Part 18

"I am often led into pretty fantasies, of which I will give an illustration. Consternation was spread everywhere because the news had been received of King Winter's determination to establish his rule permanently in the temperate zones. The stern monarch fulfilled his threat all too soon; for, although it was mid-summer, yet the whole ocean was suddenly frozen, and all the boats and steamers were stuck fast in the ice. Commerce was ruined, and starvation was unavoidable. The flowers and trees shared in the universal sorrow, and bravely strove to keep alive through the summer. Finally, overcome by the intense cold, they dropped their leaves and blossoms, which they had kept fresh and spotless to the last. Slowly the flowers fluttered down and lay at King Winter's feet, silently supplicating him to show mercy, but all in vain. They froze unheeded, and were changed into pearls, diamonds, and turquoises.

"Another time I took it into my head to climb to the stars. I sprang up into the air, and was borne upward by a strong impulse. I could not see or hear; but my mind was my guide as well as my interpreter. Higher and higher I rose, until I was very close to the stars. Their intense light prevented me from coming any nearer; so I hung on invisible wings, fascinated by the rolling spheres and the constant play of light and shadow, which my thoughts reflected. All at once I lost my balance, I knew not how, and down, down I rushed through empty space, till I struck violently against a tree, and my body sank to the ground. The shock waked me up, and for a moment I thought all my bones were broken to atoms.

"I have said all that I can remember concerning my dreams; but what really surprises me is this; sometimes, in the midst of a nightmare, I am conscious of a desire to wake up, and I make a vigorous effort to break the spell. Something seems to hold my senses tightly, and it is only with a spasmodic movement that I can open my eyes. Even then I feel, or I think I feel, a rapid motion shaking my bed and a sound of light, swift footsteps. It seems strange to me that I should make such an effort to wake up, instead of doing it automatically."

This faithful and dramatic sketch is replete with specific as well as with generic corroborations of the distinctive results of the present inquiry. The differences between the dream experiences of Helen Keller before and after education are quite consistent with comparable results in the cases of other defectives--although dreams of her uneducated period seem to occur rarely if at all, and it is not possible to determine how soon after she began to speak, such speech-communication made its appearance in her dreams. It is interesting to note that oral speech, when once acquired, speedily superseded manual talking, and that automatic talking aloud in her sleep appeared; the finger alphabet became almost obsolete in her waking life, and likewise in her dreams. Yet the persistence of early acquired habits is strikingly shown in her occasional unconscious tendency to talk to herself by forming the letters with one hand against the palm of the other. These processes she seems to utilize quite automatically and unconsciously as aids to composition or to "thinking aloud."

In regard to the source and content of her dreams, the more realistic episodes reflect their perceptional origin in tactile and motor experiences; such are the attack of the wolf, the fall from a height, the reception of information through the palm, reading the raised print,--while dreams of flying naturally present the same elaboration of sensory elements as in normally equipped individuals. The dreams of seeing and hearing probably reflect far more of conceptual interpretation and imaginative inference than of true sensation; yet they are in part built up upon a sensory basis,--in the former case, that of the heat sensations radiating from a brilliant illumination (witness the flames of the conflagration, the "intense light" of the stars), in the latter of vibrational or jarring sensations communicated to the body (as in the torrent of Niagara). But, on the whole, the direct sensory tone of her dream life is weak; while for this very reason, possibly, the imaginative and "transferred" components are unusually dominant. The associative elaboration of fancies in dream life is rarely capable of simple analysis, and commonly reveals results, and not the processes or stages by which the results were reached. Dependent, as Helen Keller is so largely, upon the communication of others for her knowledge of what is going on about her, it is natural that this transferred communication should be important in her dream knowledge. That her consciousness of the process of such acquisition should be vague and difficult to express is natural; and the phrases "my thoughts declared," "my mind acts as a sort of mirror," "I was informed," are as satisfactory psychologically as could be expected. It is, however, in dreams not of external incidents involving vaguely transferred or directly communicated information, but in the free roamings of creative imagination, that the dream life of Helen Keller finds its most suitable métier; it is in this direction that this dream narrative, reflecting, as it does, her rich emotional nature and enthusiastically sympathetic temperament, presents its most distinctive and attractive aspect.

Returning to the general data regarding the dreams of the blind, the question that next suggests itself is whether and how, in cases where blindness ensued after a remembered period of vision, the pre-blindness period is distinguished from the post-blindness period in dream-imagery. It was noticed, for instance, that the blind and deaf young man mentioned above, though seeing in his dreams, never thus saw the shop in which he worked. It is easy to imagine that the more or less sudden loss of sight, the immersion into a strange and dark world, would for a time leave the individual living entirely upon the past. His remembered experiences are richer and more vivid (we are supposing his blindness to occur after childhood) than those he now has; he is learning a new language and translates everything back into the old. His dreams will naturally continue to be those of his seeing life. As his experiences in his new surroundings increase, and the memory of the old begins to fade, the tendency of recent impressions to arise in the automatism of dreaming will bring the events of the post-blindness period as factors into his dreams. I find in my list only seven who do not have such dreams; and in these the blindness has been on the average of only 2.8 years standing. The average age of "blinding" of the seven is fifteen years, making it probable that the adaptation to the new environment has here been a slow one, and that such dreams will occur later on. On the other hand, cases occur in which, after three, two, or even one year's blindness, when the persons so afflicted were young, events happening within that period have been dreamed of. Heermann cites a case of a man of seventy who never dreamed of the hospital in which he had been living for eighteen years, and to which he was brought shortly after his blindness. This and other cases suggest that the more mature and settled the brain-tissue, the more difficult is it to impress upon it new conditions sufficiently deeply to have them appear in the automatic life of dreams.

Whether there is a difference in the vividness, or any other characteristic which sight would lend, in the dreams of events before and after blindness, is a question to which I could obtain few intelligent and satisfactory answers; but, as far as they go, the tendency of these replies is to show that when blindness ensues close upon the critical period of five to seven years of age, the power of vivid dream-vision is more exclusively limited to the events of the years of full sight; and, as Heermann pointed out, this power is often subject to a comparatively early decay. Similarly, I find that those who lose their sight near the critical age are not nearly so apt to retain color in their dream-vision as those who become blind later on. The average age of "blinding" of twenty-four persons who have colored dream-vision, is 16.6 years, including one case in which blindness set in as early as the seventh year. All who see enough to see color, have colored dream-vision.

I also asked those who became blind in youth, or later, whether they were in the habit of giving imaginary faces to the persons they met after their blindness, and whether they ever saw such in their dreams. Some answered in very vague terms, but several undoubtedly make good use of this power, probably somewhat on the same basis as we imagine the appearance of eminent men of whom we have read or heard, but whose features we have never seen. When we remember how erroneous such impressions often are, we can understand how easily it may mislead the blind. Such imaginary faces and scenes also enter into their dreams, but to a less extent than into those of the sighted. Dr. Kitto quotes a letter from a musician who lost his sight when eighteen years old, but who retains a very strong visualizing power both in waking life and in dreams. The mention of a famous man, of a friend, or of a scene, always carries with it a visual picture, complete and vivid. Moreover, these images of his friends are reported to change as the friends grow old; and he feels himself intellectually in no way different from the seeing.

This leads naturally to the consideration of the power of the imagination in the blind. It is not difficult to understand that they are deprived of one powerful means of cultivating this faculty, that the eye is in one sense the organ of the ideal. Their knowledge is more realistic and tangible, and so their dreams often, though by no means always, lack all poetical characteristics, and are very commonplace. Ghosts, elves, fairies, monsters, and all the host of strange romance that commonly people dreams, are not nearly so well represented as in the dreams of the sighted. What is almost typical in the dreams of the latter is unusual in the dreams of the blind, especially of those early blind. Many observe that such dreams grow rare as they outgrow their youth, which is probably true of the sighted. When the blind dream of ghosts they either hear them, and that usually not until they are close at hand, or they are actually touched by them. A blind man, describing a dream in which his friend appeared to him, said: "Then I dreamt that he tried to frighten me, and make believe he was a ghost, by pushing me down sideways," etc. By some the ghost is heard only; it has a rough voice, and its bones rattle; or it pursues the victim, humming and groaning as it runs.

Contrary to the opinions of some writers, I find hearing, and not the group of tactual-motor sensations, to be the chief sense with the blind, both in waking and in dreams. That hearing owes very much of this supremacy to its being the vehicle of conversation, goes without saying. Many of the blind dream almost exclusively in this sense, and it is quite generally spoken of as the most important. Even those who see a little, often regard hearing as their most useful sense; those who see well enough to see color, almost invariably claim for their partial sight an importance exceeding that of hearing. Next in importance to hearing is the group of sensations accompanying motion. An important item in the dreams of the sighted is furnished by this complex of sensations, and the same is true of the blind; almost all remember such dreams, and some make this their most important avenue of sensation. Yet such a purely artificial movement as reading the raised type with the finger almost never occurs in dreams. The boys dream of playing, running, jumping, and so on; the men of broom-making, piano-tuning, teaching, and similar work; the girls of sewing, fancy work, household work, and the like.

There is often ascribed to the blind a somewhat mystical sense, by which they can tell the presence and even the nature of objects, and can feel their way. As far as such a power exists, it depends upon a complex group of sensations, and includes the cultivation of the irradiation sense, which we all possess. It is not at all difficult to tell whether a large object is within a few inches of the hand, by the fact that it modifies the air currents and heat radiations reaching the hand. This is especially the case if the temperature of the object be somewhat different from that of the room, or if it be an object like metal, which rapidly exchanges its heat. In sunlight the shadows of stones and posts can be thus detected; and the illumination of a room, both as to its source and extent, can be judged. This sense the blind carefully, though often unconsciously, cultivate, and I have heard it spoken of by them as "facial perception," because the face seems to be most sensitive to this kind of change. Many mention that the power fails them under the influence of a headache or similar nervousness. The question whether the position of a door, whether opened or closed, could be told at a distance was variously answered; about half testified that they could do so mainly by the aid of this facial perception. This enters in a vague way into their dreams, but seldom plays an important rôle.

The stories attributing to the blind rather wonderful notions of color have, on careful examination, been readily explained by natural means; the use of words referring to color is often merely verbal (of this both Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller furnish many excellent examples), while the knowledge of the colors of special objects is obtained by inference, based upon texture, appropriateness, and similar characteristics. The analogies between color and sound have been frequently described within recent years. Mr. Galton has recorded many cases in which the sounds of the vowels, of words, of musical notes, and the like, immediately summon to the mental eye an appropriate color, often with a peculiar outline and shading. One person could actually read sounds out of a wall-paper pattern, or write the sounds in the name Francis Galton in colors. It seemed possible that the blind might obtain or receive some dim notions of color by a similar process; and Dr. Kitto and the blind teacher, Friedrich Scherer, mention that such is the case, though to a very slight extent. The latter calls musical instruments the bridge across which color comes to him. (He became blind when two years old.) The flute is his symbol of green, the swelling organ tones of blue. The trumpet is red, the hunter's horn dark green and violet, a general confusion of tones is gray, while pink and crimson are associated with the feeling of velvet. In my list occurs the record of a young man twenty years old, and blind for three years. He saw colors on hearing certain sounds soon after his blindness, and claims that he is thus able to keep alive his notions of color. To him an alto voice is gray; a soprano, white; a tenor, yellow; a bass, black. My own voice suggested a dark background. A few words are also colored to him; the sound of Smith seems yellow. These analogies, however, are fanciful and rare. They belong to a region of mental phenomena, of great complexity, in which associations and idiosyncracies have free play, and seem as little capable of definite explanation as much of the stuff that dreams are made of.

A brief selection of instances from the collection of dreams and parts of dreams which these blind people have put at my command, may serve to reinforce the several factors of the dream-life of the blind which have been commented upon. Many of the dreams present no special differentiation from those of the seeing, but the most carefully recorded ones usually reveal some traces of a defective or peculiar apperception. A blind boy with more than usual imagination dreamed that he was in a battle in which Alexander the Great put the Gauls to flight; he heard the thunder of the cannon, but saw no flash. A young man dreamed that his mother was dead; this he knew by the cold touch of her body. He next heard the chanting of the Mass at her funeral. This young man at times improvises airs in his dreams. A partially-sighted girl dreams repeatedly of a wide river, and is afraid of being dashed across it, while anxious to secure the flowers on the opposite bank, which she dimly sees. A boy dreamed of being picked up by some mysterious agency, and then suddenly allowed to fall from a tremendous height. Here he awoke, and found his head at the foot of the bed. Another dreamed of the Judgment Day, mainly in terms of hearing. He was drawn to heaven by a rope, clinging to a pole used for exercising; he heard the trumpets sounding, and the voices singing, and so on. One dreamed that he was on a steamboat which suddenly sank, whereupon he quietly walked ashore. Another, that his father saw some wild people in the water, and swam out and rescued them; another, of a large conflagration, of which he saw nothing, but was constantly receiving reports from the bystanders. A girl dreamed that she was sent by her aunt to get a loaf of bread from the cellar, and was cautioned not to step too far down in the cellar, because there was water there; upon arriving at the dangerous place she stood still, and called for her aunt. Another dreamed of chivalry, as the result of reading "Ivanhoe;" another of visiting Lincoln and being much impressed with the strangeness of the place; another of her examination in physics--she placed a piece of glass on her finger, and showed its centre of gravity, when the glass fell and broke with a crash; on another occasion she dreamed that she was sick, went to the doctor, and recovered her full sight, and things looked strange and unfamiliar when compared with the knowledge she had derived from touch.

The study of the dreams of the blind thus emphasizes many points of interest in the nature and development of the cortical centres of the human brain; it graphically illustrates the explanatory power of the modern view of their functions; and it presents in a new aspect certain characteristics of their constitution. It shows beyond a question that the power of apperceiving sight-images is in no true sense innate, but is the product of slow development and long training. That the same holds true of other centres is proved by a mass of evidence gathered from many quarters; with regard to the motor centres, it is even experimentally determined by the observation that stimulation of the central convolutions of the brains of puppies fails to excite the appropriate movements of the legs, unless the puppies are already nine or ten days old. These facts will be utilized in the formulation of an important developmental law applicable alike to physiological and to psychological processes.

The "critical period," revealed by the above research, must not be understood as marking the point at which the visual centre begins its life; this indeed occurs at a much earlier age, and this centre from the outset and continuously increases in complexity and stability. Nor was the statement made that there was no difference here relevant, between the loss of vision at different ages before the critical period. That a child who has seen up to the fourth, or the third, or even the second year of life, probably retains some traces of visualizing not attainable by those who attended the school of vision for a shorter time or not at all, is believed on evidence of a general, but not as yet of a specific nature. Among other facts it is indicated by the influence of the age of blinding on the future development of noted blind persons. Similarly, after the critical period, the same processes of growth and assimilation continue, as is evidenced by the vague character and comparatively early decay of the dream-vision of those becoming blind close upon the end of the seventh year. The more time spent in gathering in the provisions, the longer do they hold out. The significance of the critical period lies in its demonstrating a point in the growth of the higher sense-centres, at which a divorce from sense-impression is no longer followed by a loss of their psychical meaning; a point at which imagination and abstraction find a sufficiently extended and firmly knit collection of experiences to enable them to build up and keep alive their important functions; a point where the scholar dispenses with the object-lesson and lives off his capital; a point at which the scaffolding may be torn down and the edifice will stand.

The indication of such a period in the development of the human mind brings clearly into view the dependence of the higher mental processes upon the basis furnished them by the experiences of sensation; it strongly suggests a rational order and proportion in the training of the several faculties of the child's mind; and finally, it prevents the formation and survival of false notions, by substituting certain definite though incomplete knowledge for much indefinite though very systematic speculation.

FOOTNOTES:

A noted blind teacher of the blind says: "Wenn wir ... den Einfluss der Blindheit auf die geistige Thätigkeit des Blinden beobachten, so haben wir Blindgeborene und Blindgewordene ... streng auseinander zu halten."

This applies mainly to intellectual acquirements. The emotional life of those who have lost their sight is often, and with much truth, regarded as sadder and more dreary than that of the congenitally blind; the former regretfully appreciate what they have lost; the latter live in a different and more meagre world, but have never known any other. It is interesting in this connection to trace the influence of the age of "blinding" (sit venia verbo) on the mental development of eminent blind men and women. Of a list of 125 blind persons of very various degrees of talent, which I have been able to collect, the age of blinding was (approximately) ascertainable in 114 cases. Of these about 11 are really very distinguished, and 10 of them (the exception is the wonderful mathematician, Nicholas Saunderson) became blind either in advanced youth, middle life, or still later; of the group next in eminence (about 25) the average age of the onset of blindness is in early youth (at nine or ten years); and those earliest blind are generally musicians, who least of all require sight for their calling. The average age of blinding of the rest of the list--whose achievements would for the most part not have been recorded had they not been those of blind persons--is as low as seven years, while that of the musicians (about 15 in the group) is little over three years. All this speaks strongly for the permanent intellectual importance of sight in early education.

Dr. Heermann's observations also enable us to trace the anatomical conditions underlying the power of dream-vision. From ten cases in which post-mortem examinations were held, he concludes that, allowing for much individual difference, after about twenty years the optic nerves degenerate, and often as far back as the chiasma. This shows that the nerve is not necessary for dream-vision, and thus goes to prove that the process is dependent on cerebral organs--a valuable piece of evidence fifty years ago. Esquirol records a case of sight-hallucinations in a blind woman, again indicating the same conclusion.

A further interesting question regarding the dream-vision of the partially blind is, How much must they be able to see in order to dream of seeing? In answering this question, the blind give the name "seeing" to what is really a complex of sensations and judgments, and this same complex may enter into their dreams. Cases occur in which there is only the slightest remnant of sight, and yet this forms a factor in dream-life. It is a very imperfect kind of vision, and acts more as a general sense of illumination, and as an anticipatory sense. Generally speaking, those who know color have more frequent and brighter dream-vision than those who distinguish light and shade only. For example, of those partially blind from birth, such as see color tolerably well (there are sixteen such) have regular dream-vision--of course, no clearer than their best days of sight. Of eleven who have some faint notion of color, three have dream-vision regularly; six have it rarely, while two (almost never or) never have it. Of eleven who can see no color at all, ten have no dream-vision, and one has it occasionally.

That even a comparatively slight disturbance of vision, affecting only a small portion of the visual experience, can leave a permanent trace upon the sight-centre is made very probable by a case (recorded by Dr. McCosh, Cognitive Powers, p. 106) of a young man whose defect consisted in his seeing everything double,--a defect which a subsequent operation removed. "If I attempt," he writes, "to recall scenes that I saw while my eyes were out of order, I invariably see them as they appeared during that time, although I may have seen them many times since the operation. For instance, in the case of the minister in the pulpit at home, I see two images of him, no matter how much I may try to get rid of one of them.... My recollection of the office in which the operation was performed, as also of everything in it, is double, although I saw it only twice before the restoration of my sight, and many times after. The objects which I have seen since the operation are always single when recalled."

I have gathered considerable data in regard to the dreams of the deaf, but they are not ready for definite formulation.

From Dr. Hall's manuscript. Dr. Hall had the opportunity of observing her during three short naps, and has incorporated a part of his manuscript into a paper on Laura Bridgman, republished in his Aspects of German Culture, pp. 268-270. From this manuscript I take the following illustrations of her dreams, and her method of describing them. They are recorded verbatim.

"Question. 'Do you dream often?' Answer. 'Very often, many things.' Q. 'Did you think hard yesterday to remember dreams for me?' A. 'I did try, but I always forget very soon.' Q. 'Did you ever dream to hear?' [Her idiom for 'that you could hear.'] A. 'Only the angels playing in heaven.' Q. 'How did it sound?' A. 'Very beautiful.' Q. 'Like what?' A. 'Nothing.' Q. 'Was it loud?' A. 'Yes, very.' Q. 'What instrument?' A. 'Piano.' Q. 'How did the angels look?' A. 'Beautiful.' Q. 'Had they wings?' A. 'I could not know.' Q. 'Were they men or women?' A. 'Don't know.' Q. 'Can you describe their dress?' A. 'No.' Q. 'Was the music fast or slow?' A. 'I cannot tell.' On another occasion she was asked, 'Did you ever dream to see?' A. 'I could see the sun.' Q. 'How did it look?' A. 'Glorious.' Q. 'What color?' A. 'I cannot tell' [with a sign of great impatience]. Q. 'Was it very bright?' A. 'Yes.' Q. 'Did it hurt your eyes?' A. 'Yes, they ached.' Q. 'What was it like?' A. 'Nothing. I saw it with my eyes' [much excited, breathing hard and fast, and pointing to her right eye]. Some days later, after some promptings from her attendants, she renewed the subject of her own accord, as follows: 'I remember once a dream. I was in a very large place. It was very glorious and full of people. My father and mother were standing by. The glorious piano was playing. When I heard the music I raised up my hand so' [standing and pointing impressively upward and forward with the index finger, as the letter g is made in the deaf and dumb alphabet] 'to my heavenly Father. I tried to say God.' Q. 'With your fingers?' A. 'Yes.' Q. 'Where was God?' A. 'So' [pointing as before]. Q. 'Far away?' A. 'No.' Q. 'Could you touch him?' A. 'No.' Q. 'How did you know he was there?' A. 'I cannot tell.' Q. 'How did you know it was God?' A. 'I cannot explain.' Q. 'What was he like?' A. [After a pause] 'I cannot tell everything to everybody' [half playfully, whipping her right hand with her left, and touching her forehead significantly, to indicate that she was unable adequately to express what was in her mind]. Q. 'Could he touch you?' A. 'No. He is a spirit.' Q. 'Did he see you?' A. 'He sees everything. See how melancholy I look because I do not feel interested.' On another occasion she said, 'I often dream that Doctor Howe is alive and very sick,' but no details could be elicited. Again, after imitating the gait of different people, she said, 'I dream often of people walking. I dream many things, but do not remember what I really dream. I used to dream of animals running around the room, and it woke me.'"

It is evident that her dreams of hearing and seeing were either merely verbal, or the substitution and elaboration of kindred sensations (sense of jar and heat) which she experienced. For further examples of her dreams see her Life and Education, by Mrs. Lamson, pp. 88, 154, 166-168, 218, 223, 224, 226, 286, 290, 303, 304.

The Lost Senses, by John Kitto. Dr. Kitto draws an ingenious inference from the sonnet addressed by Milton to his deceased (second) wife, whom he married after the onset of his blindness. From the lines, "I trust to have | Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint," and "The face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight," etc., he argues that the poet was unable to imagine the face of his wife, which he had never really seen, and so saw the face veiled; but hoped in the future world to have "full sight of her without restraint."

I have evidence to indicate that among the blind (as probably amongst persons at large) women dream more extensively than men, that is, they have more "frequent" and fewer "occasional" dreamers than men. The period from five to nine years is richer in dreams than the period from ten to fourteen years, and from then on a slight decrease with age occurs. It is to childhood, the period of lively imagination and of a highly tinged emotional life (and to women, who present these characteristics more prominently than men), that dream-life brings its richest harvest.