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Some peculiarities, such as stammering, lisping, babbling, and the like, are not easily referable to any special class of hereditary traits, because it is not clear how far they are to be regarded as depending on bodily or how far on mental peculiarities. It might seem obvious that stammering was in most cases uncontrollable by the will, and babbling might seem as certainly controllable. Yet there are cases which throw doubt on either conclusion. Thus, Dr. Lucas tells us of a servant-maid whose loquacity was apparently quite uncontrollable. She would talk to people till they were ready to faint; and if there were no human being to listen to her, she would talk to animals and inanimate objects, or would talk aloud to herself. She had to be discharged. 'But,' she said to her master, 'I am not to blame; it all comes from my father. He had the same fault, and it drove my mother to distraction; and his father was just the same.' Stammering has been transmitted through as many as five generations. The same has been noticed of peculiarities of vision. The Montmorency look, a sort of half squint, affected nearly all the members of the Montmorency family. The peculiarity called Daltonism, an inability to distinguish between certain colours of the spectrum, was not so named, as is often asserted, merely because the distinguished chemist Dalton was affected by it, but because three members of the same family were similarly affected. Deafness and blindness are not commonly hereditary where the parents have lost sight or hearing either by accident or through illness, even though the illness or accident occur during infancy; but persons born either blind or deaf frequently if not commonly transmit the defect to some at least among their offspring. Similar remarks apply to deaf-mutism.

The senses of taste and smell must also be included in the list of those which are affected by transmitted peculiarities. If we include the craving for liquor among such peculiarities, we might at once cite a long list of cases; but this craving must be regarded as nervo-psychical, the sense of taste having in reality very little to do with it. It is doubtful how the following hideous instance should be classed. It is related by Dr. Lucas. 'A man in Scotland had an irresistible desire to eat human flesh. He had a daughter; although removed from her father and mother, who were both sent to the stake before she was a year old, and although brought up among respectable people, this girl, like her father, yielded to the horrible craving for human flesh.' He must be an ardent student of physiological science who regrets that at this stage circumstances intervened which prevented the world from ascertaining whether the peculiarity would have descended to the third and fourth generations.

I have said that certain mental qualities have certainly been transmitted in some cases. Galton mentions one noteworthy instance relating to memory. In the family of Porson good memory was so notable a faculty as to give rise to the byword, 'the Porson memory.' Lady Hester Stanhope, says the late F. Papillon, 'she whose life was so full of adventure, gives, as one among many points of resemblance between herself and her grandfather, her retentive memory. "I have my grandfather's grey eyes," said she, "and his memory of places. If he saw a stone on the road, he remembered it; it is the same with myself. His eye, which was ordinarily dull and lustreless, was lighted up, like my own, with a dull gleam whenever he was seized with passion."'

In endeavouring to form an opinion on the law of heredity in its relation to genius, we must remember that a remark somewhat similar to one made by Huxley respecting the origin of new species applies to the origin of a man of genius. Before such a man became celebrated no one cared particularly to inquire about his ancestry or relations; when his fame was established, the time for making the inquiry had passed away. It is quite possible that, if we had exact and full information, in a great number of cases we might find the position taken up by Mr Galton and M. Ribot greatly strengthened; it is, however, also possible that we might find it much weakened, not only by the recognition of a multitude of cases in which the approach of a great man was in no sort indicated by scintillations of brightness along the genealogical track, but by a yet greater number of cases in which families containing numbers of clever, witty, and learned folks have produced none who attained real distinction.

Who break their birth's invidious bar, And grasp the skirts of happy chance, And breast the blows of circumstance, And grapple with their evil star,

is no truer proof of the general theory that genius will make its mark, despite circumstance, than is the occasional occurrence of strange instances in which murder has been detected despite seemingly perfect precautions.

It must, however, be in a general sense admitted that mental powers, like bodily powers, are inherited. If the ancestry of men of genius could be traced, we should in each case probably find enough, in the history of some line at least along which descent could be traced, to account for the possession of special powers, and enough in the history of that and other lines of descent to account for the other qualities or characteristics which, combined with those special powers, gave to the man's whole nature the capacity by which he was enabled to stand above the average level of his fellow-men. We might, with knowledge at once wider and deeper than we actually possess of the various families of each nation, and their relationships, predict in many cases, not that any given child would prove a genius, but that some one or other of a family would probably rise to distinction. To predict the advent of a man of great genius as we predict the approach of an eclipse or a transit, will doubtless never be in men's power; but it is conceivable that at some perhaps not very remote epoch, anticipations may be formed somewhat like those which astronomers are able to make respecting the recurrence of meteoric showers at particular times and seasons, and visible in particular regions. Already we know so much as this, that in certain races of men only can special forms of mental energy, like special bodily characteristics, be expected to appear. It may well be that hereafter such anticipations may be limited to special groups of families.

When we pass from mental to moral qualities, we find ourselves in the presence of problems which could not be thoroughly dealt with in these pages. The general question, how far the moral characteristics of each person born into the world depends on those of the parents, or more generally of the ancestry, is one involving many considerations which, perhaps unfortunately, have been associated with religious questions. And apart from this, the answers to this question have been found to have a very wide range--from the opinion of those who consider that our characters, even where they seem to undergo changes resulting from the exercise of will, are entirely due to inheritance, to the view of those who consider, like Heinroth, that no moral characteristic can possibly be regarded as inherited in such sort as to modify either responsibility for evil-doing or credit for well-doing. Probably most will be content to accept a view between these extremes, without too nicely considering how far moral responsibility is affected by the influence of inherited tendencies.

I have not referred to insanity in speaking of inherited mental qualities, because insanity must be regarded as a disease of the moral rather than of the mental nature. Its origin may be in the mind, as the origin of mental diseases is in the brain, that is, is in the body; but the principal manifestations of insanity, those which must guide us in determining its true position, are unquestionably those relating to moral habitudes. Insanity is not always, or at least not always demonstrably hereditary. Esquirol found among 1,375 lunatics 337 unquestionable cases of hereditary transmission. Guislain and others regard hereditary lunacy as including, roughly, one-fourth of the cases of insanity. Moreau and others hold that the proportion is greater. It appears, however, that mental alienation is not the only form in which the insanity of an ancestor may manifest itself. Dr. Morel gives the following instructive illustration of the 'varied and odd complications occurring in the hereditary transmission of nervous disease.' He attended four brothers belonging to one family. The grandfather of these children had died insane; their father had never been able to continue long at anything; their uncle, a man of great intellect and a distinguished physician, was noted for his eccentricities. Now these four children, sprung from one stock, presented very different forms of physical disorder. One of them was a maniac, whose wild paroxysms occurred periodically. The disorder of the second was melancholy madness; he was reduced by his stupor to a merely automatic condition. The third was characterised by an extreme irascibility and suicidal disposition. The fourth manifested a strong liking for art; but he was of a timorous and suspicious nature. This story seems in some degree to give support to the theory that genius and mental aberration are not altogether alien; that, in fact,

Great wit to madness nearly is allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

The liking for strong drink, as is too well known, is often transmitted. It is remarked by Dr. Howe that 'the children of drunkards are deficient in bodily and vital energy, and are predisposed by their very organisation to have cravings for alcoholic stimulants. If they pursue the course of their fathers, which they have more temptation to follow and less power to avoid than the children of the temperate, they add to their hereditary weakness, and increase the tendency to idiotcy or insanity in their constitution; and this they leave to their children after them.' Whatever opinion we may form on the general question of responsibility for offences of commission or of omission, on this special point all who are acquainted with the facts must agree, admitting that in some cases of inherited craving for alcoholic stimulants the responsibility of those who have failed and fallen in the struggle has been but small. 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.' Robert Collyer of Chicago, in his noble sermon 'The Thorn in the Flesh,' has well said, 'In the far-reaching influences that go to every life, and away backward as certainly as forward, children are sometimes born with appetites fatally strong in their nature. As they grow up the appetite grows with them, and speedily becomes a master, the master a tyrant; and by the time he arrives at manhood, the man is a slave. I heard a man say that for eight-and-twenty years the soul within him had had to stand like an unsleeping sentinel, guarding his appetite for strong drink. To be a man at last under such a disadvantage, not to mention a saint, is as fine a piece of grace as can well be seen. There is no doctrine that demands a larger vision than this of the depravity of human nature. Old Dr. Mason used to say that "as much grace as would make John a saint, would hardly keep Peter from knocking a man down."'

Hath nature that in time would venom breed.

An illustration of the policy at least of preventive measures in such cases, is shown in the case of a woman in America, of whom the world may fairly say what Father Paul remarked to gentle Alice Brown; it 'never knew so criminal a family as hers.' A young woman of remarkably depraved character, infested, some seventy years since, the district of the Upper Hudson. At one stage of her youth she narrowly, and somewhat unfortunately, escaped death. Surviving, however, she bore many children, who in turn had large families, insomuch that there are now some eighty direct descendants, of whom one-fourth are convicted criminals, whilst the rest are drunkards, lunatics, paupers, and otherwise undesirable members of the community.

FOOTNOTES:

During special states of disease the mind sometimes develops faculties such as it does not possess when the body is in full health. Some of the abnormal qualities thus exhibited by the mind seem strikingly suggestive of the possible acquisition by the human race of similar powers under ordinary conditions. For this reason, though we fear there is no likelihood at present of any practical application of the knowledge we may obtain on this subject, it seems to me that there is considerable interest in examining the evidence afforded by the strange powers which the mind occasionally shows during diseases of the body, and especially during such diseases as are said, in unscientific but expressive language, to lower the tone of the nervous system.

We may begin by citing a case which seems exceedingly significant. Miss H. Martineau relates that a congenital idiot, who had lost his mother when he was less than two years old, when dying, 'suddenly turned his head, looked bright and sensible, and exclaimed, in a tone never heard from him before, "Oh my mother! how beautiful!" and sank down again--dead.' Dr. Carpenter cites this as a case of abnormal memory, illustrating his thesis that the basis of recollection 'may be laid at a very early period of life.' But the story seems to contain a deeper meaning. The poor idiot not only recalled a long-past time, a face that he had not seen for years except in dreams, but he gained for a moment a degree of intelligence which he had not possessed when in health. The quality of his brain was such, it appears, that with the ordinary activity of the circulation, the ordinary vitality of the organ, mental action was uncertain and feeble; but when the circulation had all but ceased, when the nervous powers were all but prostrate, the feeble brain, though it may have become no stronger actually, became relatively stronger, in such sort that for the time specified, a mere moment before dissolution, the idiot became an intelligent being.

A somewhat similar case is on record in which an insane person, during that stage of typhus fever in which sane persons are apt to become delirious, became perfectly sane and reasonable, his insanity returning with returning health. Persons of strongest mind in health are often delirious for a short time before death. Since, then, the idiot in the same stage of approaching dissolution may become intelligent, while the insane may become sane under the conditions which make the sane become delirious, we recognise a relationship between the mental and bodily states which might be of considerable use in the treatment of mental diseases. It may well be that conditions of the nervous system which are to be avoided by persons of normal mental qualities may be advantageously superinduced in the case of those of abnormally weak or abnormally violent mind. It is noteworthy that different conditions would seem to be necessary for the idiotic and for the insane, if the cases cited sufficed to afford basis for generalisation. For the idiot of Miss Martineau's story became intelligent during the intense depression of the bodily powers immediately preceding dissolution, whereas the insane person became sane during that height of fever when delirium commonly makes its appearance.

Sir H. Holland mentions a case which shows that great bodily depression may affect a person of ordinary clear and powerful mind. 'I descended on one and the same day,' he says, 'two very deep mines in the Hartz Mountains, remaining some hours under ground in each. While in the second mine, and exhausted both from fatigue and inanition, I felt the utter impossibility of talking longer with the German Inspector who accompanied me. Every German word and phrase deserted my recollection; and it was not until I had taken food and wine, and been some time at rest, that I regained them again.'

It must, however, be remembered that persons who are in a state of extreme nervous debility, not only possess at times abnormal mental qualities, but are also affected morally. As Huxley has well remarked of some stories bearing on spiritualism, they come from persons who can hardly be trusted even according to their own account of themselves. Mr. Butterworth's relation described a mental condition which, even if quite correctly pictured as she understood it, may yet be explained without believing that any very marvellous increase had taken place in her mental powers. Among the vivid impressions which she constantly had of what might be happening to her children away from home, it would have been strange if some had not been correct. The power of anticipating what others were about to say is one which many imagine they have, mistaking the occasional coincidence between their guesses and what has been next said, for indications of a power which in reality they do not possess. And so also with regard to the motives of others. Many are apt, especially when out of health, to guess at others' motives, sometimes rightly, but oftener very wrongly, yet always rightly in their own belief, no matter what evidence may presently appear to the contrary.

The case cited by Mr. Butterworth affords evidence rather of the unhealthy condition of the patient's mind than of abnormal powers, except as regards the power of thinking of two things at the same time, which we may fairly assume was not ordinarily possessed by its relative. It is rather difficult to define such a power, however. Several persons have apparently possessed the power, showing it by doing two things at the same time which both appear to require thought, and even close attention. Julius Caesar, for example, could write on one subject and dictate on another simultaneously. But in reality, even in cases such as these, the mind does not think of two things at once. It simply takes them in turn, doing enough with each, in a short time, a mere instant, perhaps, to give work to the pen or to the voice, as the case may be, for a longer time. When Caesar was writing a sentence, he was not necessarily thinking of what he was writing. He had done the thinking part of the work before; and was free, while continuing the mere mechanical process of writing, to think of matter for dictation to his secretary. So also while he was speaking he was free to think of matter for writing. If, indeed, the thought for each sentence of either kind had occupied an appreciable time, there would have been interruptions of his writing, if not of his dictation . But a practised writer or speaker can in a moment form a sentence which shall occupy a minute in writing and several seconds in speaking.

I certainly do not myself claim the power of thinking of two things at once,--nay, I believe that no one ever had or could have such a power: yet I find it perfectly easy, when lecturing, to arrange the plan for the next ten minutes' exposition of a scientific subject, and to adopt the words themselves for the next twenty seconds or so, while continuing to speak without the least interruption. I can also work out a calculation on the black-board while continuing to speak of matters outside the subject of the calculation. It is more a matter of habit than an indication of any mental power, natural or acquired, to speak or write sentences; even of considerable length, after the mind has passed on to other matters. In a similar way some persons can write different words with the right and left hands, and this, too, while speaking of other matters. In reality the person who thus does two things at once is no more thinking of two things at once than a clock is, when the striking and the working machinery are both in action at the same time.

Later, when Scott was breaking down under severe and long-continued labour, and first felt the approach of the illness which ultimately ended in death, he experienced strange mental phenomena. In his diary for February 17, 1829, he notes that on the preceding day, at dinner, though in company with two or three old friends, he was haunted by 'a sense of pre-existence,' a confused idea that nothing that passed was said for the first time; that the same topics had been discussed, and that the same persons had expressed the same opinions before. 'There was a vile sense of a want of reality in all that I did or said.'

In some cases doctors have had to excite a strong antagonistic feeling against tendencies of this kind. Thus Zerffi relates that an English physician was once consulted by the mistress of a ladies' school where many girls had become liable to fits of hysterics. He tried several remedies, but in vain. At last, justly regarding the epidemic as arising from the influence of imagination on the weaker girls , he determined to exert a stronger antagonistic influence on the weak minds of his patients. He therefore remarked casually to the mistress of the school, in the hearing of the girls, that he had now tried all methods but one, which he would try, as a last resource, when next he called--'the application of a red-hot iron to the spine of the patients so as to quiet their nervously-excited systems.' 'Strange to say,' remarks Zerffi--meaning, no doubt, 'it is hardly necessary to say that'--'the red-hot iron was never applied, for the hysterical attacks ceased as if by magic.'

In another case mentioned by Zerffi, a revival mania in a large school near Cologne was similarly brought to an abrupt end. The Government sent an inspector. He found that the boys had visions of Christ, the Virgin, and departed saints. He threatened to close the school if these visions continued, and thus to exclude the students from all the prospects which their studies afforded them. 'The effect was as magical as the red-hot iron remedy--the revivals ceased as if by magic.'

It may be doubted, perhaps, by some whether such instances as these illustrate so much the state to which the mind is reduced when the body is diseased, as the state to which the body is reduced when the mind is diseased, though, as we have seen, the dancing mania when fully developed followed always on bodily illness. In the cases we now have to deal with, the diseased condition of the body was unmistakable.

Mrs. Hemans on her deathbed said that it was impossible for imagination to picture or pen to describe the delightful visions which passed before her mind. They made her waking hours more delightful than those passed in sleep. It is evident that these visions had their origin in the processes of change affecting the substance of the brain as the disease of the body progressed. But it does not follow that the substance of the brain was undergoing changes necessarily tending to its ultimate decay and dissolution. Quite possibly the changes were such as might occur under the influence of suitable medicinal or stimulant substances, and without any subsequent ill effects. Dr. Richardson, in an interesting article on ether-drinking and extra-alcoholic intoxication , makes a remark which suggests that the medical men of our day look forward to the discovery of means for obtaining some such influence over the action of the brain. After describing the action of methylic and ethylic ethers in his own case, he says: 'They who have felt this condition, who have lived as it were in another life, however transitorily, are easily led to declare with Davy that "nothing exists but thoughts! the universe is composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures, and pains!" I believe it is so, and that we might by scientific art, and there is such an art, learn to live altogether in a new sphere of impressions, ideas, pleasures, and pains.' But stay,' he adds, as if he had said too much, 'I am anticipating, unconsciously, something else that is in my mind. The rest is silence; I must return to the world in which we now live, and which all know.'

Mr. Butterworth mentions the case of the Rev. William Tennent, of Freehold, New Jersey, as illustrative of strange mental faculties possessed during disease. Tennent was supposed to be far gone in consumption. At last, after a protracted illness, he seemingly died, and preparations were made for his funeral. Not only were his friends deceived, but he was deceived himself, for he thought he was dead, and that his spirit had entered Paradise. 'His soul, as he thought, was borne aloft to celestial altitudes, and was enraptured by visions of God and all the hosts of Heaven. He seemed to dwell in an enchanted region of limitless light and inconceivable splendour. At last an angel came to him and told him that he must go back. Darkness, like an overawing shadow, shut out the celestial glories; and, full of sudden horror, he uttered a deep groan. This dismal utterance was heard by those around him, and prevented him from being buried alive, after all the preparations had been made for the removal of the body.'

We must not fall into the mistake of supposing, however, as many seem to do, that the visions seen under such conditions, or by ecstatics, really present truths of which the usual mental faculties could not become cognisant. We have heard such cases as the deathbed visions of Mrs. Hemans, and the trance visions of Tennent, urged as evidence in favour of special forms of doctrine. We have no thought of attacking these, but assuredly they derive no support from evidence of this sort. The dying Hindoo has visions which the Christian would certainly not regard as heaven-born. The Mahomedan sees the plains of Paradise, peopled by the houris of his heaven, but we do not on that account accept the Koran as the sole guide to religious truth. The fact is, that the visions pictured by the mind during the disease of the body, or in the ecstatic condition, have their birth in the mind itself, and take their form from the teachings with which that mind has been imbued. They may, indeed, seem utterly unlike those we should expect from the known character of the visionary, just as the thoughts of a dying man may be, and often are, very far removed from the objects which had occupied all his attention during the later years of his life. But if the history of the childhood and youth of an ecstatic could be fully known, or if we could obtain a strictly truthful account of such matters from himself, we should find nearly every circumstance of his visions explained, or at least an explanation suggested. For, after all, much which would be necessary to exactly show the origin of all he saw, would be lost, since the brain retains impressions of many things of which the conscious memory has entirely passed away.

The vivid picturing of forgotten events of life is a familiar experience of the opium-eater. Thus De Quincey says: 'The minutest incidents of childhood or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived. I could not be said to recollect them, for if I had been told of them when waking, I should not have been able to acknowledge them as part of my past experience. But placed as they were before me in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all their evanescent circumstances and accompanying feelings, I recognised them instantaneously.' A similar return of long-forgotten scenes and incidents to the mind may be noticed, though not to the same degree, when wine has been taken in moderate quantity after a long fast.

My special object, however, in noting the effects of opium and hachisch, is rather to note how the mental processes or faculties observed during certain states of disease may be produced artificially, than to enter into the considerations discussed by Dr. Moreau. It is singular that while the Mohamedan order of Hachischin bring about by the use of their favourite drug such visions as accompany the progress of certain forms of disease, the Hindoo devotees called the Yogi are able to produce artificially the state of mind and body recognised in cataleptic patients. The less-advanced Yogi can only enter the state of abstraction called reverie; but the higher orders can simulate absolute inanition, the heart apparently ceasing to beat, the lungs to act, and the nerves to convey impressions to the brain, even though the body be subjected to processes which would cause extreme torture under ordinary conditions. 'When in this state,' says Carpenter, 'the Yogi are supposed to be completely possessed by Brahma, "the supreme soul," and to be incapable of sin in thought, word, or deed.' It has been supposed that this was the state into which those entered who in old times were resorted to as oracles. But it has happened that in certain stages of disease the power of assuming the death-like state has been possessed for a time. Thus Colonel Townsend, who died in 1797, we read, had in his last sickness the extraordinary power of apparently dying and returning to life again at will. 'I found his pulse sink gradually,' says Dr. Cheyne, who attended him, 'so that I could not feel it by the most exact or nice touch. Dr. Raymond could not detect the least motion of the heart, nor Dr. Skrine the least soil of the breath upon the bright mirror held to the mouth. We began to fear he was actually dead. He then began to breathe softly.' Colonel Townsend repeated the experiment several times during his illness, and could always render himself insensible at will.

Lastly, I may mention a case, which, however, though illustrating in some degree the influence of bodily illness on the mind, shows still more strikingly how the mind may influence the body--that of Louise Lateau, the Belgian peasant. This girl had been prostrated by a long and exhausting illness, from which she recovered rapidly after receiving the sacrament. This circumstance made a strong impression on her mind. Her thoughts dwelt constantly on the circumstances attending the death of Christ. At length she noticed that, on every Friday, blood came from a spot in her left side. 'In the course of a few months similar bleeding spots established themselves on the front and back of each hand, and on the upper surface of each foot, while a circle of small spots formed in the forehead, and the haemorrhage from these recurred every Friday, sometimes to a considerable amount. About the same time, fits of ecstasy began to occur, commencing every Friday between eight and nine in the morning, and ending about six in the evening; interrupting her in conversation, in prayer, or in manual occupations. This state,' says Dr. Carpenter, 'appears to have been intermediate between that of the biologised and that of the hypnotised subject; for whilst as unconscious as the latter of all sense-impressions, she retained, like the former, a recollection of all that had passed through her mind during the ecstasy. She described herself as suddenly plunged into a vast flood of bright light, from which more or less distinct forms began to evolve themselves; and she then witnessed the several scenes of the Passion successively passing before her. She minutely described the cross and the vestments, the wounds, the crown of thorns about the head of the Saviour, and gave various details regarding the persons about the cross, the disciples, holy women, Jews and Roman soldiers. And the progress of her vision might be traced by the succession of actions she performed at various stages of it: most of these movements were expressive of her own emotions, whilst regularly about three in the afternoon she extended her limbs in the form of a cross. The fit terminated with a state of extreme physical prostration; the pulse being scarcely perceptible, the breathing slow and feeble, and the whole surface bedewed with a cold perspiration. After this state had continued for about ten minutes, a return to the normal condition rapidly took place.'

We see, then, in Louise Lateau's case, how the mind affected by disease may acquire faculties not possessed during health, and how in turn the mind thus affected may influence the body so strangely as to suggest to ignorant or foolish persons the operation of supernatural agencies.

The general conclusion to which we seem led by the observed peculiarities in the mental faculties during disease is, that the mind depends greatly on the state of the body for the co-ordination of its various powers. In health, these are related in what may be called the normal manner. Faculties capable of great development under other conditions exist in moderate degree only, while probably, either consciously or unconsciously, certain faculties are held in control by others. But during illness, faculties not ordinarily used suddenly or very rapidly acquire undue predominance, and controlling faculties usually effective are greatly weakened. Then for a while the mental capacity seems entirely changed. Powers supposed not to exist at all seem suddenly created, as if by a miracle. Faculties ordinarily so strong as to be considered characteristic seem suddenly destroyed, since they no longer produce any perceptible effect. Or, as Brown-Sequard says, summing up the results of a number of illustrative cases described in a course of lectures delivered in Boston: 'It would seem that the mind is largely dependent on physical conditions for the exercise of its faculties, and that its strength and most remarkable powers, as well as its apparent weakness, are often most clearly shown and recognised by some inequality of action in periods of disturbed and greatly impaired health.'

FOOTNOTES:

Rather more than two years ago I considered in the pages of 'Science Byways' the theory originally propounded by Sir Henry Holland, but then recently advocated by Dr. Brown-Sequard, of New York, that we have two brains, each perfectly sufficient for the full performance of mental functions. I did not for my own part either advocate or oppose that theory, but simply considered the facts which had been urged in support of it, or which then occurred to me as bearing upon it, whether for or against. I showed, however, that some classes of phenomena which had been quoted in support of the theory seemed in reality opposed to it, when all the circumstances were considered. For example, Brown-Sequard had referred to some of those well-known cases in which during severe illness a language forgotten in the patient's ordinary condition had been recalled, the recollection of the language enduring only while the illness lasted. I pointed to a case in which there had not been two mental conditions only, as indicated by the language of the patient, but three; the person in question having in the beginning of his illness spoken English only, in the middle of his illness French only, and on the day of his death Italian only . The interpretation of that case, and of others of a similar kind, must, I remarked, be very different from that which Brown-Sequard assigned, perhaps correctly, 'to cases of twofold mental life.' A case of the last-named kind has recently been discussed in scientific circles, which seems to me to bear very forcibly on the question whether Holland's theory of a dual brain is correct. I propose briefly to describe and examine this case, and some others belonging to the same class, two of which were touched upon in my former essay, but slightly only, as forming but a small part of the evidence dealt with by Brown-Sequard, whose arguments I was then considering. I wish now to deal, not with the question of the duality of the brain, but with the more general question of dual or intermittent consciousness.

This case need not detain us long; but there are some points in it which deserve more attention than they seem to have received from Dr. Brown-Sequard. It is clear that if the normal and abnormal mental lives of this boy had been entirely distinct, then in the abnormal condition he would have been ignorant and--in those points in which manners depend on training--ill-mannered. He would have known only, in this condition, what he had learned in this condition; and as only about a tenth part of his life was passed in the abnormal condition, and presumably that portion of his life not usually selected as a suitable time for teaching him, the abnormal boy would of necessity have been much more backward in all things which the young are taught than the normal boy. As nothing of this kind was noted, it would appear probable that the boy's earlier years were common to both lives, and that his unconsciousness of his ordinary life during the abnormal condition extended only to those parts of his ordinary life which had passed since these seizures began. Unfortunately, Brown-Sequard's account does not mention when this had happened.

It does not appear that the dual brain theory is required so far as this case is concerned. The phenomena seem rather to suggest a peculiarity in the circulation of the brain corresponding in some degree to the condition probably prevailing during somnambulism or hypnotism, though with characteristic differences. It may at least be said that no more valid reason exists for regarding this boy's case as illustrating the distinctive duality of the brain than for so regarding some of the more remarkable cases of somnambulism; for though these differ in certain respects from the boy's case, they resemble it in the circumstances on which Brown Sequard's argument is founded. Speaking generally of hypnotism,--that is, of somnambulism artificially produced,--Dr. Carpenter says, 'In hypnotism, as in ordinary somnambulism, no remembrance whatever is preserved, in the waking state, of anything that may have occurred during its continuance; although the previous train of thought may be taken up and continued uninterruptedly on the next occasion when hypnotism is induced.' In these respects the phenomena of hypnotism precisely resemble those of dual consciousness as observed in the boy's case. In what follows, we observe features of divergence. Thus 'when the mind is not excited to activity by the stimulus of external impressions, the hypnotised subject appears to be profoundly asleep; a state of complete torpor, in fact, being usually the first result of the process just described, and any subsequent manifestation of activity being procurable only by the prompting of the operator. The hypnotised subject, too, rarely opens his eyes; his bodily movements are usually slow; his mental operations require a considerable time for their performance; and there is altogether an appearance of heaviness about him which contrasts strongly with the comparatively wide-awake air of him who has not passed beyond the ordinary biological state.'

I have been particular in quoting the above account, because it appears to me to illustrate well, not only the relation between the phenomena of dual consciousness and somnambulism, but the dependence of either class of phenomena on the physical condition. If it should appear that dual consciousness is invariably associated with some disorder either of the nervous system or of the circulation, it would be impossible, or at least very difficult, to maintain Brown-Sequard's explanation of the boy's case. For one can hardly imagine it possible that a disorder of the sort should be localised so far as the brain is concerned, while in other respects affecting the body generally. It so chances that the remarkable case recently dealt with by French men of science forms a sort of connecting link between the boy's case and the case just cited. It closely resembles the former in certain characteristic features, while it resembles the latter in the evidence which it affords of the influence of the physical condition on the phenomena of double consciousness. The original narrative by M. Azam is exceedingly prolix; but it has been skilfully condensed by Mr. H.J. Slack, in the pages of a quarterly journal of science. I follow his version in the main.

A painful circumstance preceding her marriage somewhat forcibly exhibited the distinction between her two states of consciousness. Rigid in morality during her usual condition, she was shocked by the insults of a brutal neighbour, who told her of a confession made to M. Azam during her second condition, and accused her of shamming innocence. The attack--unfortunately, but too well founded as far as facts were concerned--brought on violent convulsions, which required medical attendance during two or three hours. It is important to notice the difference thus indicated between the character of the personalities corresponding to her two conditions. 'Her moral faculties,' says M. Azam, 'were incontestably sound in her second life, though different,'--by which, be it understood, he means simply that her sense of right and wrong was just during her second condition, not, of course, that her conduct was irreproachable. She was in this condition, as in the other, altogether responsible for her actions. But her power of self-control, or rather perhaps the relative power of her will as compared with tendencies to wrong-doing, was manifestly weaker during her second condition. In fact, in one condition she was oppressed and saddened by pain and anxiety, whereas in the other she was almost free from pain, gay, light-hearted, and hopeful. Now I cannot altogether agree with Mr. Slack's remark, that if, during her second state, 'she had committed a robbery or an assassination, no moral responsibility could have been assumed to rest upon her with any certainty, by any one acquainted with her history,' for her moral faculties in her second condition being incontestably sound, she was clearly responsible for her actions while in that condition. But certainly, the question of punishment for such an offence would be not a little complicated by her twofold personality. To the woman in her ordinary condition, remembering nothing of the crime committed , in her abnormal condition, punishment for that crime would certainly seem unjust, seeing that her liability to enter into that condition had not in any degree depended on her own will. The drunkard who, waking in the morning with no recollection of the events of the past night, finds himself in gaol for some crime committed during that time, although he may think the punishment he has to endure severe measure for a crime of which in his ordinary condition he is incapable, knows at least that he is responsible for placing himself under that influence which made the crime possible. Supposing even he had not had sufficient experience of his own character when under the influence of liquor, to have reason to fear he might be guilty of the offence, he yet perceives that to make intoxication under any circumstances an excuse for crime would be most dangerous to the community, and that he suffers punishment justly. But the case of dual consciousness is altogether different, and certainly where responsibility exists under both conditions, while yet impulse and the restraining power of will are differently related in one and the other condition, the problem of satisfying justice is a most perplexing one. Here are in effect two different persons residing in one body, and it is impossible to punish one without punishing the other also. Supposing justice waited until the abnormal condition was resumed, then the offender would probably recognise the justice of punishment; but if the effects of the punishment continued until the usual condition returned, a person would suffer who was conscious of no crime. If the offence were murder, and if capital punishment were inflicted, the ordinary individuality, innocent entirely of murder, would be extinguished along with the first, a manifest injustice. As Huxley says of a similar case, 'the problem of responsibility is here as complicated as that of the prince-bishop, who swore as a prince and not as a bishop. 'But, your highness, if the prince is damned, what will become of the bishop?' said the peasant.'

But the most remarkable part of the whole story is that which follows. 'Sitting at a table in one of his abnormal states, Sergeant F. took up a pen, felt for paper and ink, and began to write a letter to his general, in which he recommended himself for a medal on account of his good conduct and courage.' 'It occurred to Dr. Mesnet to ascertain experimentally how far vision was concerned in this act of writing. He therefore interposed a screen between the man's eyes and his hands; under these circumstances, F. went on writing for a short time, but the words became illegible, and he finally stopped, without manifesting any discontent. On the withdrawal of the screen, he began to write again where he had left off. The substitution of water for ink in the inkstand had a similar result. He stopped, looked at his pen, wiped it on his coat, dipped it in the water, and began again with a similar result. On another occasion, he began to write upon the topmost of ten superimposed sheets of paper. After he had written a line or two, this sheet was suddenly drawn away. There was a slight expression of surprise, but he continued his letter on the second sheet exactly as if it had been the first. This operation was repeated five times, so that the fifth sheet contained nothing but the writer's signature at the bottom of the page. Nevertheless, when the signature was finished, his eyes turned to the top of the blank sheet, and he went through the form of reading what he had written--a movement of the lips accompanying each word; moreover, with his pen, he put in such corrections as were needed, in that part of the blank page which corresponded with the position of the words which required correction in the sheets which had been taken away. If the five sheets had been transparent, therefore, they would, when superposed, have formed a properly written and corrected letter. Immediately after he had written his letter, F. got up, walked down to the garden, made himself a cigarette, lighted and smoked it. He was about to prepare another, but sought in vain for his tobacco-pouch, which had been purposely taken away. The pouch was now thrust before his eyes and put under his nose, but he neither saw nor smelt it; when, however, it was placed in his hand, he at once seized it, made a fresh cigarette, and ignited a match to light the latter. The match was blown out, and another lighted match placed close before his eyes, but he made no attempt to take it; and if his cigarette was lighted for him, he made no attempt to smoke. All this time his eyes were vacant, and neither winked nor exhibited any contraction of the pupil.'

These and other similar experiments are explained by Dr. Mesnet by the theory that F. 'sees some things and not others; that the sense of sight is accessible to all things which are brought into relation with him by the sense of touch, and, on the contrary, insensible to all things which lie outside this relation.' It seems to me that the evidence scarcely supports this conclusion. In every case where F. appears to see, it is quite possible that in reality he is guided entirely by the sense of touch. All the circumstances accord much better with this explanation than with the theory that the sense of sight was in any way affected. Thus the sunlight shining through the window must have affected the sense of touch, and in a manner similar to what F. had experienced when before the footlights of the stage, where he was accustomed to appear as a singer. In this respect there was a much closer resemblance between the effect of sunlight and that of the light from footlights, than in the circumstances under which both sources of light affect the sense of sight. For in one case the light came from above, in the other from below; the heat would in neither case be sensibly localised. Again, when a screen was interposed between his eyes and the paper on which he was writing, he probably became conscious of its presence in the same way that a blind man is conscious of the presence of objects near him, even of objects quite remote, by some subtle effects discernible by the sense of touch excited to abnormal relative activity in the absence of impressions derived from the sense of sight. It is true that one might have expected him to continue writing legibly, notwithstanding the interposed screen; but the consciousness of the existence of what in his normal condition would effectually have prevented his writing legibly, would be sufficient to explain his failure. If, while in full possession of all our senses, the expectation of failure quite commonly causes failure, how much more likely would this be to happen to a man in F.'s unfortunate abnormal condition. The sense of touch again would suffice to indicate the presence of water instead of ink in his pen when he was writing. I question whether the difference might not be recognised by any person of sensitive touch after a little practice; but certainly a blind man, whose sense of touch was abnormally developed, would recognise the difference, as we know from experiments which have indicated even greater delicacy of perception than would be required for this purpose. The experiment with superposed sheets of paper is more remarkable than any of the others, but certainly does not suggest that light makes any impression upon Sergeant F. It proves, in fact, so far as any experiment could prove such a point, that the sense of touch alone regulates the man's movements. Unconscious of any change , he continued writing. He certainly did not in this case, as Dr. Mesnet suggests, see all things which are brought into relation with him by the sense of touch; for if he had, he would not have continued to write when he found the words already written no longer discernible.

The moral nature of F. in his abnormal condition is for this reason a matter of less interest than it would be, did he show more of the semblance of conscious humanity. Still it is worthy of notice, that, whereas in his normal condition he is a perfectly honest man, in his abnormal state 'he is an inveterate thief, stealing and hiding away whatever he can lay hands on with much dexterity, and with an absolutely absurd indifference as to whether the property is his own or not.'

And now, for the first time, ideas derived from her life before her illness seemed to be awakened within her. When pictures of flowers, trees, and animals were shown her, she was pleased; but when she was shown a landscape in which there was a river or a troubled sea, she became violently agitated, and a fit of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility immediately followed. The mere sight of water in motion made her shudder. Again, from an early stage of her illness she had derived pleasure from the proximity of a young man to whom she had been attached. At a time when she did not remember from one hour to another what she was doing, she would anxiously await his evening visit, and be fretful if he failed to pay it. When, during her removal to the country, she lost sight of him, she became unhappy and suffered from frequent fits; on the other hand, when he remained constantly near her, she improved in health, and early associations were gradually awakened.

At length a day came when she uttered her first word in this her second life. She had learned to take heed of objects and persons around her; and on one occasion, seeing her mother excessively agitated, she became excited herself, and suddenly, yet hesitatingly, exclaimed, 'What's the matter?' After this she began to articulate a few words. For a time she called every object and person 'this,' then gave their right names to wild flowers , and this 'at a time when she exhibited not the least recollection of the "old familiar friends and places" of her childhood.' The gradual expansion of her intellect was manifested chiefly at this time in signs of emotional excitement, frequently followed by attacks of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility.

It was through the emotions that the patient was restored to the consciousness of her former self. She became aware that her lover was paying attention to another woman, and the emotion of jealousy was so strongly excited, that she had a fit of insensibility which resembled her first attack in duration and severity. But it restored her to herself. 'When the insensibility passed off, she was no longer spell-bound. The veil of oblivion was withdrawn; and, as if awakening from a sleep of twelve months' duration, she found herself surrounded by her grandfather, grandmother, and their familiar friends and acquaintances. She awoke in the possession of her natural faculties and former knowledge; but without the slightest remembrance of anything which had taken place in the year's interval, from the invasion of the first fit to the present time. She spoke, but she heard not; she was still deaf, but being able to read and write as formerly, she was no longer cut off from communication with others. From this time she rapidly improved, but for some time continued deaf. She soon perfectly understood by the motion of her lips what her mother said; they conversed with facility and quickness together, but she did not understand the language of the lips of a stranger. She was completely unaware of the change in her lover's affections which had taken place in her state of second consciousness; and a painful explanation was necessary. This, however, she bore very well; and she has since recovered her previous bodily and mental health.

There is little in this interesting narrative to suggest that the duality of consciousness in this case was in any way dependent on the duality of the brain. During the patient's abnormal condition, the functions of the brain would seem to have been for a time in complete abeyance, and then to have been gradually restored. One can perceive no reason for supposing that the shock she had sustained would affect one side rather than the other side of the brain, nor why her recovery should restore one side to activity and cause the side which had been active during her second condition to resume its original activity. The phenomena appear to suggest that in some way the molecular arrangement of the brain matter became modified during her second condition; and that when the original arrangement was restored all recognisable traces of impressions received while the abnormal arrangement lasted were obliterated. As Mr. Slack presents one form of this idea, 'the grey matter of the brain may have its molecules arranged in patterns somewhat analogous to those of steel filings under the influence of a magnet, but in some way the direction of the forces--or vibrations--may be changed in them. The pattern will then be different.' We know certainly that thought and sensation depend on material processes,--chemical reactions between the blood and the muscular tissues. Without the free circulation of blood in the brain, there can be neither clear thought nor ready sensation. With changes in the nature of the circulation come changes in the quality of thought and the nature of sensation, and with them the emotions are changed also. Such changes affect all of us to some degree. It may well be that such cases as we have been dealing with are simply instances of the exaggerated operation of causes with which we are all familiar; and it may also be that in the exaggeration itself of these causes of change lies the explanation of the characteristic peculiarity of cases of dual consciousness,--the circumstances, namely, that either the two states of consciousness are absolutely distinct one from the other, or that in one state only are events remembered which happened in the other, no recollection whatever remaining in this latter state of what happened in the other, or, lastly, that only faint impressions excited by some intense emotion experienced in one state remain in the other state.

The most important of all the questions depending on dual consciousness is one into which I could not properly enter at any length in these pages--the question, namely, of the relation between the condition of the brain and responsibility, whether such responsibility be considered with reference to human laws or to a higher and all-knowing tribunal. But there are some points not wanting in interest which may be here more properly considered.

In the first place it is to be noticed that a person who has passed into a state of abnormal consciousness, or who is in the habit of doing so, can have no knowledge of the fact in his normal condition except from the information of others. The boy at Norwood might be told of what he had said and done while in his less usual condition, but so far as any experience of his own was concerned, he might during all that time have been in a profound sleep. Similarly of all the other cases. So that we have here the singular circumstance to consider, that a person may have to depend on the information of others respecting his own behaviour--not during sleep or mental aberration or ordinary absence of mind--but while in possession of all his faculties and unquestionably responsible for his actions. Not only might a person find himself thus held responsible for actions of which he had no knowledge, and perhaps undeservedly blamed or condemned, but he might find himself regarded as untruthful because of his perfectly honest denial of all knowledge of the conduct attributed to him. If such cases were common, again, it would not improbably happen that the simulation of dual consciousness would become a frequent means of attempting to evade responsibility.

FOOTNOTES:

I do not propose here to discuss, or even to describe the various methods of electric lighting which have been either used or suggested. What I wish to do is to give a simple explanation of the general principles on which illumination by electricity depends, and to consider the advantages which this method of illumination appears to promise or possess.

Novel as the idea of using electricity for illuminating large spaces may appear to many, we have all of us been long familiar with the fact that electricity is capable of replacing the darkness of night by the light of broad day over areas far larger than those which our electricians hope to illuminate. The lightning flash makes in an instant every object visible on the darkest night, not only in the open air, but in the interior of carefully darkened rooms. Nay, even if the shutters of a room are carefully closed and the room strongly illuminated, the lightning flash can yet be clearly recognised. And it must be remembered that though the suddenness of the flash makes us the more readily perceive it , yet its short duration diminishes its apparent intensity. This may appear a contradiction in terms, but is not so in reality. The perception that there has been a sudden lighting up of the sky or of a room, is distinct from the recognition of the actual intensity of the illumination thus momentarily produced. Now it is quite certain that the eye cannot assign less than a twenty-fifth of a second or so to the duration of the lightning flash, for, as Newton long since showed, the retina retains the sensation of light for at least this interval after the light has disappeared. It is equally certain, from Wheatstone's experiments, that the lightning flash does not actually endure for the 100,000th part of a second. Adopting this last number, though it falls far short of the truth--the actual duration being probably less than 1,000,000th of a second--we see that so far as the eye is concerned, an amount of light which was really emitted during the 100,000th part of a second is by the eye judged to have been emitted during an interval 4,000 times as long. It is certain, then, that the eye's estimate of the intensity of the illumination resulting from a lightning flash is far short of the truth. This is equally true even in those cases where lightning is said to be for awhile continuous. If the flashes for a time succeed each other at less intervals than a twenty-fifth of a second, the illumination will appear continuous. But it is not really so. To be so, the flashes should succeed each other at the rate of at least 100,000, and probably of more than 1,000,000 per second.

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