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a casserole is to revert to the methods of the celebrated Mrs Parkinson, who sought to keep out the Atlantic with a mop.

Vitamines have been very aptly described as exogenous hormones. They are as necessary to the endocrine glands as the hormones of the glands are necessary to the organism. Without vitamines there can be no healthy endocrines; without endocrines there can be no healthy vegetative system; and without a healthy vegetative system there can be no healthy mind. Thus the old saying of "mens sana in corpore sano," always generally, if rather academically, admitted, receives additional and intimate support from an examination of the most recently unveiled wheels of our fearful and wonderful being.

In venturing to submit the foregoing considerations it has been my purpose to bring you to a realisation of the fact that the unconscious or subconscious does not reside in Parnassus or Olympus, but that it has an earthly and perhaps a very earthy dwelling here below. That dwelling is not indeed, like the brain, the organ of the conscious, a castled tower flanked by sweeping walls with loophole grates where captives weep—a self-contained manorial abode-but is constituted by many huts, most of them of primitive design and of lowly construction peopled by a primal community whose members pour all their powers into tasks whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. You do well to probe the unconscious, to test and interrogate it, but you will never do these things to any real purpose until you consent to come down from Olympus and forsake your present affection for somnambulism in order to study physiological realities. You will arrive at much better results and more helpful if you will turn from the rather fanciful analysis of unsubstantial dreams in order seriously to study the evidences of the endocrine pattern. They, and they alone, can read you riddles and show you miracles.



In his most fascinating analysis of Jensen's Gradiva, Professor Freud remarks that "our author has omitted to give the motive whence originates the repression of the erotic life of his hero1." Some two years ago it fell to my lot to analyse the life-history of a young man, which reminded me so forcibly of the story of Gradiva that I deem it worthy of record as throwing light upon the motivation of such a repression.

The young man in question, whom I will call B., was a curate of the Anglican Church aged thirty-two. He was sent to me by a colleague because on two occasions within the previous six months he had wandered off on foot on long fugues with no subsequent knowledge of the events which had occurred during them or of the motives which had prompted them. B.'s mother, whom I saw just prior to my first interview with him, volunteered the information that he was the second of two children and had always been very attached to his home, but though considerate for all he showed particularly a respect and 'reverence' for his father. He was of a fanciful disposition and as a child had manifested a lively curiosity, 'wanting to know and do everything.' He had been in many ways precocious, but his career had frequently been interrupted by illhealth. B. supplemented the above by stating that he suffered from headache, insomnia and anxiety dreams; adding that two dreams recurred frequently with only slight variations. He was afraid of being alone and afraid of waking in the dark, and on this account had recently been sleeping with his father. When asked why he was wearing spectacles he stated that his eyes had been weak, sometimes almost blind, since his early school days, but as this had been attributed to overwork, he laid no stress upon it, especially since several oculists had assured him that no serious organic defect existed.

At the time of his first fugue B. was working as a curate in a parish near Birmingham. He had not been well for some time before this. and his sleep had been disturbed, not only by dreams, but by a feeling that all night his mind was at work trying to solve conundrums, chess

1 S. Freud, Delusion and Dream. English trans. by H. M. Downey, p. 160.

problems, etc. His eyes also had been a source of trouble to him, and altogether he had felt that something which he did not understand was taking place. He sought to blame his surroundings for this and decided it would be better if he could get away from them. Yet he strove all the harder to concentrate upon his work. Feeling, however, that there was something he needed to think out he began to go for little walks between his duties. One afternoon after calling upon a lady, to arrange with her some detail that her husband was to perform at a service, which B. proposed to conduct that evening he went for a walk, which developed into his first fugue from Birmingham to Blackpool: a distance of some 120 miles.

At first B. had no recollection of his fugue, but during analysis the steps were retraced and many of them verified by circumstantial evidence. He first changed his clerical collar and put on an old overcoat, then set out northwards avoiding as far as possible the main roads and following by night a star, whose glimmer exercised a peculiar fascination over him. During the earlier stage of his journey he fancied that C., an old school friend, was accompanying him, but later thinking that C. must have got left behind, he sent him several post-cards informing him of his progress and mentioning points of interest on the route.

After four days he arrived in an exhausted condition at Blackpool; a place he had known well as a child and where lived his mother's sister and a recently married male cousin of his own age. Although B. was not conscious of any desire for marriage the marriage of his cousin had presented itself to him as a puzzle. It jarred upon him considerably. He felt as though this cousin somehow had stolen a march upon him. ‘He thought that as he and his cousin were of the same age they ought to feel alike,' but that in some inexplicable way the cousin's marriage made him a settled man and raised him above B. It was to the home of this cousin that B. directed his steps in the fugue after setting out from his parish with the vaguely conscious idea that he had some problem to solve and that this problem was connected causally with his symptoms. Unfortunately when he 'came to himself' at Blackpool the solution of the problem was no nearer; his fugue was attributed to overwork and a long holiday was prescribed.

After about six months' rest B. determined to resume work, and made arrangements to go as curate to a quiet parish in Hereford. While choosing his lodgings at this place he experienced an overwhelming feeling that he would be lonely and unable to settle down there. He attributed this feeling to the fact that he would again be separated from home, and tried

to console himself with the promise that his people would come and stay with him at Christmas.

Before the time arrived for him to take up his new duties, B. again went off in another fugue. This time starting from home he set out in the direction of London, but was recognised and brought back when he had only got as far as Banbury, about 60 miles. It was shortly after this that B. was referred to me for analysis. I will now put together briefly, but in orderly sequence, the history which came to light piecemeal during analysis.

B.'s recollections stretched back to early days when he had been the intimate companion of his sister, who was one year his senior. He recalled that they slept in the same room and there used to play together. One game in particular came prominently before him. This was a game of birds in a nest feeding their young. His sister used to curl up in bed forming a sort of nest into which he then snuggled and made believe to feed her after the manner in which singing birds feed their young. The sister played the combined rôle of mother-bird, nest and offspring. This game was accompanied by a good deal of excitement and cuddling.

A little later (about age four) B. became disturbed about the sexual difference which he noticed between himself and his sister. It seemed to him either that there was something wrong with him or that his sister lacked something. He could not decide which of these alternatives was correct, but rather preferred the former. This problem exercised his mind a great deal and he sought every possible occasion to solve it, but without


At the age of five he went to school and started to learn the alphabet. He then experienced great difficulty with the letters U and V; did not seem able to write them and repeatedly asked the teacher to explain the difference between them. The teacher, however, was impatient and rebuked him as though he were asking something wrong. During these lessons B. was troubled by a great desire to micturate, but dare not ask to go out lest this also should prove in some way wrong. Indeed, as he grew older, he felt increasingly that there was something wrong with him. He feared also that his parents would put a stop to his games with his sister now that the difference between them was realised.

One day when the parents were out a young nursemaid, with impressive secrecy, said that she would tell B. and his sister how babies came, but they must never never tell or even speak about it. She then gave them some garbled version which B. does not seem to have understood and the only part of which he recalled was that if a man climbed

J. of Psych. (Med. Sect.) 11


up on a woman and if he put an apron round her she would have a baby. B. did not feel interested at the time, but was impressed by the secrecy which the maid enjoined and felt that she did wrong to tell. Apparently the maid was prompted to say whatever she may have said because the children were playing dolls and B. was taking the part of father and doctor combined;-bringing babies in a bag. About this time an older girl at school confided to B. that she had to go home early because her mother had a baby. B. again felt that the girl ought not to tell about such things and ran away immediately to satisfy a sudden strong desire to urinate. The only obvious effect of the maid's tale was that B. became shy before his sister and afraid to help her in dressing-putting things round her.

B. recalled that at this time of his life he used frequently to conjure up phantasies of an ideal home, in which he pictured everything exactly as it was in his home with the one difference that his parents were absent and that he himself was master of the home; there was no mother, but he and his sister were the two children. He thus pictured himself in the dual rôle of father and child but eliminated the rôle of mother and wife from his day-dream.

The atmosphere of B.'s home was distinctly religious and he early showed a tendency to sublimation in this direction. Thus, on Sunday evenings he used to preach to his sister from a chair as pulpit. One of a series of sermons on the Lord's Prayer, written about age eight, is now in my possession and was subjected to analysis. The theme of this sermon is 'The Father'; the goodness of the father in giving us a home and love; the obligation which rests on us to be faithful and obey him in return. In childish words he exhorts his hearers not to be amongst those that are cast aside, but rather to earn through love and obedience the harp, the golden crown, and the place prepared for them.

It now happened that a 'big man,' who was in command of the Boy's Brigade attempted one evening after a party at his house sexually to play with B. This alarmed him very much. He seems especially to have noted and been frightened by the 'towering size' of the man. Nothing came of the incident except that B. refused to join the Boy's Brigade.

One morning shortly after this B. on going to the bath-room found that his father had not finished, but was still drying himself. It came to B. as a sudden inspiration that if he looked through the key-hole he would solve the old problem regarding the difference between himself and his sister. Actually all that the ray of light through the key-hole revealed to his searching eye was a white towel in movement. Yet B.

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