, and deprives them of their senses?"  "Yes, indeed," said
Xenophon, "but the Tarantula infuses something when it bites." "And do you
not think, foolish man," rejoined Socrates, "that beautiful persons infuses
something when they kiss, something which you do not see? Do you not know
that the animal, which they call a handsome and beautiful object, is so much
more formidable than the Tarantula, as those insects instil something when
they touch, but this creature, without even touching, but if a person only
looks at it, though from a very great distance, instils something of such
potency, as to drive people mad? Perhaps indeed Cupids are called archers
for no other reason but because the beautiful wound from a distance. But I
advise you, Xenophon, whenever you see any handsome person, to flee without
looking behind you; and I recommend to you, Critobulus, to absent yourself
from hence for a year, for perhaps you may in that time, though hardly
indeed, be cured of your wound." Thus he thought that those should act with
regard to objects of love who were not secure against the attractions of
such objects; objects of such a nature, that if the body did not at all
desire them, the mind would not contemplate them, and which, if the body did
desire them, should cause us no trouble. For himself, he was evidently so
disciplined with respect to such matters, that he could more easily keep
aloof from the fairest and most blooming objects than others from the most
deformed and unattractive. Such was the state of his feelings in regard to
eating, drinking, and amorous gratification; and he believed that he
himself, with self-restraint, would have no less pleasure from them, than
those who took great trouble to pursue such gratifications, and that he
would suffer far less anxiety."[15.]

There is another interesting anecdote which is worthy of mention: "The
Syrian soothsayer and physiognomist, Zopyrus, saw in the countenance of
Socrates the imprint of strong sensuality. Loud protests were raised by the
assembled disciples, but Socrates silenced them with the remark: 'Zopyrus is
not mistaken; however, I have conquered those desires.' "[16.]

It is also evident that Socrates' mother must have played some role in his
mental life. It should be recalled that at first he followed his father's
profession, which seemingly made no impression upon him, and later he took
up his new vocation, preaching philosophy, which he loved to identify with
that of his mother, and indeed by reason of this the positive side of the
Socratic method is known as "the art of intellectual midwifery."  "Socrates
compared himself," writes Schwegler, "with his mother, Phaenarete, a
midwife, because his office was rather to help others bring forth thoughts
than to produce them himself, and because he took upon himself to
distinguish the birth of an empty thought from one rich in content."[17.]

Further evidence of the deep reverence for his mother is seen in Memorabilia
where his eldest son, Lamprocles, finds fault with his mother, and Socrates,
though apparently entertaining very little love for his wife, yet takes up a
defensive attitude towards her and offers the following argument to his son:
"Yet you are displeased at your mother, although you well know that whatever
she says, she not only says nothing with intent to do you harm, but that she
wishes you more good than any other human being. Or do you suppose that your
mother meditates evil towards you?" "No indeed," said Lamprocles, "that I do
not imagine." "Do you then say that this mother," rejoined Socrates, "who is
so benevolent to you; who, when you are ill, takes care of you to the utmost
of her power that you may recover your health, and that you may want nothing
that is necessary for you, and who, besides, entreats the gods for many
blessings on your head, and pays vows for you, is a harsh mother? For my
part, I think that if you cannot endure such a mother, you cannot endure
anything that is good."  [18.]

And in Crito, Socrates relates a dream shortly before his death, in which
his mother appeared, and to quote Plato: "Crito says, 'And what can this
dream have been?'  Socrates replied, 'I thought a woman came to me, tall and
fair, and clothed in white, and she called me and said 'Socrates, Socrates,
in three days' time you will come to the fertile land, Phthia.' "[19.]

To sum up briefly, the personality of Socrates showed some psychopathic
traits. It must also be borne in mind that in that critical period, middle
age, a sudden change occurred in his mental life when he suddenly commenced
to exhibit profound interest in preaching philosophy. Moreover, it must be
emphasized that he apparently reacted to hallucinations of an auto psychic
nature. The self-asceticism, and most probably the mother-complex cannot be
passed without mention. Although he presented these negative qualities,
nevertheless he left a great school of philosophy, which beyond doubt is
still felt in the intellectual and moral world. Despite this, Athens
committed an unpardonable crime in putting Socrates to death. He, like
other martyrs, shared the same fate of the mob. Lowell's verse very justly
applies to Socrates:

"Truth forever on the scaffold;  Wrong forever on the throne."[20.]

With this characterization of Socrates, we are now in a position to discuss
that part of his philosophy which has a definite bearing on modern
psychopathology. Three important phases of his philosophy come under

1. The dialectic method;  2. The conception of virtue;  3. Know thyself.


In Socratic philosophy the Dialectic Method occupies a lofty position. By
this method he was enabled to penetrate deeply into human nature and unfold
all phases of man's experience. Aristotle characterizes this method as the
induction of reasoning and the definition of general concepts. Gomperz,
speaking of the great zeal that Socrates exhibited in this method, says, "to
him (Socrates), a life without cross-examination, that is, without dialogues
in which the intellect is exercised in the pursuit of truth, is for him not
worth living."[21.] And Schwegler pertinently asserts "that through this art
of midwifery the philosopher, by his assiduous questioning, by his
interrogatory dissection of the notions of him with whom he might be
conversing, knew how to elicit from him a thought of which he had been
previously unconscious, and how to help him to the birth of a new

Briefly stated, the Dialectic Method is divided into two parts, the negative
and the positive. The former is known as the Socratic Irony. By this
method the philosopher takes the position that he is ignorant and endeavors
to show by a process of reasoning that the subject under discussion is in a
state of confusion and proves to the interlocutor that his supposed
knowledge is a source of inconsistencies and contradictions.

On the other hand, the positive side of the method, "the so-called
obstetrics or art of intellectual midwifery"[23] leads to definite
deductions. To illustrate the two phases of this method, the following
example may be taken. A youth of immature self-confidence believed himself
to be competent to manage the affairs of state. Socrates would then analyze
the general concept of the statecraft, and reduce it to its component parts,
and by continuous questions and answers would show to this supposed
statesman that he was lacking true knowledge. Again, a young man of mature
judgment, but of an exceedingly modest temperament, being reluctant to take
part in the debates of the Assembly, Socrates would prove to him that he was
fully competent to undertake such a task.

In a word, the Socratic method presents two striking tendencies; one
destructive, the other constructive; the former annihilates erroneous
conceptions, and the latter aids the building up of a healthy mental world,
in which men may find pleasure. In a broad sense, the dialectic method bears
some resemblance to the psychoanalytic, inasmuch as both seek to analyze
human nature in the light of individual experience; to find the ultimate and
predominating truth underlying such an experience; both attempt to make the
individual realize the extent of his limitations and capacity of adjustment
by subordinating the antagonistic forces and at the same time aiding the
construction of a world of healthy concepts.

Before attempting to discuss the Socratic Conception of Virtue, it is
important to call attention to two facts;

1st, The principles of mental life, and

2nd, The Greek conception of the state.

Roughly speaking, mental life is composed of two parts; the unconscious, or
instinctive, and the conscious. In the early development of the child,
mental adjustment is purely instinctive or unconscious. As the child grows
older, the unconscious life becomes gradually subordinated to the
conventional and cultural requirements. The influence of education,
religion, morality and environment begin to exert their influence upon the
child and the conscious life commences gradually to assert itself. The
characteristic difference between a very young child and the conventional
adult, lies in the fact that the former's behavior is not controlled by
conventionalities or tenets, whereas the latter conforms with all the rules
and customs of society.

The Greeks entertained a very high idea of the function of the state. It was
invested with a high moral value and pedagogic aim. In fact, Plato's
republic demonstrates this very well. An important point must be emphasized,
that the state exercised a potent influence upon the development of the
conscious life of the individual.

Now we can understand the Socratic Conception of Virtue in relation to the
conscious and unconscious life. What Socrates maintained was that true
virtue must depend upon knowledge; hence knowledge is the strongest power of
man and cannot be controlled by passion. In short, knowledge is the root of
moral action, and, on the other hand, lack of knowledge is the cause of
vice. In other words, no man can voluntarily pursue evil, and to prefer evil
to good would be foreign to human nature. Hence, in the Socratic sense, in
the unconscious lies the root of antisocial deeds, and, as Forbes puts it:
"Socratic view of sin, in fact, keeps it in a region subliminal to
knowledge. The sinner is never more really than an instinctive man, an
undeveloped, irrational creature; strictly speaking, not a man at all."[24.]

Since Socrates identified virtue with knowledge, and made knowledge a
conscious factor in mental life, it is evident that education, environment,
religion and conventionality are the determining factors in the cultivation
of the conscious. "What may be called institutional virtue," writes Snyder,
"is for Socrates the fundamental and all-inclusive Virtue, the ground of the
other Virtues. He believes in the State, obeys the Laws, performs his
duties as a citizen. This does not hinder him from seeing defects in the
existent state and its Laws, and trying to remedy them. Indeed, his whole
scheme of training in Virtue is to produce a man who can make good Laws, and
so establish a good State. 'What is Piety?' he asks, not a blind worship of
the gods, but worship of them according to their laws and customs, which one
must know. That is, one must know the law of the thing, the time of mere
instinctive action and obedience is past."  [25.] And Zeller expresses
himself in a similar manner: "Of the importance of the state and the
obligations towards the same, a very high notion indeed is entertained by
Socrates:--He who would live amongst men, he said, must live in a state, be
a ruler or be ruled. He requires, therefore, the most unconditional
obedience to the laws, to such an extent that the conception of justice is
reduced to that of obedience to law, but he desires every competent man to
take part in the administration of the state, the well-being of all
individuals depending on the well-being of the community. These principles
were really carried into practice by him throughout his life. With devoted
self-sacrifice his duties as a citizen were fulfilled, even death being
endured in order that he might not violate the laws. Even his philanthropic
labors were regarded as the fulfillment of a duty to the state; and in
Xenophon's Memorabilia we see him using every opportunity of impressing able
people for political services, of deterring the incompetent, of awakening
officials to their sense of their duties, and of giving them help in the
administration of their offices. He himself expresses the political
character of these efforts most tellingly, by including all virtues under
the conception of the ruling art."[26.]

To recapitulate briefly; the Socratic conception of the unconscious conforms
in many respects with our present knowledge of it, especially insofar as our
psychoanalytic experience shows us conclusively what a potent factor is
exercised by the unconscious in the determination of psychotic and neurotic
phenomena. Indeed in the Socratic sense such manifestations are anti-social
and cannot be identified with virtue, hence they are not conscious. One may
say that Socrates unconsciously conceived the modern idea of the dynamics of
the unconscious.


The great Socratic Maxim, "Know Thyself," is one of the strongest moral
precepts in Ethics. Although the sophists had already called attention to
the fact that "man is the measure of all things," however they applied to
the individual and not to human nature in general. "But Socrates proclaimed
that this self-knowing Ego knows itself likewise as object, as the principle
of the world, in which man is to find himself in order to know it."[27.]

To know one's self implies calmness of self-possession, fearlessness and
independence. Furthermore it leads one to a striking realization of one's
limitations and shortcomings, which form the foundations of success, and, as
Forbes expresses it, "in this self-knowledge is the secret of blessing and
success in the handling of human affairs, and right relationship with

Socrates, discussing his maxim with Euthydemus, gives a clear and
comprehensive idea of this interesting subject: "Socrates then said: 'Tell
me, Euthydemus, have you ever gone to Delphi?'  'Yes, twice,' replied he.
'And did you observe what is written somewhere on the temple wall, Know
Thyself?'  'I did.'  'And did you take no thought of that inscription, or
did you attend to it, and try to examine yourself to ascertain what sort of
a character you are?' 'I did not indeed try, for I thought that I knew very
well already, since I should hardly know anything else if I did not know
myself.' 'But whether does he seem to you to know himself, who knows his own
name merely, or he who (like people buying horses, who do not think that
they know the horse that they want to know, until they have ascertained
whether he is tractable or unruly, whether he is strong or weak, swift or
slow, and how he is as to other points which are serviceable or
disadvantageous in the use of a horse so he), having ascertained with regard
to himself how he is adapted for the service of mankind, knows his own
abilities?' 'It appears to me, I must confess, that he who does not know his
own abilities, does not know himself.'

" 'But is it not evident,' said Socrates, 'that men enjoy a great number of
blessings in consequence of knowing themselves, and incur a great number of
evils, through being deceived in themselves? For they who know themselves
know what is suitable for them, and distinguish between what they can do and
what they cannot; and, by doing what they know how to do, procure for
themselves what they need, and are prosperous, and by abstaining from what
they do not know, live blamelessly, and avoid being unfortunate. By this
knowledge of themselves too, they can form an opinion of other men, and, by
their experiences of the rest of mankind, obtain for themselves what is
good, and guard against what is evil.'

"But they who do not know themselves, but are deceived in their own powers,
are in similar case with regard to other men, and other human affairs, and
neither understand what they require, nor what they are doing, nor the
character of those with whom they connect themselves, but, being in error as
to all these particulars, they fail to obtain what is good, and fall into

"They, on the other hand who understand what they take in hand, succeed in
what they attempt, and become esteemed and honoured; those who resemble them
in character willingly form connections with them; those who are
unsuccessful in their affairs desire to be assisted with their advice, and
to prefer them to themselves; they place in them their hopes of good and
love them, on all these accounts, beyond all other men.

"But those, again, who do not know what they are doing, who make an unhappy
choice in life, and are unsuccessful in what they attempt, not only incur
losses and sufferings in their own affairs, but become in consequence,
disreputable and ridiculous, and drag out their lives in contempt and
dishonour. Among states, too, you see that such as, from ignorance of their
own strength, go to war with others that are more powerful, are, some of
them, utterly overthrown, and others reduced from freedom to slavery."[29.]

What Socrates attempts to show, is that self-knowledge is conducive to human
happiness. Indeed, sanity in a broad sense, depends upon insight into one's
true knowledge of his limitation and capacity for adaptation. However,
Socrates holds that madness is not ignorance, but admits that for "A man to
be ignorant of himself, and to fancy and believe that he knew what he did
not know, he considered to be something closely bordering on madness. The
multitude, he observed, do not say that those are mad who make mistakes in
matters of which most people are ignorant, but call those only mad who make
mistakes in affairs with which most people are acquainted; for if a man
should think himself so tall as to stoop when going through the gates in the
city wall, or so strong as to try to lift up houses, or attempt anything
else that is plainly impossible to all men, they say that he is mad; but
those who make mistakes in small matters are not thought by the multitude to
be mad; but just as they call 'strong desire' 'love,' so they call 'great
disorder of intellect' 'madness.' "[30.]

This Socratic principle plays an important role in psychopathology; in
psychoanalysis, what the physician does is to acquaint the patient with the
unconscious mental processes, thus putting him in full knowledge of his
condition to enable him to adjust himself to his environment. In mental
diseases the prognosis of a psychosis is not looked upon so gravely when the
patient has some realization of his situation, and likewise the recovery
from a mental infirmity is more hopeful when the patient exhibits
considerable insight into his condition. It is a well known fact that in a
malignant psychosis, self-knowledge does not exist, and this in part is
responsible for its malignancy. On the other hand the benignant nature of a
psychoneurosis may be in part attributed to the patient's appreciation of
his affliction.

However, the Socratic maxim has another moral and social value, that is, by
only knowing one's self can one understand his fellowmen. Indeed, Plato
makes Socrates say, in Phaedrus, that it is ridiculous to trouble one's self
about other things when one is still ignorant of one's self. It is well
known to every psychoanalyst that a patient cannot be analyzed by the
physician unless the latter has conquered his own resistances and adjusted
his complexes. The Immortal Poet, Shakespeare, truly says:

"This above all--to shine own self be true  And it must follow as the night
the day,  Thou canst not then be false to any man. "                        
Hamlet Act I, III.


[1.] Sir Henry Maine--Village Communities and Miscellanies, Page 238. Amer.

[2.] Denton J. Synder--"Ancient European Philosophy," page 216.

[3.] Zeller--"Socrates and the Socratic School, 1877--London," Page 116.

[4.] Plato--Phaedrus.

[5.] Schwegler--"History of Philosophy," Page 63.

[6.] Gomperz--"Greek Thinkers," Page 87.

[7.] Zeller--"Socrates and the Socratic School," Page 81.

[8.] Lelut--"Du Demon de Socrates--1836.

[9.] Zeller--"Socrates and the Socratic School," Page 83.

[10.] Schwegler--"History of Philosophy," Page 84.

[11.] Draper--"Intellectual Development of Europe," Vol. I, Page 147.

[12.] Xenophon--"Memorabilia," Page 8. (Dutton & Co., Every Man's Library).

[13.] Ibid--"Memorabilia, Page 29.

[14.] Ibid--"Memorabilia" Page 35.

[15.] Ibid--"Memorabilia," Page 21-23.

[16.] Gomperz--"History of Philosophy," Page 48.

[17.] Schwegler--"History of Philosophy," Page 75.

[18.] Xenophon's "Memorabilia," Page 417-418.

[19.] Plato--"Crito."

[20.] Lowell's "Present Crisis."

[21.] Gomperz--"Greek thinkers," Page 59.

[22.] Schwegler's "History of Philosophy," Page 75.

[23.] Ibid--"History of Philosophy," Page 741.

[24.] Forbes--"Socrates" Page 191.

[25.] Denton Snyder--"History of Ancient European Philosophy," Page 248-249.

[26.] Zeller--"Socrates and the Socratic School," Page 167.

[27.] Denton Snyder--"History of Ancient European Philosophy," Page 234.

[28.] Forbes--"Socrates," Page 173.

[29.] Xenophon--"Memorabilia," Page 121-123.

[30.] Ibid--"Memorabilia," Page 97-98.


[*] Read by title at the Sixth Annual Meeting of the American
Psychopathological Association, New York, N. Y., May 5, 1915.

BY ISADOR H. CORIAT, M. D. First Assistant Visiting Physician for Diseases
of the Nervous System Boston City Hospital, Instructor in Neurology, Tufts
College Medical School

THE complex construction of a psychoneurosis in an adult, due to the
influence exerted by the multiplicity of factors of civilization and
cultural advancement, is sometimes so bewildering as to almost defy all
attempts at analysis. In children, the organization of a psychoneurosis is
usually very simple, almost monosymptomatic, and in children too, we often
discover these neuroses in the actual process of making. When adult life is
reached, the individual has left behind him all the factors of his childhood
life and all the repressed experiences and desires which tend to produce his
adult characteristics. Among adults of primitive races however, where the
mental organization is far less complex than that of civilized man, certain
psychoneurotic disturbances are found, which if analyzed, might disclose the
mental mechanisms of these disturbances reduced to their simplest terms.

It has been my good fortune to be able to secure data of this sort,
pertaining to certain curious nervous attacks which occur among the
primitive races of the Fuegian Archipelago. These facts were supplied me,
following along the lines of a questionnaire, by the well known explorer
Charles Wellington Furlong, F. R. G. S., who in 1907-1908, was in charge of
the first scientific expedition to cross through the heart of Tierra del
Fuego. Mr. Furlong's keen powers of observation, have made the data
unusually complete. While he had no theory to offer in explanation of the
attacks as seen among these primitive tribes, yet it is interesting to note,
that certain of the facts corroborate the well-known ideas of sexual
repression as elaborated by Freud. The mental organization of these people
likewise, seems to substantiate certain psychoanalytic conceptions. For a
clear comprehension of these attack, certain preliminary anthropological and
geographical data are necessary.

The following data relates to the running amuck or outburst, among the
Yahgan and Ona tribes of the Fuegian Archipelago. This data was obtained in
1907 and 1908 during expeditions through the regions of the Fuegian

The Yahgans, some forty years ago, numbered perhaps 2,500 but in 1908 had
been reduced through contact with civilization and principally through an
epidemic of measles to 173. These peoples are canoe Indians and inhabit
today the island coasts from Beale Island to the Wollastons inclusive, in
the neighborhood of Cape Horn; from about 54 degrees 50' S. Lat. to about 55
degrees 56' S. Lat., making them the southern-most inhabitants of the world.
The Ona Indians, a taller and finer race physically, who are foot Indians,
occupy the mountain and forest regions of southern Tierra del Fuego from
approximately 53 degrees 50' S. Lat. to 55 degrees 3' S. Lat. The Onas
formerly occupied the entire northern half of Tierra del Fuego and possibly
numbered some 3,000, but through contact and warfare with the whites, who
drove them south off the open lands of the north, they have been reduced to
about 300. These peoples are of a light cinnamon colored skin, black
haired, and of a decided Amerindian type. The Onas are above average
stature, the Yahgans below it.

It is not an infrequent occurence for individuals among both the Yahgans and
Onas to be subject to sudden outbursts of furor and violence. At such times
the individual will generally dash from the wigwam and rush wildly away, and
will continue running until nearly or completely exhausted. The one
afflicted may dash madly through the woods or sometimes climb up dangerous
cliffs. At such times, however, it is the custom of some of the men to
follow closely behind to see that harm does not come through injury against
trees, stumbling, or falling from the cliffs. However, at such times they
rarely touch the afflicted one except to prevent harm, and finally will lead
him back to the camp, when the attack is over or when he is exhausted.

While the attack occurs both among men and women, it seems to be more
prevalent among men. The individuals in whom these attacks predominate are
men in the prime of life, ranging from 25 to 35 years of age. These people
are polygamous and as it is the custom for the old men to marry young girls,
thus leaving the old women to the younger men, which in many instances
causes a scarcity of women, it leaves a somewhat undesirable condition.

In many instances the character of the attack confines itself to the mad
rushing away, as above described, at other times attempts to injure or kill
others are made. For instance, a rancher of Tierra del Fuego, was in the
company of some Onas when suddenly a hatchet whizzed by him, barely missing
his head, and buried itself in a log of the Indian shelter. This was the
result of an attack which seized upon one of the Onas who was afflicted thus
from time to time. The actual outburst in this case was sudden, although it
is difficult to tell how long it might have been coming on in the form of
brooding, which seems to be a premonitory phase of this condition.

Concerning a personal experience with one of the early phases of an attack,
Mr. Furlong states as follows:--"I am fully convinced that one night, while
camping alone with Onas in the heart of the Fuegian forests, that my head
man Aanakin, who had a good many killings to his credit, was brooding as he
sat in his wigwam, which opened towards the fire; he watched me for nearly
an hour with an attitude and expression which reminded me of the look a dog
takes on sometimes before he snaps. Aanakin I knew to be of a very moody
nature but this particular mood was so marked and portended evil so
noticeably toward me without any apparent cause, that I decided to do
something to break its mental trend. So putting fresh wood on the fire, to
make a more brilliant blaze, I walked directly into his wigwam and motioned
to one of his two wives, who were lying beside him. There was a passing
look of half-anger, half-surprise, but I gave no time for his mind to dwell
in the same mood, for simultaneously I produced my note book and pencil and
began to make drawings of animals and other things they were familiar with.
They like to watch one draw and name the thing, and so I kept them busy for
perhaps an hour, and finally had them in gales of laughter. I am quite
convinced that I forestalled an attack or a condition akin to it."

It seems that an attack usually begins suddenly. However, an instance is
given where an Ona became moody and realized that one of these attacks was
coming on and putting his hands together begged to have his wrists and feet
bound in order that he would not do himself or others any harm, or that it
would not be thought that he meant to kill and consequently be shot in self
defence. This would in a way seem to indicate that there was no amnesia for
the attack, as the Indian undoubtedly realized what he had done in previous

The moody state and the realization of what might follow as the attack comes
on demonstrates a sense of uneasiness as the premonitory symptom of an
attack, which ends in a state of utter exhaustion and sleep. The normal
condition is resumed, practically on the awakening from sleep and recovery
of strength.

From a description of Donald McMillan the explorer, the Eskimo Piblokto
strongly resembles these attacks of the Ona and Yahgan Indians with the
exception that Piblokto was particularly prevalent among the women.

How an attack begins is shown by the case of Aanakin, an Ona of Furlong's
expedition. A certain form of melancholia, brooding or moodiness, seems to
precede many of these attacks, with a realization sometimes that an attack
is coming upon them. The Onas not being naturally a quarrelsome people, it
may be that this realization and foreboding of the attack accounts for their
tendency to run away from their associates, when they have endured the
strain as long as they can, thus placing themselves in a position to avoid
deliberate attack or injury to those about them.

It was further stated, in answer to the questionnaire--"I cannot give you
absolute data regarding laughing or crying in an attack, screaming, yells,
foaming at the mouth, biting of tongue, tearing of clothes, although I am of
the opinion that any or all of these things may and do occur. As to violent
resistance, the case, where the man wished to be bound, would show there was
violent resistance, and it is probable that partly for this reason the Onas
and Yahgans do not molest the afflicted except to prevent them from harming
themselves, preferring to wait until the paroxysm exhausts them. I cannot
state positively as to whether the attack is explained by the natives as
being due to an evil spirit. While these people are polygamous, though
having no religious form of worship, they usually believe when any one has a
disease that something has entered them or some one who dislikes them has
surreptitiously sent some small animal or an arrow into them. Among the
Yahgans the 'Yuccamoosh' (doctors) or magicians proceed to pretend to
extract these objects by a form of squeezing and hugging the patient, in the
meantime blowing, hissing, etc., to force the object or evil out. I have
never known of their doing this, however, to a person suffering from an

"I am unable to supply any direct data as to the relation of love, hunger,
sexuality, death of relatives or absent relatives to an attack. On the death
of a relative the Yahgans go through incantations in the form of a sort of
weird death chant, which they often sing in unison at certain times of the
day and night. They paint their faces to show the death to strangers, but
they rarely mention the name of the dead, in fact by most it is considered
an offence to do so. They say simply 'He is gone,' 'He is no more'; they
feel the loss of relatives very keenly and sorrow for them, and sometimes
become violent with grief and rage.

"Regarding the primitive type of mental organization among these
natives,--despite Darwin's first opinion of them, which was subsequently
modified, I consider these people inherently intelligent, though of a very
primitive type as far as their culture is concerned, probably the most
primitive in this hemisphere, perhaps in the world, as the Onas are today
living in the Stone Age. Dr. E. Von Hornbostel of Berlin University, who
has collaborated with me in making a special study of my phonographic
records of their songs, informs me that these songs are the most primitive
American-Indian songs of which they have any record."  Of importance for a
clear understanding of the mental traits of these Indian tribes, as the
source from which these attacks develop, are the study of their dreams,
their system of taboos and their myths. So far as could be determined from
the data supplied, the dreams of these primitive races strongly resemble the
dreams of children, as these aboriginal tribes possess many childlike
attributes. In fact up to a certain age the civilized child is really a
little savage, with his strong egotism and feelings of rivalry, his taboos,
his jealousies and his few or no altruistic tendencies. In the child as in
the savage, the wish and the thought are synonymous, both want their desires
immediately gratified, although such gratification may be impossible in
reality. The dreams of the Yahgan Indians are simple wish fulfilments,
without disguise or elaboration, like the dreams of a civilized child.

The Yahgan attitude toward death is the same as that of many primitive
races. Any reference to death is strongly tabooed amongst them and to
transgress this taboo, exposes the individual to grave danger and severe
punishment, even the punishment of the thing tabooed. Thus the person who
transgresses this taboo becomes himself taboo by arousing the anger or
resentment of other members of the tribe. However, a certain ambivalent
tendency seems to be present, for while the word death and the mention of
the dead is prohibited, yet they feel deep grief and sorrow for dead
relatives. Transgression of the taboo may arouse the other aspect of the
ambivalent attitude, (for instance anger instead of sorrow) and it thus
becomes a source of danger to the guilty individual and so by contagion and
imitation to the community. This ambivalent tendency which leads to taboos
is prominent among primitive races as well as in civilized children for
instance, in the latter, the taboo of pronouncing certain words which leads
to stammering or the taboo of objects possessing a sexual significance in
producing kleptomania. As civilization and cultural advancement increase or
as the child becomes the adult, the taboo tendency gradually declines, yet
under certain conditions it may manifest itself as a psychoneurotic symptom.
Since these particular primitive races have no conception of immortality,
this taboo cannot be a religious or a moral obligation or prohibition, but a
social phenomenon for the benefit of the tribe or for the physical welfare
of the individuals comprising the tribe. Freud also has pointed out how the
avoidence of the names of the dead because of fear of offence to the living
is found among certain South American tribes.

A third factor of importance is a study of their myths. These are the
savage's day dreams. The relation between myths and dreams is well known,
both having their roots in the unconscious thinking of the race. In the
individual this unconscious mental process produces dreams, in the race and
society, myths. Only one instance will be cited, the legend of the Yahgan
Indians concerning the creation of the first man and woman. When one of the
tribe was asked how the first human being came into the world, he replied
that a long time ago the first man came down from the sky on a rope and
later, the woman followed. Here is a striking instance of how an adult
Indian had applied his knowledge of individual births literally to a cosmic
process, a genuine creation myth as a form of symbolic thinking. There seems
little doubt in this case, that the sky, which to all savages appears like a
bowl, represented the uterus and the rope, the umbilical cord. The
resemblance of this myth to certain birth and parturition dreams, as
encountered in the psychoanalytic investigations of civilized adults, is
certainly striking.

How is this mass of material to be interpreted? The mental traits of these
people, as shown by an analysis of their taboos, myths and dreams, are very
primitive in organization, in fact, according to Mr. Furlong, they represent
the most primitive types of culture in the world and are today actually
living in the Stone Age. Individuals of such primitive mental traits have
not learned to successfully repress their emotions and hence are liable to
sudden emotional outbursts. Substitution and repression in civilized races
are utilized to cover our complex and multifarious ways of expressing our
social wishes and wants. In the savage there is little or no repression and
substitution, because his desires are simple and easily satisfied.

These primitive people therefore resemble children, without inhibitions or
repressions and hence their attacks of violence and furor as above described
are sudden emotional reactions, perhaps hysterical, but without any
phenomena of conversion. The relation of the attacks to an unsatisfied
sexual craving is shown by the fact that the attacks occur only in young men
whose libido remains unsatisfied, because according to tribal custom they
are compelled to marry old women, or, in the words of the explorer who lived
among these people, "old derelicts." This factor, combined with the
observation that the victims of the attacks are free from loss of
consciousness and amnesia and the absence of an absolute evidence pointing
to foaming at the mouth or biting of the tongue, would seem to indicate that
the outburst was hysterical rather than epileptic in nature. It would thus
correspond to the Piblokto of the Eskimos as described by Brill. This
resemblance was also noted by the explorer in his comparative description of
the two disorders.

It seems that the attacks themselves are motivated, not so much by the
actual gross sexual as by an ungratified or only partially gratified love
which would occur in a man who is compelled by social and tribal custom to
marry an old woman. Among the Eskimos this factor is at work in the women,
among the Fuegians in the men. Conversion phenomena were absent, because
their mental organization is very simple, in the same way that childhood
hysteria is free from conversion symptoms or at the most is monosymptomatic.


A. Brill--Piblokto or Hysteria among Peary's Eskimos. Journal of Nervous
and Mental Disease, Vol. 40 No. 8--1913.

S. Freud--Totem und Tabu--1913.

E. Kraepelin--Vergleichende Psychiatrie. Centralblatt f. Nervenheilk. U.
Psychiatrie. Bd. XV. July, 1904.



The Ohio State University

THE first case here reported came to the notice of the writer through the
attending physician; the second case was reported by the father of the child
after the attending physician had failed of satisfactory treatment. The
second case is especially interesting and serviceable in connection with the
phenomenon of visual space perception.

The first case is that of a boy, nine years of age, healthy, vigorous, who
in his play ground and street reactions parallels that of any normal boy of
his age. Aside from measles and an occasional disturbance of digestion he
has been singularly free from childhood's common diseases. The father and
mother are strong Hanoverian Germans holding with puritanic strictness to
the dogmas of the Lutheran religious faith. So far as is ascertainable there
can be no question of faulty inheritance, at least not so far as the
immediate parents and grandparents enter into the problem.

The child upon retiring and usually while still wide awake uttered wild
screams of terror. Upon inquiry the child complained of falling and
clutched vigorously to the bed clothes and the arms of the parents. Usually
the phenomenon disappeared when he was taken out of bed and walked about but
reappeared when he lay down. He complained of pain in his eyes, neck and
fore- and after-parts of his head. No amount of persuasion dispelled the
illusion. It should be emphasized that the illusion occurred in full waking
state and rarely as a dream.

An attempt was made to correlate the illusion with the momentum of the day's
activity. According to the parents the illusion appeared in aggravated form
when the neighborhood boys congregated in a cluster of trees at the edge of
the village and when playing "train" in which case the barn-top functioned
as the locomotive while a high board fence and an adjoining neighbor's barn
functioned as the cars and caboose respectively.

The village physician offered no explanation. He prescribed a hot bath and
a "closer supervision of the evening meal." The dilatation of the cutaneous
capillaries consequent to the bath lowered the cerebral circulation and to
some extent reduced the intensity of the illusion.

The cue to the cure appeared when the child, in expressing his fear,
complained because he could not see the parent who sat beside him on the
bed. Upon lighting the room the child seemed pacified but still held tightly
to anything within reach. As a rule the illusion disappeared within thirty
minutes after illumination. It was then suggested that the child be put to
bed in a well lighted room. This was done but the phenomenon reappeared
although in a less aggravated form. Degree of illumination and intensity of
the illusion appeared related. The phenomenon failed to appear at all when a
coal oil lamp was placed beside the bed not over two feet from the child's
head. For six months the boy went to sleep facing the full glare of the
lamp. Gradually the lamp was removed until it occupied a position in the
hall. Whenever the illusion recurred the lamp was replaced in its original

It is quite probable that the intensity of the visual stimulus (the lamp)
deflected the nervous current from the neural processes underlying the
illusion and thus changed the direction of attention. Any intense
distraction, other than the one employed, would probably have served the
same purpose. At the end of a year and a half the phenomenon entirely

The second case is that of a six-year-old girl, the daughter of highly
educated parents. With reference to this case two interesting phenomena
were observed: (a) that of mirror-writing of the common variety and (b)
that of ambiguous interpretation of the retinal impressions.

The phenomenon of mirror-writing here observed parallels that of many other
cases in which the left-right direction is reversed. These commoner cases
take on an added interest when considered in connection with a case of
double space inversion. Such a case is on record.[1] The double inversion
consists in writing all verbal symbols and digits up side down and backward.
In this case the boy had perfect pseudoscopic vision at the beginning of his
school work. Stratton, by a system of lenses, artificially produces the
same distortions and throws some light on the phenomenon.[2]

[1] G. F. Arps, a Note on a Case of Double Space Inversion. Annals of
Ophthalmology, July, 1914, Vol. XXIII, p. 482.

[2] Psychological Review, Vol. IV, pp. 341-360 and 463-481.

It is in the phenomenon of ambiguity in the interpretation of the retinal
eye processes that this case finds its value. At the dinner table the child
complained of the decrease in size of a number of objects in the room,
especially was this true of the apparent size of the father's head. The
frequency of the complaint led the father to seek the advice of an occulist
who pronounced the child's vision perfect in every way. Over and over again
while seated at the dinner table the child would exclaim, "O father how
small your head is!"

The explanation of this phenomenon is found in the method employed to
dispell the illusion. It was suggested that, at the moment of the
appearance of the phenomenon, the child be requested to fixate the end of
the father's index finger which was revolved, in the air, to form various
geometrical figures. This had the desired effect. Clearly we have here a
case of the object altering its apparent size without altering its distance.
Under normal conditions a change in size is followed by a corresponding
change in the distance. It is probable that we have here inadequate
convergence and that the optic axes do not intersect at the object but
beyond, so that the axes are more or less parallel. Thus the feeling of
convergence is less intense than experience teaches is necessary to perceive
the object as such a size and at such a distance. If degree of convergence
is a criterion for distance and if distance is a measure for the apparent
size of an object then we have the conditions necessary for the appearance
of the illusion.

Here we have the retinal image constant for the apparent and the real size
of the object (head). Obviously the retinal processes are constant for the
two interpretations of magnitude and the ambiguity is due to the concomitant
factor of convergence.

The conditions necessary to decrease the real size of an object while still
maintaining an unaltered image are produced without artificial means.
Wheatstone, a long time ago, arranged his stereoscope so that a negative
correlation obtained between the degree of convergence and size of the
retinal image.[3]

[3] Philosophical Transactions, 1852.

Very interesting is the fact that Stratton demonstrated by artificial means
what was naturally the case in that of the boy reported in the Annals
referred to above. Wheatstone demonstrated by artificial means what was
naturally the case in that of the girl here reported.


Macmillan Co., N. Y., 1914. 599 pp., illustrated.

Two comprehensive attempts have been made in recent years to study the
inheritance of mental abnormality, one in England at the Eugenics Laboratory
of the University of London, the other in this country under the leadership,
more or less immediate, of the Eugenics Record Office. Both the English and
the American school of workers agree that different grades of mental
ability, mental defect and insanity are strongly inherited. But the two
schools have reached very different conclusions as to the manner of
inheritance of mental traits and mental defects. Each school entertains
profound disrespect for the scientific methods and conclusions of the other
and with the frankness and honesty which devotion to truth demand has freely
criticised the other. By this criticism, at the bottom friendly though
sometimes caustic, science has undoubtedly profited. The later work of each
school begins to show the chastening influence of adverse criticism.

The English school has leaned backward in its devotion to the inductive
method of accumulating inheritance data, ostensibly without prejudice for or
against any particular theory but in reality with an ill-concealed bias
against anything savoring of "Mendelism."  The American school recognizing
in Mendelism a great advance and an important instrument for the discovery
of new truth, has ignored the possibility that other undiscovered laws of
heredity may exist and has cast aside as superfluous the valuable biometric
tools wrought with much patient toil by Galton and Pearson. It will be the
part of wisdom for students of genetics to imitate the hostile attitude of
neither school, but to utilize the positive results of both. This is what
Dr. Goddard has done in the work under review.

He apparently began studying the inheritance of feeble-mindedness without
theoretical prejudice, but with a practical end in view, to discover, if
possible, the causes of feeble-mindedness so as to deal intelligently with
the inmates of the Vineland (N. J.) institution with which he is connected.
Goddard received inspiration and suggestion from the Mendelian principles
which dominate the work of the Eugenics Record Office, but has published his
observations in detail so that the reader may test by them any theory he
likes. This method can not be too highly commended for it gives permanent
value to the publication, however much prevailing theories may change. The
book contains a detailed study of 327 "cases," each being the family history
of a different inmate of the Vineland institution, as made out by trained
investigators who visited the homes of the inmates and held interviews with
their parents, relatives, friends and neighbors. English criticism of
American work of this sort had prepared the reader to expect carelessness of
method and inaccuracy in the accumulation of data, but Dr. Goddard is
evidently on his guard against this. He goes very fully into the method of
obtaining and verifying the data, and in doing so gives a very strong
impression that the data are "reliable." His treatment of the data is also
cautious but thorough, so that when he works his way to a conclusion it
stands firmly established. The conclusions reached are numerous and
important, but the one of greatest theoretical interest is this, that
feeble-mindedness is inherited as a simple recessive Mendelian
unit-character. This conclusion, so far as earlier publications were
concerned, might be regarded as insufficiently established, but the evidence
presented in this work renders it, I think, beyond question. Goddard was
himself apparently considerably surprised at the conclusion reached. He had
expected to find different kinds or grades of mental defect independently
inherited as units and confesses to leanings toward views of the
physiological independence of different mental functions, but his "cases"
give him no evidence of such inheritance. He finds only that feeble minds
are minds of arrested development in regard to all functions, and that
different grades of feeble-mindedness correspond with different stages of
normal mental development completely arrested. How different grades may
occur in one and the same Mendelian unit is apparently a puzzle to Goddard,
who does not attempt its explanation. It is indeed an absurdity to the "pure
line" Mendelian, but not to one who appreciates the fact that Mendelian
units are subject to quantitative variation sometimes continuous, sometimes
discontinuous. An example of the former is found in the hooded pattern of
rats,[4] of the latter in albinism and other Mendelizing characters which
assume multiple allelomorphic conditions.[5] Pearson has steadfastly refused
to admit that albinism in man is a Mendelizing character, because it may
assume various forms ranging from colorless to quite heavily pigmented
conditions (blondes). We now find that albinism in guinea-pigs shows an even
greater range of variation,[6] yet there can be no doubt of its fundamental
unity as a Mendelian character, each grade of which is allelomorphic to
every other grade and to normal pigmentation.

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