A Study of Dreams

I think it will be hardly necessary in this company1 to refer explicitly to the difficulties of treating my present subject. The most important is the subtle and highly spiritual order of the phenomena. Their investigation leads us to the boundary of what is called exact Science, and brings us into the dangerous vicinity of metaphysical speculative systems and religious beliefs. It is well-nigh impossible to discuss these ultimate psychical phenomena without touching on different primary scientific or philosophical dogmas, and in no branch of science, I think, is the inadequacy and confusion of our only instrument of orderly thought — language — more painfully brought before our mind. All this, I believe, tends to justify my conviction, that for the exploration of this mysterious world of dreams we want not only the purely scientific, but also the poetical function. In this field the pioneers have to be either poetical men of science or scientific poets ; since it ' is the poet — at least when we attach to this word its highest and deepest meaning — whose natural passion it is to explore the ultimate regions of the human soul and whose constant occupation is to create new spiritual values and give them accurate expression.

Since 1896 I have studied my own dreams, writing down the most interesting in my diary. In 1898 I began to keep a separate account for a particular kind of dream which seemed to me the most important, and I have continued it up to this 1This paper was read at a meeting of the Society on April 22, 1913. day. Altogether I collected about 500 dreams, of which 352 are of the particular kind just mentioned. This material may form the basis of what I hope may become a scientific structure of some value, if leisure aud strength to build it up carefully do not fail me. In the meantime, with a pardonable anxiety lest the ideas should not find expression in time, I condensed them into a work of art — a novel called The Bride of Breams, published a few years ago in Holland and Germany, and an English edition of which will shortly be issued in ISTew York. The fictitious form enabled me to deal freely with delicate matters, and had also the advantage that it expressed rather unusual ideas in a less aggressive way — esoterically, so to speak. Yet I want to express these ideas also in a form that will appeal more directly to the scientific mind, and I know I cannot find a better audience for this purpose than the members of the S.P.R., who are accustomed to treat investigations and ideas of an unusual sort in a broad-minded and yet critical spirit.

It may be said that the poet is sometimes carried away by his fancy ; on the other hand, the purely scientific mind is sometimes handicapped by a tendency to disbelieve, and I do not see why the poet, enamoured of truth and reality as he is, should be less severely critical than the man of science. I may take it then to be clearly understood that this paper is only a preliminary sketch, a short announcement of a greater work, which I hope to be able to complete in later years. I will as much as possible avoid speculation, and limit myself to facts ; yet these facts, as I have observed them, bring me in a general way to the firm conviction that the theories on dream-life, as brought forward up to to-day, within my knowledge, are unable to account for all the phenomena. Selecting among the most prominent and most up-to-date authors, I may mention Prof. Sigmund Freud, who is now considered by many as the highest authority on dreams, and whose key to the mysteries of dream-life may be formulated in these words : The Dream is the symbolically expressed wish or desire of the subconscious part of a human being, and generally of an erotic character. This view has been amply criticised, among others by Mr. Havelock Ellis in his recent book, The World of

Dreams, which I regard as one of the best handbooks of recent years. Havelock Ellis, fully acknowledging the boldness and ingenuity of Freud's theory, endorses the comment of many of Freud's critics, that this key, however fitting in many cases, does not open all doors, and still leaves many mysteries. According to Havelock Ellis the principal characteristic of the dream is psychical dissociation, and all dreams may be accounted for by the natural and unceasing tendency of the human mind to reason and to explain, even in a condition of dissociation. He supposes that the brain in sleep continues to receive impressions from different internal organs, from the involuntary muscles, from the beating heart and the breathinglungs, and in its dissociated state tries to bring some reasonable order into these sensations by inventing all sorts of curious, and more or less absurd, facts, which it regards as real and as accounting for the confused impressions it perceives. My objection to this theory, in spite of the author's ingenious and plausible defence of it, is the same as his objection to the theory of Ereud. It does not by any means cover all the facts. I would even go so far as to say that it holds good in only a few exceptional cases. I hope to make it clear to you that it is utterly inadequate to account in particular for those cases which I recorded as being the most important and interesting.

I wish to mention here the name of a great Englishwoman, who died last year, and whom I consider one of the deepest thinkers of our age. Victoria Lady Welby is the mother of that new branch of science, now officially acknowledged by the Britannica Encyclopaedia under the name of Signifies, corresponding to Breal's term Semantics. Her contention was that at the bottom of all our disputes, and even of all our misery, is the careless and inadequate use of language. According to my own experience, this want of " signifies " — Lady Welby's new science — is felt in every discussion, and I rarely begin a lecture without a warning about it. In the present case we find a good illustration of Lady Welby's contention. Havelock Ellis, in his explanation of dream-phenomena, says, quoting Vaschide and Pieron, that "the internal sensations develop at the expense of the peripheral sensations. That indeed seems to be the secret of the immense emotional turmoil of our dreams." Now it seems to me that the word internal, by the authors just mentioned and by many others, is used in a deceptive way, without recognition of its shifting value, its signitical quality. It stands for the contrary of peripheral, yet when the word is used its significance imperceptibly becomes metaphorical.

In opposition to sensations derived from the skin, the visceral sensations might lie called internal. But from the psychical point of view, any bodily sensation, whether it be from the skin, from the heart, or from the kidneys, is external in a metaphorical sense. For students of natural science, brought up in the nineteenth century, this confusion is very difficult to avoid. The ruling opinion of that time looked upon the physical body as the whole of a human being. A human being, it was thought, consisted entirely of things that could be perceived in three-dimensional space. The simple fact, now beginning to be dimly realised by men of science, that psychical facts are non-spatial, and therefore cannot be expressed otherwise than by metaphor, was utterly disregarded. For instance, Maury, for long the great authority on dreams, speaks repeatedly of " impressions internes, intercerebrales," as continuing during dream-life, while the outer impressions, that is, the peripheral, are benumbed. Now dreams are purely psychical phenomena. They have, of course, connections and associations with the physical body. Yet their most characteristic feature is that they are non-spatial, that is to say, inner in a metaphorical sense. Havelock Ellis agrees that even the visceral sensations are not perceived as such, but are transformed into symbols, i.e. into purely psychical phenomena.

According to my experience, not only the peripheral but also the interned sensations, in so far as they are spatial, are inhibited in dream-life. Not only are the senses of hearing, smelling, seeing, tasting, touching, etc., cut off from the mind of the sleeper, but also the more vague and ill-defined bodily sensations,— muscle-sensations, visceral sensations, sensations of bodily well-being or of pain or discomfort. In a word, the physical body, though it continues to live and to act in certain ways, does not convey its sensations directly to the mind in complete sleep and dream. All immediate connection between the mind, with its non-spatial facts, and the body, with its facts that can be expressed in spatial terms, stops during sleep and dream. I would even go so far as to draw the line at this point between dream and waking life. So long as a bodily sensation, be it internal or peripheral, is perceived, there is not yet complete sleep or dream, and any abnormal perception that occurs must be called a waking hallucination. When sleep and dream set in, all direct bodily rapport is cut off. This is its essential and characteristic feature. Let me now give you an attempt at classification of the different forms of dreams, which I myself personally experienced and observed during a period of sixteen years. I have been able to distinguish nine different kinds of dreams, each of which presents a well-defined type. There are of course intermediate forms and combinations, but the separate types can still be recognised in their intermingling.

In this scheme I wish to draw attention to the type indicated by the letter (H), which I call initial dreams. This kind of dream is very rare ; I know of only half-a-dozen instances occurring to myself, and have found no clear indication of them in other authors. Yet it is very characteristic and easily distinguishable. It occurs only in the very beginning of sleep, when the body is in a normal healthy condition, but very tired. Then the transition from waking to sleep takes place with hardly a moment of what is generally called unconsciousness, but what I would prefer to call discontinuity of memory. It is not what Maury calls a hypnagogic hallucination, which phenomenon I know well from my own experience, but which I do not consider to belong to the world of dreams. In hypnagogic hallucinations we have visions, but we have full bodily perception. In the initial dream type (H), I see and feel as in any other dream. I have a nearly complete recollection of day-life, I know that I am asleep and where I am sleeping, but all perceptions of the physical body, inner and outer, visceral or peripheral, are entirely absent. Usually I have the sensation of floating or flying, and I observe with

Time of • Occurrence. Probably all the time of sleep. Any time of sleep. Symbolic or mocking dreams. Unpleasant, demoniacal, mostly erotic or obscene. Indifferent or varying, not 1 1 tipioaoctill U. Middle of night, deep sleep. Always between 5 and 8 a.m. Not unpleasant, though demoniacal. Generally after or before E. Wrong waking up (phantasm). Immediately after going to sleep. Pathological dreams. (Fever, poison, indigestion.) Any time of sleep. Recollection of Day-life in Dream. Recollection of Dream after Waking up. Very frequent, probably in all sleep. Very defective, or entirely wrong. Mostly unpleasant, sometimes premonitory. Very beneficial, sometimes premonitory. In abnormal condition, nearly always. perfect clearness that the feeling of fatigue, the discomfort of bodily overstrain, has vanished. I feel fresh and vigorous ; I can move and float in all directions ; yet I know that my body is at the same time dead tired and fast asleep. One experience of this remarkable form of dream seems to me sufficient for the careful observer to undo all current theories. I know quite well, by my own experience, that certain bodily conditions and sensory sensations have influence on dreams. I can give instances of dreams in which sounds from the waking world, the ticking of a clock, the noise of wind, or my own difficult breathing, or snoring, have penetrated into the dream-world and caused some dream-fancy. In one dream, when near waking up, I found myself sitting in company with others, and I heard the sound of snoring. I looked round at the other people, asking, " Who is it that snores ? " and then, on waking up, I found that I myself was the only culprit.

But I consider that cases in which the sounds or impressions of day-life — bodily sensations — penetrate into the dream-life, are exceptional, whereas nearly all scientific observers of dreams up to the present day start from the supposition that these bodily sensations account for all dreams. And I think you will agree that the direction in which the observer is looking must make a great difference in the outcome of any investigation. Most students of dream-life begin with the supposition that dreams are more or less abnormal phenomena caused by some abnormal condition of the body, and their experiments are mostly directed towards trying to provoke dreams by artificial bodily conditions. As the outcome of careful observations, I maintain my conviction that the bodily conditions of the sleeper have, as a rule, no influence on the character of dreams, with the exception of a few rare and abnormal cases, near the moment of waking up, or in those dreams which I have classified as pathological, under letter (I), in which fever, indigestion, or some poison, plays a role, and which form a small minority. For myself as the observer, I may state that I have been in good health all the time of observation. I had no important complaints of any nervous or visceral kind. My sleep and digestion both

are usually good. Yet I have had the most terrible nightmares, while my body was as fresh and healthy as usual, and I have had delicious peaceful dreams on board ship in a heavy storm, or in a sleeping-car on the railway. In April, 1906, I was suffering from violent tooth-ache. I was in Italy and did not wish to go to a foreign dentist. I succeeded, however, in falling asleep, and entered at once on a dream of type (F), which I call demon-dreams. I had a perfect recollection of my waking life ; I knew that I was sleeping and that my tooth was still aching. Yet 1 did not feel it. I realised that I was in the demoniacal sphere, which I recognise by the weird uncanny effect produced by apparently harmless objects, which are seen very sharply and vividly. I could shut my eyes, as it seemed to me, and when I opened them again, the same objects — a tea-pot, a clothes-brush, a triangle, and so on — were still there, and still uncanny and threatening. Then came what I shall have to call demonpersonalities, who do not seem human, and yet seem to act and speak like independent beings. Usually I am able to drive them away by a voluntary act, e.g. by shouting and threatening. But this time I felt powerless, and I debated in my dream whether the tooth-ache could be the cause of this weakness. Then I asked one of the demons what was the reason of my unusual weakness. He answered : " Probably the heat," and at this answer I considered whether I had left the radiator of the hotel-room open. But soon I understood that the answer was a senseless mockery, irony or stupidity. And I slept the whole night without feeling any pain. Next morning the pain was felt again and I had the tooth extracted.

Now it must be clear that the theory which explains the fancies of dreams by an attempt of the mind to reconstruct a false reality in order to account for subconscious sensations, will never do in such cases. For my mind was perfectly aware of the state of things ; it knew about the tooth-ache, it knew that I was sleeping in a hotel-room with a radiator. Yet I felt no bodily sensation at all, not even such a penetrating one as a violent tooth-ache. I wish, therefore, to define the true dream as that state wherein bodily sensations, be they visceral, interned or peripheral, cannot penetrate to the mind directly, but only in the psychical, non-spatial form of a symbol or an image. I purposely avoid as much as possible the words " consciousness " and " unconsciousness." They may be convenient in colloquial language, but I am not able to attach any clear meaning to them. I have no idea what " unconsciousness," as a substantive, may stand for. And I found that I could do with the words memory and recollection and the word personality or person, in the primitive sense of persona (a mask, i.e. the mask worn by players). I do not think it accurate to call the body of a sleeper or a narcotised man unconscious. During my career as a psycho-therapeutist, having by suggestion produced sleep in many people, I learnt that the human body may act like a self-conscious person, without any participation of the recollecting mind.

We know nowadays that a splitting-up of human personality is possible, not only into two. but into three or more. During my sittings with Mrs. Thompson 1 we observed that after a trance, in which Mrs. Thompson had been speaking as " Nelly," or as some other control, she herself remembered dreams, which had nothing whatever to do with the things of which she had been speaking to us. Her being could then be said to have been divided into three entities, — the body in trance, apparently asleep ; the " control," who spoke through her mouth ; and Mrs. Thompson, who was dreaming in cprite different spheres. All these persons or personalities were of course " conscious " in some way, as everything is probably conscious. The cpaestion is, where do the threads of recollection run that enable us to identify the persons.

I know that Mr. Havelock Ellis and many other authors will not accept my definition, because they deny the possibility of complete recollection and free volition in a dream. They would say that what I call a dream is no dream, but a sort of trance, or hallucination, or ecstasy. The observations of the Marquis d'Herve, which were very much like mine, as related in Ins book, Les Reves et les rnoyens de les diriger, were discarded in the same way. These dreams could not be dreams, said Maury. Now this is simply a question of nomenclature. I can only ^ee Proceedings, Vol. XVII., pp. 75-115. say that I made my observations during normal deep and healthy sleep, and that in 352 cases I had a full recollection of my day-life, and could act voluntarily, though I was so fast asleep that no bodily sensations penetrated into my perception. If anybody refuses to call that state of mind a dream, he may suggest some other name. For my part, it was just this form of dream, which I call " lucid dreams " (see E in the table), which aroused my keenest interest and which I noted down most carefully.

I cmite agree with Mr. Havelock Ellis, that during sleep the psychical functions enter into a condition of dissociation. My contention, however, is that it is not dissociation, but, on the contrary, reintegration, after the dissociation of sleep, that is the essential feature of dreams. The dream is a, more or less complete reintegration of the psyche, a reintegration in a different sphere, in a psychical, non-spatial mode of existence. This reintegration may go so far as to effect full recollection of day-life, reflection, and voluntary action on reflection. I will now make a short survey of the nine modes of dreaming, as indicated in my Table, giving an instance of each of them, and will then give further details of the more important and interesting types. Type (A) is the usual well-known type to which the large majority of dreams conform ; probably it is the only kind that occurs to many people. It is not particularly pleasant or unpleasant, though it may vary according to its contents. It may occur in any moment of sleep, in daytime or in the night, and it does not need any bodily disturbance to produce it. Most people, however healthy, dream ; and if they say they do not, it must be uncertain whether there is really an absence of dreams or only a lack of remembrance of them. The same doubt may be applied to the view that there is a perfectly dreamless sleep. According to my view the attempts of the psyche at reintegration begin almost immediately after sleep has set in and continue during the whole time of sleeping. When aroused by an alarum -clock at different hours of the night, unexpectedly, I was always able to remember some fragments of a dream. I admit, however, that this is no absolute proof, because it is possible that the dream was inserted, so to speak, into the space of time between the bodily sensation caused by

the alarum, and the transmission of this sensation to the dreaming mind. This space of time may be rather considerable. It may be compared to the space of time required by an " absentminded " person before he realises the import of a question put to him ; it may be not only seconds but even minutes before he hears the question psychically, though he heard it bodily quite distinctly, and remembers it in full. This space of time is still longer at the moment of awakening, and in my opinion accounts very easily for the often reported and apparently miraculous phenomenon of a sleeper being awakened by a sound that fits in exactly with the end of a long dream. The classic instance of this is Maury's dream, in which a piece of the bed-cornice fell on his neck when he was dreaming that he was lying on a scaffold-block to be beheaded. Most likely the bodily shock came first ; the sleeper's mind was then called, but could not be reached directly; the bodily sensation had first to be translated, so to speak, psychically, into the form of a story, finishing with his waking up. These dreams of type (A) show dissociation, with very imperfect reintegration, and, as several authors have pointed out, they have in many respects a close likeness to insanity. The true conditions of day-life are not remembered ; false remembrance — paramnesia — is very common in them ; they are absurd and confused, and leave very faint traces after waking up.

Type (B) differs from (A) principally in its vividness and the strong impression it makes, which lasts sometimes for hours and days after waking up, with a painfully clear remembrance of every detail. These dreams are generally considered to be the effect of some abnormal bodily condition. Yet I think they must undoubtedly be distinguished from the pathological dreams. I have had them during perfectly normal bodily conditions. I do not mean to say, however, that some nervous disturbance, some psychical unrest, or some unknown influence from the waking world, may not have been present. It may have been, but it escaped my observation in most cases. Dreams of type (B) are generally extremely absurd, or untrue, though explicit and well remembered. The mind is entirely dissociated, and reintegration is very defective. A fine instance of this sort of dream is described by Dostojefski in Crime and Punishment, when Raskolnikoff sleeps before he commits the murder. Curiously enough I had a dream of the same type the night after reading that book. In that dream I had committed a murder myself — a dream-feeling well known to dream-students. I thought it remarkable because the psychical cause of it was clear in this case and my bodily condition was entirely normal.

As a rule I find dreams of this kind unpleasant, because of their absurdity, their insane character, and the strong lasting impression they make. Happily they are rare, at least with me. Sometimes they leave a strong conviction that they "mean something," that they have a premonitory, a prophetic character, and when we read of instances of prophetic dreams we find generally that they belong to the type (B). In my case I often found that they really could " mean " nothing ; sometimes, however, I was not so certain. It depends in what direction we are looking for causes. One night, when I was on a lecturing tour, I was the guest of a family in a provincial town, and slept in what I supposed to be the guest-room. I had a night full of the most horrid dreams, one long confused nightmare, with a strong sentiment that it " meant something." Yet I felt in perfect health, cheerful and comfortable. I could not refrain from saying next morning at the breakfast table what an unpleasant night I had had. Then the family told me I had slept in the room of a daughter who was now in a sanatorium with a severe nervous disease, and who used to call that room her " den of torture."

Another dream of the most awful description occurred to me in Berlin in 1906. In a dark night, dead tired and forlorn, I was plodding through an endless black, stinking marsh ; being old, poor, miserable, full of remorse, all night long. Yet I was in perfect health, and even in a hopeful and cheerful state of mind. The impression was so strong that I packed my trunk next morning and escaped from my hosts without explanation. I could not help thinking that the room must be haunted by the remembrance of some dreadful crime. I could never verify this suspicion. A month later I received tidings of my only brother in the East Indies — that he died that very night in very painful circumstances. Whether there was any connection between this and my dream I will not decide. It will be remarked that such vivid dreams are sometimes of a very pleasant character, filling whole days with an indescribable joy. This is true, but, according to my experience, my vividly pleasant dreams are now always of another and higher type. As a child I had these delicious dreams of the type (B). Now they have changed their character altogether and are of type (E).

In type (C), the symbolic or mocking dreams, the characteristic element is one which I call demoniacal. I am afraid this word will arouse some murmurs of disapproval, or at least some smiles or sneers. Yet I think I can successfully defend the use of the term. I will readily concede at once that the real existence of beings whom we may call " demons :' is problematic. But the real existence of the interstellar aether is also problematic, and yet men of science find the conception very useful and convenient. I hope to satisfy even the most sceptical of my audience by defining the expression " demoniacal " thus : / call demoniacal those phenomena which piroducc on us the impression of being invented or arranged by intelligent beings of a very low moral order. To me it seems that the great majority of dreams reported by Freud and his adherents, and used for the building up of his elaborate theory, belong to type (C). It may indeed be called a bold deed to introduce the symbolism of dreams into the scientific world. This is Freud's great achievement. But now let us consider what the word " symbol " implies. A symbol is an image or an imaginary event, standing for a real object or event whereto it has some distant resemblance. Now the invention of a symbol can only be an act of thought, — the work of some intelligence.

Symbols cannot invent themselves ; they must be thought out. And the question arises : who performs this intelligent act ; who thinks out the symbol ? The answer given by the Freud school is : the subconscious. But here we have one of those words which come in " wo die Begriffe fehlen." To me the word " subconscious," indicating a thinking entity, is just as mysterious, just as unscientific, just as " occult " as the word " demon." In my view it is accurate to say only that in our dreams we see images and experience events, for which our own mind, — our " person " as we remember it, — cannot be held responsible, and which must

therefore come from some unknown source. About the general character of these sources, however, we may form some judgment and I feel justified in calling them in the dreams of type (C) " demoniacal," — that is of a low moral order. It is in class (C) also, that the erotic element, or rather the obscene element, plays such an important part. And it is no wonder that some adherents of Freud's school, studying only this kind of dream, come to the conclusion that all dreams have a sexual origin. Mocking dreams can be very amusing, as many instances in dream-literature show. The day before my fiftieth anniversary I was made the victim of a funny dream-joke. There was to be a pageant in my honour, and the town was all full of flags. When the pageant came, it consisted first of a cow, then a horse, then a gentleman on foot, who fired blank shots from a revolver, then a carriage with four gentlemen, and, to wind up with, an old, rickety, wobbling automobile that advanced very slowly.1 Type (D), which I call general dream-sensations, is very remarkable but not easy to describe. It is not an ordinary dream ; there is no vision, no image, no event, not even a word or a name. But during a long time of deep sleep, the mind is continually occupied with one person, one place, one remarkable event, or even one abstract thought.

At least that is the recollection on waking up. One night I was constantly occupied by the personality of an American gentleman, in whom [ am not particularly interested. I did not see him, nor hear his name, but on waking up I felt as if he had been there the whole night. In another instance it was a rather deep thought, occupying me in the deepest sleep, with a clear recollection of it after waking up. The question was : Why can a period of our life be felt as very sad, and yet be sweet and beautiful in remembrance ? And the answer was : Because a human being knows only a very small part of what he is. Question and answer never left me ; yet my sleep was very deep and unbroken. These dream-sensations are not unpleasant and not absurd, so long as the body is in good health.

They often have an elevating or consoling effect. In patho- Br. Frederik van Eeden. logical dreams, however, type (I), they may be extremely strange and harassing. The sleeper may have a feeling as if he were a square or a circle, or other sensations of an utterly indescribable character. Class (E), the type of dreams which I called " lucid dreams," seems to me the most interesting and worthy of the most careful observation and study. Of this type I experienced and wrote down 352 cases in the period between January 20, 1898, and December 26, 1912. In these dreams the reintegration of the psychic functions is so complete that the sleeper remembers day-life and his own condition, reaches a state of perfect awareness, and is able to direct his attention, and to attempt different acts of free volition. Yet the sleep, as I am able confidently to state, is undisturbed, deep and refreshing. I obtained my first glimpse of this lucidity during sleep in June, 1897, in the following way. I dreamt that I was floating through a landscape with bare trees, knowing that it was April, and I remarked that the perspective of the branches and twigs changed quite naturally. Then I made the reflection, during sleep, that my fancy would never be able to invent or to make an image as intricate as the perspective movement of little twigs seen in floating by.

Many years later, in 1907, I found a passage in a work by Prof. Ernst Mach, Analyse der Fmpfindungen, p. 164, in which the same observation is made with a little difference. Like me, Mach came to the conclusion that he was dreaming, but it was because he saw the movement of the twigs to be defective, while I had wondered at the naturalness which my fancy could never invent. Professor Mach has not pursued his observations in this direction, probably because he did not believe in their importance. I made up my mind to look out carefully for another opportunity. I prepared myself for careful observation, hoping to prolong and to intensify the lucidity. In January, 1898, I was able to repeat the observation. In the night of January 19-20, I dreamt that I was lying in the garden before the windows of my study, and saw the eyes of my dog through the glass pane. I was lying on my chest and observing the dog very keenly. At the same time, however, I knew with perfect certainty that I was dreaming and lying on my back in my bed. And then I resolved to wake up slowly and carefully and observe how my sensation of lying on my chest would change into the sensation of lying on my back. And so I did, slowly and deliberately, and the transition — which I have since undergone many times — is most wonderful. It is like the feeling of slipping from one body into another, and there is distinctly a double recollection of the two bodies. I remembered what I felt in my dream, lying on my chest ; but returning into the day-life, I remembered also that my physical body had been quietly lying on its back all the while. This observation of a double memory I have had many times since. It is so indubitable that it leads almost unavoidably to the conception of a dream-body.

Mr. Havelock Ellis says with something of a sneer that some people " who dabble in the occult " speak of an astral body. Yet if he had had only one of these experiences, he would feel that we can escape neither the dabbling nor the dream-body. In a lucid dream the sensation of having a body, — having eyes, hands, a mouth that speaks, and so on, — is perfectly distinct ; yet I know at the same time that the physical body is sleeping and has quite a different position. In waking up the two sensations blend together, so to speak, and I remember as clearly the action of the dream-body as the restfulness of the physical body. In February, 1899, I had a lucid dream, in which I made the following experiment. I drew with my finger, moistened by saliva, a wet cross on the palm of my left hand, with the intention of seeing whether it would be still there after waking up. Then I dreamt that I woke up and felt the wet cross on my left hand by applying the palm to my cheek. And then a long time afterwards I woke up really and knew at once that the hand of my physical body had been lying in a closed position undisturbed on my chest all the while.

The sensation of the voice during a lucid dream is most marvellous, and after many repetitions still a source of amazement. I use my voice as loudly as I can, and though I know quite well that my physical body is lying in profound sleep, I can hardly believe that this loud voice is inaudible in the waking world. Yet, though I have sung, shouted, and spoken loudly in hundreds of dreams, my wife has never heard my voice, and in several cases was able to assure me that I had slept quite peacefully. I cannot in this paper give even a short and superficial account of the many interesting details of these dreams. I must reserve that for my larger work. And I fear that only a repeated personal acquaintance with the facts can convince one of their significance. I will relate a few more instances in order to give some idea of their character. On Sept. 9, 1904, I dreamt that 1 stood at a table before a window. On the table were different objects. I was perfectly well aware that I was dreaming and I considered what sorts of experiments I could make. I began by trying to break glass, by beating it with a stone. I put a small tablet of glass on two stones and struck it with another stone. Yet it would not break. Then I took a tine claret-glass from the table and struck it with my fist, with all my might, at the same time reflecting how daimerous it would be to do this in waking life ; yet the glass remained whole. But lo ! when I looked at it again after some time, it was broken.1

It broke all right, but a little too late, like an actor who misses his cue. This gave me a very curious impression of being in a fake-world, cleverly imitated, but with small failures. I took the broken glass and threw it out of the window, in order to observe whether I could hear the tinkling. I heard the noise all right and I even saw two dogs run away from it quite naturally. I thought what a good imitation this comedy-world was. Then I saw a decanter with claret and tasted it, and noted with perfect clearness of mind: "Well, we can also have voluntary impressions of taste in this dreamworld ; this has quite the taste of wine." There is a saying by the German poet, Novalis, that when we dream that we dream, we are near waking up. This view, shared as it is by the majority of observers, I must decidedly reject. Lucid dreams occur in deep sleep and do not as a rule end in waking up, unless I wish it and do it by an act of volition. I prefer, however, in most cases to continue dreaming as long as possible, and then the lucidity vanishes

and gives place to other forms of dream, and — what seems remarkable — the form that follows is often the " demon-dream," type (F) of which I will speak presently. Then it often happens that I dream that I wake up and tell my lucid dream to some other person. This latter is then a dream of the common form (A). From this dream I wake up in the real waking world, very much amazed at the curious wanderings of my mind. The impression is as if I had been rising through spheres of different depths, of which the lucid dream was the deepest. I may state that without exception all my lucid dreams occurred in the hours between five and eight in the morning. The particular significance of these hours for our dreams has often been brought forward, — among others by Dante, Purg. IX., where he speaks of the hour when the swallows begin to warble and our mind is least clogged by the material body. Lucid dreams are also symbolic, — yet in quite a different way. I never remarked anything sexual or erotic in them. Their symbolism takes the form of beautiful landscapes, — different luminous phenomena, sunlight, clouds, and especially a deep blue sky. In a perfect instance of the lucid dream I float through immensely wide landscapes, with a clear blue, sunny sky, and a feeling of deep bliss and gratitude, which I feel impelled to express by eloquent words of thankfulness and piety. Sometimes these words seem to me a little rhetorical, but I cannot help it, as it is very difficult in dreams to control emotional impulses. Sometimes I conceive of what appears as a symbol, warning, consoling, approving. A cloud gathers or the light brightens. Only once could I see the disc of the sun.

Flying or floating may be observed in all forms of dreams, except perhaps class (D); yet it is generally an indication that lucid dreams are coming. When I have been flying in my dreams for two or three nights, then I know that a lucid dream is at hand. And the lucid dream itself is often initiated and accompanied all the time by the sensation of flying. Sometimes I feel myself floating swiftly through wide spaces ; once I flew backwards, and once, dreaming that I was inside a cathedral, I flew upwards, with the immense building and all in it, at great speed. I cannot believe that the rhythm of our breath has anything to do with this sensation, as Havelock Ellis supposes, because it is generally continuous and very swift. Difficult, spasmodic floating belongs to dreaming of a lower class, and this may depend on morbid conditions of the body ; but it may also be symbolic of some moral difficulty or distress. On Christmas-day, 1911, I bad the following dream. It began with flying and floating. I felt wonderfully light and strong. I saw immense and beautiful prospects, — first a town, then country-landscapes, fantastic and brightly coloured. Then I saw my brother sitting — the same who died in 1906 — and I went up to him saying : " Now we are dreaming, both of us." He answered : " No, I am not ! " And then I remembered that he was dead. We had a long conversation about the conditions of existence after death, and I inquired especially after the aware-ness, the clear, bright insight. But that he could not answer ; he seemed to lack it.

Then the lucid dream was interrupted by a common dream of type (A) in which I saw a lady standing on a bridge, who told me she had heard me talk in my sleep. And I supposed that my voice had been audible during the lucid dream. Then a second period of lucidity followed in which I saw Prof, van't Hoff, the famous Dutch chemist, whom I had known as a student, standing in a sort of college-room, surrounded by a number of learned people. I went up to him, knowing very well that he was dead, and continued my inquiry about our condition after death. It was a long, quiet conversation, in which I was perfectly aware of the situation. I asked first why we, lacking our organs of sense, could arrive at any certainty that the person to whom we were talking was really that person and not a subjective illusion. Then van't Hoff said : " Just as in common life ; by a general impression." " Yet," I said, " in common life there is stability of observation and there is consolidation by repeated observation." " Here also," said van't Hoff, " And the sensation of certainty is the same." Then I had indeed a very strong feeling of certitude that it was really van't Hoff with whom I talked and no subjective illusion. Then I began to inquire again about the clearness, the lucidity, the stability of this life

of shades, and then T got the same hesitating, dubious, unsatisfactory answer as from my brother. The whole atmosphere of the dream was happy, bright, elevated, and the persons around van't Hoff seemed sympathetic, though I did not know them. "It will be some time probably before I join you," I said. But I took myself then for younger than I was. After that I had several common dreams of type (A), and I awoke quite refreshed, knowing my voice had not been audible in the waking world. In May, 1903, I dreamed that I was in a little provincial Dutch town and at once encountered my brother-in-law, who had died some time before. I was absolutely sure that it was he, and I knew that he was dead. He told me that he had much intercourse with my " controller," as he expressed it, — my guiding spirit. I was glad, and our conversation was very cordial, more intimate than ever in common life. He told me that a financial catastrophe was impending for me. Somebody was going to rob me of a sum of 10,000 guilders. I said that I understood him, though after waking up I was utterly puzzled by it and could make nothing of it. My brother-in-law said that my guiding spirit had told it to him. I told the story to somebody else in my dream. Then I asked my brother-in-law to tell me more of the after-life, and just as he was going to answer me I woke up, — as if somebody cut off the communication. I was not then as much used to prolonging my dreams as I am now.

I wish to point out that this was the only prediction I ever received in a lucid dream in such an impressive way. And it came only too true, with this difference, that the sum I lost was twenty times greater. At the time of the dream there seemed not to be the slightest probability of such a catastrophe. I was not even in possession of the money I lost afterwards. Yet it was just the time when the first events took place — the railway strikes of 1903 — that led up to my financial ruin. Perhaps some of my audience will remember that I mentioned in a paper read to the S.P.E. on April 19, 1901, my dream experiment with " Nelly," the control of Mrs. Thompson.1 Being able to act voluntarily in my dreams, I had made up my mind to call people while dreaming. And I had succeeded sometimes in seeing my call answered and a figure appear, corresponding to the person whom I had called. I had arranged with Mr. Piddington that he should independently of me make notes during his sittings with Mrs. Thompson, and inform me of it when my name was mentioned. In January, 1900, my call was twice answered, as I learnt by a letter from London, telling me that the " control " had heard it. And once when I called " Elsie " instead of " Nelly," as I thought by mistake, — the name " Elsie " being without meaning for me, this mistake was heard and explained by Nelly. Later experiments with Mrs. Thompson had no success. The next year, however, I came into contact, through the introduction of W. T. Stead, with a very interesting medium, who, though quite ignorant of psychical matters, had suddenly obtained communications through automatic script from a son who had died not long before as a boy of ten years, and whom she had loved passionately.

This boy, whose name was Gordon, I called several times in my dreams, and I saw him and described him to his mother, and I was able to explain to her several particulars which puzzled her very much. For instance, he told her that he took part in her own suppers ; which did not at all correspond to her idea of the after-life. To me he appeared on a bicycle, and when his mother asked him about that he answered : " Oh yes, I have got a byke now." To me, knowing how the mind may experience all sorts of subjective sensations and illusions, this was not so improbable as to her. Of course I was constantly seeking for what psychical researchers call " evidence," objective evidence. Therefore I asked the boy in my dream on August 13, 1901, for a password. He complied with my wish and pronounced a word that I understood as " Sin-ga-poor." I supposed he meant the Asiatic town. His mother, however, got the explanation of the word through automatic writing, a little later, though I cannot tell exactly at what date, but certainly after she was informed of my dream. The boy told his mother that he had said to me, " Pick-a-boo," which was the word used by him and his friends when they were hiding. This word and 1 See Proceedings, Vol. XVII., pp. H'2-115.

its use were utterly unknown to me, and I think the correspondence of the two words is remarkable. Yet I admit that we want more evidence, and several other experiments, e.g. with Frederic Myers and with W. T. Stead, were not successful. Mr. Stead himself once gave me a little ring, telling me to call the owner of it, whose name he gave me. I did so in dream and saw the person and got a message which I wrote to Stead. As I never received any answer I suppose it was a failure.1 I have called and seen several deceased persons in lucid dreams. I called and saw Myers very shortly after his death, but it was not convincing and the atmosphere was a little dismal. He seemed disappointed and sad. In July, 1908, I called and saw him again, very distinctly and certainly this time. I asked him to tell Piddington that he had seen me. He tried to give me a pass-word, but he could not, as if he were too weak. I have successfully called my father and different deceased friends and relations. William Stead I have so far called in vain. Twice I saw, without having called for him, a deceased man, for whom hitherto I had had very little sympathy : King Leopold of Belgium. He seemed to take great interest in me and my work, which seems to me still very improbable.

I hope it will be clearly understood that I do not at all presume to pronounce with any certainty as to the genuine character of these apparitions. I myself felt certainty in my dream ; yet I cannot expect others to accept it on my word, and doubt conies to myself often enough. This sensation of certainty that it is the real person is indescribable and of course not communicable. Once I saw the face of my father, exactly as I had known him, and yet I knew it was a deceit by a demon. I had not for one moment the feeling that it was the real person. He asked me : " Am I not exactly like myself ? " and I had to confess that the likeness was perfect ; yet I denied positively that it was my father. This was a demon-dream of type (F). In two cases, when I was calling a deceased friend in vain, I saw the apparition of a postman coming, — a letter-carrier, more particulars of this case later. who walked round me. As this occurred twice in different years, it might have some symbolic meaning, though I cannot make out what.

Now, whether these apparitions are genuine or not, I think I am scientifically justified in making experiments as if they were so, accepting it for the moment as a working hypothesis. Only hundreds of observations will bring an approach to certainty. Just as there was deceit in the apparition of my father, so there may be deceit in the lucid dream itself. In March, 1912, I had a very complicated dream, in which I dreamt that Theodore Koosevelt was dead, then that I woke up and told the dream, saying : " I was not sure in my dream whether he was really dead or still alive ; now I know that he is really dead ; but I was so struck by the news that I lost my memory." And then came a false lucidity in which I said : " Now I know that I dream and where I am." But this was all wrong ; 1 had no idea of my real condition, and only slowly, after waking up, I realised that it was all nonsense. Tins sort of mockery I call demoniacal. And there is a connection, which I observed so frecpiently that it must have some significance, — namely, that a lucid dream is immediately followed by a demon-dream, of type (F).

I hope you allow me, if only for convenience' sake, to speak as if these intelligences of a low moral order exist. Let me call it also a working hypothesis. Then I wish to point out to you the difference between the symbolic or mocking dreams, of type (C), and the demon-dreams of type (F). In type (C) the sleeper is teased or puzzled or harassed by various more or less weird, uncanny, obscene, lugubrious or diabolical inventions. He has to walk in slaughter-houses or among corpses ; he finds everything besmeared with blood or excrement ; he is drawn into obscene, erotic or horrible scenes, in which he even takes an active part. His moral condition is utterly depraved ; lie is a murderer, an adulterer, etc. ; in a word, nothing is too low or too horrible for such dreams. After waking up the effect is, of course, unpleasant ; he is more or less ashamed and shocked ; he tries to shake off the memory as soon as possible. Now in type (F) — the demon-dreams — which are always very near, before or after, the lucid dreams, type (K) — I undergo similar attacks ; but I see the forms, the figures, the personalities of strange non-human beings, who are doing it. One night, for instance, I saw such a being, going before me and soiling everything he touched, such as door-handles and chairs. These beings are always obscene and lascivious, and try to draw me into their acts and doings. They have no sex and appear alternately as a man, or a woman. Their aspect is very various and variable, changing every moment, taking all the fantastic forms that the old painters of the Middle Ages tried to reproduce, but with a certain weird plasticity and variability, that no painting can express.

I will describe one instance of these dreams (March 30, 1907, in Berlin), following immediately after a lucid dream. The lucidity had not been very intense, and I had some doubts about my real condition. Then all at once I was in the middle of demons. Never before had I seen them so distinct, so impertinent, so aggressive. One was slippery, shining, limp and cold; like a living corpse. Another changed its face repeatedly and made the most incredible grimaces. One flew underneath me shouting an obscenity with a curious slangword. I defended myself energetically, but principally with invectives, which I felt to be a weakness. I saw the words written. The circle of demons was close to me and grinning; like a mob of brutal street-boys. I was not afraid, however, and said : " Even if you conquer me, if God wills it I do not fear." Then they all cried together like a rabble, and one said : " Let God then speak first ! " Then I thundered with all my might : " He hak spoken long since ! " And then I pointed at one of them, saying : " You I know for a long time ! " and then pointing to another : " And you ! "

Then I awoke at once, and I believe I made some audible sound in waking up in the middle of my apostrophe. And then — this will astonish you most — after this dispute I felt thoroughly refreshed, cheered up and entirely serene and calm. This is the principal difference from type (C), that in J)r. Frederik van Eeden. type (F), when I sec the demons and fight them, the effect is thoroughly pleasing, refreshing and uplifting. I may take it for granted that the majority of psychologists, reading the description of such a vivid dream, would feel absolutely sure that there was something the matter with my body, — some indigestion, some oppression or the like. As a matter of fact my physical health was perfect, my doubts were only moral, and the effect of this nightmare, which had none of the real anguish of a nightmare, was pleasant, beneficial and refreshing. This is the principal point in these demon-dreams, — that, whether these beings have a real existence or whether they are only creations of my fancy, to see them and to fight them takes away all their terror, all the uncanniness, the weirdness, of their tricks and pranks.

I have not yet spoken about type (G), which I call " wrong waking up," occurring always near awakening. Of this sort of dream I found an excellent instance described by Mach, in his Analyse eler Empfindungen, p. 130. He calls it " Phantasma." We have the sensation of waking up in our ordinary sleeping-room and then we begin to realise that there is something uncanny around us ; we see inexplicable movements or hear strange noises, and then we know that we are still asleep. In my first experience of this dream I was rather afraid and wanted nervously to wake up really. 1 think this is the case with most people who have it. They become frightened and nervous, and at last wake up with palpitations, a sweating; brow and so on. To me now these wrong-waking-up-dreains have lost their terror. I consider them as demon-pranks, and they amuse me; they do not tell on my nerves any more. In July, 1906, sleeping at Langen Schwalbach, a deep sleep after a laborious day, I had two or three dreams of the type (G). I seemed to wake up and heard a big luggage-box being Mown along the landing, with a tremendous bumping. Then I realised that I had awakened in the demon-sphere. The second time I saw that my sleeping-room had three windows, though I knew there were only two. Wishing to make sure, I woke up for a moment voluntarily and realised that my room had two windows and that stillness had reigned in the house all night.

After that I had a succession of lucid dreams, very beautiful. At the end of them, while I was still singing loudly, I was suddenly surrounded by many demons, who joined in my singing, like a mob of vicious semi-savage creatures. Then I felt that I was losing my self-control. I began to act more and more extravagantly, to throw my bedclothes and my pillows about, and so on. I drew myself up and saw one demon who had a less vicious look than the others and he looked as if he were saying " You are going wrong." " Yes," I said, " but what shall I do ? " Then he said, " Give them the whip, on their naked backs." And I thought of Dante's shades, who also feared the whip. I at once made — created — a whip of leathern strings, with leaden balls at the end. And I threatened them with it and also struck at them a few times. Then suddenly all grew perfectly quiet around me, and I saw the creatures sneaking away with hypocritical faces, as if they knew nothing about it at all. I had many more adventures that night, lucid and common dreams, and I awoke fresh and cheerful, better in spirits than I had been for a long time.

This wrong-waking-up, type (G), is not to be confused with the dreams related on p. 449, in which I dreamt that I woke after a lucid dream and told that dream to some listener. Those dreams were of the common sort (A). There was nothing uncanny about them. Dreams of Class (Gr) are undoubtedly demoniacal, uncanny, and very vivid and bright, with a sort of ominous sharpness and clearness, a strong diabolical light. Moreover the mind of the sleeper is aware that it is a dream, and a bad one, and he struggles to wake up. As I said just now, however, the terror ends as soon as the demons are seen— as soon as the sleeper realises that he must be the dupe of intelligences of a low moral order. I am prepared to hear myself accused of superstition, of reviving the dark errors of the Middle Ages. Well, I only try to tell the facts as clearly as possible and I cannot do it without using these terms and ideas. If anybody will replace them by others, I am open to any suggestion. Only I would maintain that it is not my mind that is responsible for all the horrors and errors of dream-life. To say that nobody is responsible for them will not do, for there is absolute evidence in them of

some thought and intention, however depraved and low. A trick, a deceit, a symbol, cannot be without some sort of thought and intention. To put it all down to " unconsciousness " is very convenient ; but then I say that it is just as scientific to use the names Beelzebub, or Belial. I, for one, do not believe in " unconsciousness " any more than in Santa Claus. Finally, I must say a few words about class (I), what I call pathological dreams. I know that psychologists of a certain class will call all dreams more or less pathological, and those that I have described most emphatically so. And I should not wonder, knowing some of their ways of argumentation, if they were to bring forward those very dreams as evidence that my health is by no means so good as I maintain it to be. I can only say that I believe, on the contrary, that this dream-life has saved me from loss of nervous or mental equilibrium in periods of terrible strain. Those who know what I have "one through often wonder that I did not become a neurasthenic. I ascribe my freshness after severe labour and difficulties to a great extent to the relaxing and refreshing effect of these lucid dreams. As to true pathological dreams under the influence of fever, indigestion, morphia, or other drugs, I have very little experience. I remember, however, quite well that they show a strongly demoniacal character. They may be similar to several other forms described in my Table, except type (E). But all of them are more confused, weird, vivid and vicious.

The remark may be made that in introducing intelligent beings of a low order to explain these phenomena, an element of arbitrariness is brought in, which excludes the possibility of finding a scientific order. It is, for instance, convenient to ascribe all the phenomena of insanity and of pathological dreams to demons, who make use of the weakness of the body to play their tricks. This is, in fact, the opinion of no less a man than Alfred Hussel Wallace, as he freely 'confessed to me in a personal conversation. I do not think, however, that even this idea, taken as a working hypothesis, will prevent us from trying to find a scientific order even in these apparently demoniacal tricks ; the fact, for instance, that certain drugs bring about halluci- lxvii.] A Study of Dreams. 459 nations of a well-defined kind ; that cocaine produces delicious expectations and pleasant dreams, and alcohol causes visions of small white animals. This suggests that there must he some order behind it, which is not purely arbitrary. We are here, however, on the borders of a realm of mystery where we have to advance very carefully. To deny may be just as dangerous and misleading as to accept.

I should like to close this all too brief and imperfect sketch with a few reflections — a few philosophical remarks. When we see certain objects, say the blue sky, we have learned to explain this phenomenon by an infinitely complicated process. To bring about this simple fact, the perception of a blue sky, we require not less than trillions of vibrations of the most subtle kind, coming from the sun, and striking an instrument so wonderfully elaborate and fine as our retinas and the optic nerves. And now, during sleep, the same phenomenon is repeated, — exactly repeated. When I see the blue sky in a lucid dream, I see it as clearly, as brightly, as consciously as I now see this paper. Pray, what is the difference ? Are these trillions of vibrations and the wonderful machinery of the retinas not wanted ? How is this second image then created ? Psychologists speak of " hallucinations," of " cliche-souvenirs," of " imaginary objects," and so on. But these are all empty words. We have two phenomena exactly alike. For one we accept causes endlessly subtle, elaborate and complicated. For the other we simply use a word : " Hallucination." The retina is not functioning, the light does not penetrate to it ; yet the phenomenon is repeated in a perfectly complete manner. Who performs this miracle ? It seems to me a mockery of our physical science. After years of painful study the laws of light and colour, and the mechanics of the nervous system were discovered to account for the phenomenon :

the sight of a blue sky. And yet there it is again without aethervibrations, without ocular action ; there it is, perfect, vivid, clear, well-observed. Unstable, you will say, and vanishing. But so are all phenomena. Only the order of changing is different ; the momentary fact is the same. I will not here attempt to deduce any conclusion from this ; I simply wish to point out what so many men of science seem to forget. We

hear Freud's triumphant assertion that all dream-life is now explained. Mach says : " Die Sonderbarkeiten des Traums lassen sich alle darauf zuruckfiihren, dass manche Empfindungen und Vorstellungen gar nicht, andere zu schwer und zu spat ins Bewusstsein treten." You hear it ; — all mystery is now explained by these few empty words. Did you ever see such things as " sensations " or "representations" "walking into consciousness" as if they were tourists and " consciousness " a hotel ? These are all words, words, words, — bare verbiage ; no concrete reality can be attached to such an explanation. It is against this scientific arrogance that I utter a warning. No theory has as yet explained all about dreams ; no ! not even more than the tiniest part. We have not yet crossed the threshold of that world, which for us is still " occult." And yet we desire to know. We are thinking beings ; we are proud of doing nothing without forethought. We wish to look before us. And what is the only absolute certainty before us ? Bodily death ; complete material destruction. And if I had to believe that this meant destruction of my mind ; if to-morrow should mean annihilation of myself, — that is, everything of which I have knowledge ; — well, what would to-morrow be for me ? Why should I, as a reasonable being, toil and work and suffer any longer ? It would be absurd, a foolishness !

The twentieth century has begun with many an enlightenment, " auf klarung " in all directions. Men of science have been severely reminded that they had been creating illusions instead of following truth ; that they had been indulging in verbiage and rhetoric, where they were pretending to build up eternal systems. The ideas of a clever thinker like Bergson are not so very wonderful in themselves ; but the way he expresses them and the fact that he is gaining wide authority is remarkable and wonderful. He reminded psychologists that memory could not be matter, and that the brain could not be a store-house of "cliche-souvenirs." Psychologists could not contradict this; they know the fact now ; but do they grasp its significance ? If memory is not brain, then brain can be destroyed without destroying memory. If psychical facts and not material facts are the primary facts, then the psyche is more persistent than matter. And if matter is indestructible, then mind and memory are still more so. That is to say, my memory and yours, — not somebody else's memory. /, myself, must persist. But how ? I have a rational certainty of immortality ; I know that I, my own self, my memory, is indestructible ; but the tremendous question is, what am I to expect ? How will it be ?

No existing religion can give a satisfactory answer, no philosophy even. For I know, as a psychologist, that there is no religion that has not been the dupe of illusions, and no philosophy that has not been the dupe of language, and of want of significal insight. We want facts, certitude, investigation along lines of experience, of real concrete things. No premature theories, no verbal structures, no amount of scholarly learning without deep insight will satisfy us. And once more it must be repeated that facts are not the less concrete and real because they are purely psychical facts, and cannot yet be made to fit into any existing orderly system.