Volume 2 — THE MONIST. (continued 2)

“M. Beaunis’s statement is perfectly exact. The somnambulist, in the hands of the hypnotiser, is less than the corpse, which the perfect disciple of Loyola should resemble. He is a slave, with no will other than that of his ruler, and in order to fulfil the commands laid upon him, he will push precaution, prudence, cunning, dissimulation and falsehood, to their extremest limits. He will open and shut doors noiselessly, walk in his stockings; will listen and watch, with what keen sight, what acute hearing! He will remember anything and everything you want him to, will forget all you desire him to forget. He will, in good faith, accuse a perfectly innocent man before a Court of justice. He will have seen everything, that in reality he has never seen, if you command him so to do; he will have heard, what he never could have heard and done everything that he never could have done. He will swear by his Household Gods, that he has acted throughout, of his own free will, without any external pressure, will invent motives if need be, and will completely protect and cover his hypnotiser.

“Theoretically, such a power is the most dangerous thing on the face of the earth! I believe though, that practically, with the exception of what might relate to physical or moral abuses or tampering with testamentary wills, there is actually little or no danger. It appears to me the fear of this has been unduly exaggerated.”

In a foot-note of mine, while mentioning with highest praise the memoir of M. Liégeois, I added further: “I do not express any alarm that I cannot show a good reason for.” Among other reasons, I pondered on the difficulty, say rather, the impossibility there is, of obtaining from the subject an absolute abnegation of will-power, whilst at the same time we allow him to retain the necessary free will to cope with any unforeseen accidents which might occur to compromise the fulfilment of the thought and action suggested.

Two or three months later I should not have expressed myself thus; and hence the remarks that accompany the experiments related in my articles on Hypnotic Consciousness, Revue Philosophique, Feb., March, 1887, experiments which took place about a year previous to this (see the note to the contributed articles, Feb. 1887, p. 119). It may there be noticed that my assent is tempered by certain marked reservations. I was even then opposing practice to theory, i. e. I narrowed down these apprehensions of danger to two legitimate causes of alarm, viz. attempts against morals, and tampering with testamentary wills.

Upon these two points I am still of the same opinion, with this exception, that what I then feared probable, I now regard as exceedingly problematic. I mean to say, that a villain who was contemplating the perpetration of a crime, would not easily find an accomplice in a subject of good moral standing. And in any case, I still think as I thought then, that such an accomplice would not only be inapt, but compromising. It is this latter point, I wish to demonstrate to you, by the following criticism upon an experiment never before published.

At the end of May, of last year, I was passing through Nancy with some friends, among whom was Dr. L. Frédéricq, Professor of Physiology at the University of Liège. We were spending the evening at M. Beaunis’s house together with M. M. Liébeault, Bernheim, and Liégeois. Naturally this question of Criminal Suggestion came upon the tapis and was discussed in all its phases, without advancing one step towards its solution. We made an engagement to meet at the hospital on the following day, where M. Bernheim invited me to be present at an experiment, which he maintained would convince me. I will relate at length the occurrence, for in such cases, the slightest details may acquire very great importance.

M. Bernheim threw into the magnetic sleep a great, tall fellow, quite easily influenced, and whose illness did not prevent him from walking about in the ward.

“Presently, when you have waked up, you will go and steal an orange from the patient that you see over there, in that bed opposite. Remember that what you are going to do is very wrong; it is strictly forbidden by honesty and by the law, and you will run the risk of being punished.” The man is waked. He appears to be collecting his thoughts. He rubs his forehead, he is visibly meditating something.

“What is the matter with you? What are you thinking about?” I ask him.

“Nothing.”

“You seem preoccupied.”

“Well, yes, I have to do something.”

“What?”

“I am not obliged to render you an account of my actions.”

“Ah! one would almost say you were meditating some mischief, where are you going?”

“That’s no business of yours.”

“Oh! very well then, I shall watch you and follow you.”

I follow him; he walks towards his companion’s bed, glances at the orange, then leaning up against the window, he calls me to admire some cherries growing on a potted plant. He keeps quite still. Why? Simply because I had told him that I intended to watch him, otherwise my presence would not have troubled him in the least. During this time, M. Bernheim had acquainted the other patient with the intended proceeding, he nevertheless having heard the whole transaction. “I do not think he will do it,” said he to the Doctor, “he is one of my mates and he wouldn’t steal from me.” I walk away and join the group of persons present. I say to M. Beaunis, that this experiment will prove nothing, he answers me by a gesture of surprise. The subject, as soon as he sees me go away and thinks that I am not watching him any more, stretches out his hand, seizes the orange that is behind his mate’s pillow, the latter meanwhile looking full at him. A score for M. Bernheim, but one also for M. Delbœuf! I should need twenty pages at least of commentary on this experiment. But I shall only allow myself to point out the essential points.

This hypnotised subject then, or to speak more correctly, this man to whom a thought has been suggested, after I had warned him that I was watching him, and from whom I never took my eye, goes with the unerringness, so to speak, “of the falling stone,” to carry out the suggested action, not however without a certain distrust of me, and this only, because he had been forewarned. And moreover in his dim consciousness, it is I alone, whom he is watching in that clumsy fashion, in order to seize upon some momentary forgetfulness on my part. He has never noticed at all, that his mate is intently watching him and following his every movement with open eyes; so he steals the orange from under his very nose! Let us not forget that it was M. Bernheim the house physician, who suggested to him to take the orange. But M. Frédéricq himself would equally well have fulfilled that command, even preceded as it was by the little homily, recorded above. Why should he have disobliged M. Bernheim? But indeed, the logic of my opponents is very weak. If, say they, a somnambulist resists criminal suggestion, it is because he is not a susceptible subject, or, that the experiment has been ill conducted, or, that the suggestion has not been strong enough. At that rate, it is useless to continue experimenting, if failure is always to be explained away. On my side, I might with equal reason, argue, that they had been dealing with some licentious mind, as yet all unknowing its inner self, or with a born criminal or a latent thief; and though I object to this kind of argument, it would often prove to be more legitimate reasoning than theirs. Who among us is absolutely virtuous? How many actions which the law calls criminal have we committed, or might we commit, under the pressure of circumstances, without a shadow of remorse? But let us further examine this experiment.

Our subject then put the orange in his trousers’ pocket which stuck out very noticeably. This man might be a criminal, but he was not a dissembler. Looking him straight in the face I said: “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing, I have just done my errand.”

“You have stolen!”

“What nonsense!”

“What have you got in your pocket?”

“Nothing” (notice the absurdity of this reply).

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing!”

“What do you call that?”

“Why! it’s an orange! it’s a very fine orange! Ma foi! I can’t imagine how it came there!”

M. Bernheim intervenes: “You took it from a fellow-patient, from a comrade! That was very wrong.”

“Yes, that’s so, but I wanted it. Look! did you ever see such a fine orange? I took a fancy to it and I determined to have it. Besides, he hadn’t seen it(!) It’s not stealing when it isn’t missed.”

Then I asked: “What is that you said?”

“Why, yes, it is not stealing to take what nobody misses,” answers he, with a scarce perceptible cunning and significant wink.

A few minutes later, after we had ceased noticing him, he came up to M. Frédéricq of his own accord laughingly told him that he was in the habit of abstracting tobacco from his companions on this same ground, that if they never missed it, it was not stealing. “It is all in fun, you know!”

I conclude therefore, that this subject had in him latent tendencies to theft, or if you prefer it, to pilfering. And dare any of us, honestly confess to himself that we have not, deep down in ourselves, the germs of any such vices? Who among the most upright of us, does not consider himself perfectly entitled to defraud the government, or to get the better of a Railway Company, or quietly to appropriate an object which he may casually find?

M. Liégeois will very likely say to me: “We will grant that this experiment has not fulfilled the desired requirements; the subject has not very high moral qualities, and he juggled a little. But here now, are some experiments absolutely unimpeachable.” Thereupon M. Liégeois relates the histories of Miss E..., of N..., of Mme. G..., and of Mme. C... Here are the facts as collated by him in the Gouffe trial.

First narrative. M. Liégeois believed that he had produced in Miss E... such absolute automatism, so complete an annihilation of moral sense and of all liberty of action, that he caused her, without moving a muscle, to place the muzzle of a revolver close to her mother and fire upon her. The youthful criminal appeared completely awake and far calmer than were the witnesses of this scene. (Take notice of this.) Her mother, immediately reproaching her and telling her that she might have killed her, Miss E... answers smiling, with a great deal of common sense: “I have not killed you, since you are speaking to me now.”—“Is any one likely to believe that this is merely pretence and acting,” adds M. Liégeois, “that a daughter will amuse herself by firing at her mother with a revolver, which she does not know is not loaded, simply to deceive the public?”

Well, shall I say it? The hypothesis of simulation, the simulation which is practised in the hypnotic state appears to me to be the only plausible explanation. The calm, smiling attitude of Miss E... is an unanswerable proof of this. I have no doubt that if in a dream she had seen herself firing at her mother, she would have suffered as in a terrible nightmare.

Lately, it was in the beginning of January, I dreamed I was present at a sale of paintings. Among others exposed for sale, there was a long picture, nineteen or twenty feet high and less than three feet wide, representing the assumption of some saint. Hardly had the auctioneer mentioned the price, 6,000 francs, than I made a sign of assent. It is knocked down to me. I start for home with my purchase, but on the way I am seized with remorse. Where shall I hang the religious picture? And even if I find a place for it on the staircase what will it look like in my house, with its old black frame and its extraordinary dimensions? And what a price to have paid, at such a moment when the house bills are pouring in! In the midst of these reflections, I woke up, my heart was beating tumultuously and during the remainder of the night I continued under the most disagreeable impressions. In spite of my knowing that I was awake and reasoning with myself, congratulating myself that it was nothing but a dream, the enormity of my absurd action weighed upon my mind and I kept continually dreading the reproaches of my family, when they should learn the stupid bargain I had made. How widely different is this mental distress from the placid, smiling condition of Miss E... and how naturally one is brought to suppose that during the hypnotic state the subject is not even under the sway of the ordinary illusions of dreamland.

M. Liégeois affirms that Miss E... was not aware that the pistol was not loaded. I do not believe it. Upon what grounds are we to infer that a somnambulist is an imbecile? You and I, and everybody would easily surmise that M. Liégeois’s revolver was not loaded! Then why should not Miss E... surmise the same? Is it not for the very reason that he handed it to her, to fire at her mother, that she would opine as much? Might she not have gathered this from the attitude of the spectators, full of expectancy unmixed by any apprehension? and might she not have wished to astonish them by her docility and sang-froid? All sorts of suppositions are both rational and possible. Besides all this, somnambulists who are absorbed in the work in hand, generally speaking, show a quicker and surer perspicuity; their sensibilities are finer, their quickness, their memory, overstep the ordinary limits as exhibited in their normal state. Do we not hear of scholars, who in the hypnotic sleep, learn their lessons in a very short time and write their essays admirably? I have recorded in the Revue Philosophique, August, 1886, some facts about a subject, upon whom I experimented before one of my classes.

“The experiment I am about to give an account of might serve very well as the explanation of many a miracle. B.⁠[55] is in the hypnotic sleep. We wish to give him some peculiar order, which he shall execute, after he is awake, at a special signal. The signal is to be a knock given by me on the desk; the action, to carry a glass of water (a carafe of water and glass being on a chair) to the student Eucher. He does not know any of the fifteen students present, nor has he yet heard their names. The pupils take their places, without any special order, some standing, some sitting. B. is awakened. We chat a little. I give the signal. B. rises, fills a glass, and without the slightest sign of hesitation, carries it to the student mentioned before, who was sitting on one of the back benches, beside a fellow student. We looked at each other with stupefaction. The intention of the experiment had been, to see how he would obey an obscure command. There were in my audience, certain persons, with leanings toward belief in second-sight. This result seemed to overthrow all my convictions. I again throw him into the sleep, and I command him to carry a glass of water to the student Gérard; we are all standing, awaiting with impatient curiosity what will take place. B. fills the glass and this time sends a questioning look over all the spectators, presents the glass first to one, then to another, and finally I had to point out the student Gérard, to whom he brought the water and made him drink it. I again put him to sleep, and asked him to whom he carried the first glass of water. To M. Eucher—Did you know him? No—How did you recognise him?—By his attitude, he looked as if he wanted to hide away.”

And this is how the mystery was solved. We had unconsciously prepared the scene, and it was this preparation which betrayed us. But it is none the less a remarkable example of the perspicuity shown by somnambulists. This goes to prove that hypnosis, instead of dulling the understanding, sharpens it.

The second of M. Liégeois’s experiments appears to me quite as open to suspicion, and exactly for the same reasons.

“I offered N. a white powder, of the nature of which he is ignorant; I said to him: ‘Pay great attention to what I am about to tell you. This paper contains arsenic. You will go presently to such a street to your Aunt’s Mme. M. who is here now. You will take a glass of water, carefully dissolve the arsenic in it and then you will offer it to your Aunt.’ ‘Yes Sir’—That evening I received the following note from Mme. M.: ‘Mme. M. begs leave to inform M. Liégeois that the experiment succeeded perfectly. Her nephew offered her the poison.’ The criminal remembered nothing about it, and it was very difficult to persuade him that he had indeed wished to poison an Aunt for whom he had a deep affection. The automatism had been complete.”

I cannot help seeing here an erroneous line of reasoning. They conclude, from the absence of all remembrance, that the somnambulist is an automaton, and from this they go on to deduce that he swallows everything that is said to him. But, since he listens to the voice of his hypnotiser; since he knows that to accomplish the behest, he must do things that have not been expressly pointed out, though they are understood in the execution of the deed:—such as to get the water from a well or pump—why do they not allow that he is able also to reflect upon the nature of the deed which he is told to do? Why is it that N..., who is aware that he is being used in an experiment, cannot say to himself during his hypnotic state, that this is only an experiment, that the paper does not contain arsenic, that M. Liégeois never would really want him to poison his aunt, his aunt who is present at the time, and who hears every word?

I repeat again, a hypnotic subject is not an idiot—quite the reverse. All the precaution which M. Liégeois takes to render the experiments reliable and conclusive, turns against the proof desired. Can you imagine the poisoner, Dr. Castaing, saying to his servant before Hypolite Ballet, whom he intended to kill, “Here is some poisoned wine, you will presently give it to the sick man, whom you see over there in that bed.” If he had done this, he would not have been condemned to lose his head, but they would simply have shut him up in a lunatic asylum. And, as far as that goes, the servant might easily, without any suspicion being attached to the action, have given the poison to Hypolite Ballet, and the latter have drunk it.

But we have dallied long enough over these absurd suppositions. Let us pass on now to the third narrative:

M. Liégeois caused Mme. G... to fire at M. P..., an ex-magistrate. In order to show clearly that the revolver was loaded, M. Liégeois fired a shot in the garden and came in, showing a piece of card-board, through which the ball had passed. “With absolute unconsciousness and perfect docility Mme. G... advances to M. P... and fires. Being questioned on the spot by the Chief Magistrate (who was present at the séance) she avows the crime with entire indifference. She has killed M. P... because he was not pleasing to her(!) They can arrest her; she knows quite well what awaits her. If they take away her life, she will pass into the other world like her victim, whom she sees stretched out, and bathed in his own blood. They ask her whether it was not I who suggested to her the idea of the murder. She denies it, and says she did it spontaneously; that she alone is guilty; she is resigned to her fate, she will accept without complaint the consequences of her deed.”

The more I meditate to-day upon these experiments, the less they appear to me to prove what it is desired they should. This perfect tranquillity of Mme. G..., her generosity in not inculpating M. Liégeois; her resignation to the fate that awaits her, establish entirely the fact that she is present in mind and knowledge of events; and just because of this very attitude, that she possesses her full presence of mind. She never dreamed for an instant that she would really kill M. P.... She plays her part conscientiously, she faithfully recites a lesson which she has learned by heart and with which she intermingles side play of her own, childish tricks, as for instance, saying that her victim had displeased her. Let us recall to mind the patient who stole an orange, because it was a fine one. That Mme. G.... sees M. P.... bathed in his own blood, is more than doubtful. I can produce numberless proofs of facts that go to prove that fictitious somnambulists are not dupes of the illusions suggested to them; their calmness proves this. That it is possible to make them commit an action dangerous to themselves or to others, I am not prepared to deny. I will explain myself later upon this point. But from this state, to that of criminal participation, there is an incalculable distance.

That the somnambulist repeats a lesson that he has learned, is shown forth by M. Liégeois’s fourth narrative.

“Mme. C.... was to give some arsenic in a liquid to M. D.... who was thirsty. But M. D.... asked a question that I had not foreseen; he asked what was in the glass. With a frankness that precluded all idea of simulation Mme. C.... answered ‘Arsenic.’

“I was then obliged to amend my suggestion, and I said: ‘If you are asked what is in the glass, say it is sweetened water.’

“Mme. C.... answered the question the second time, ‘Sweetened water.’

“Very courageously M. D.... swallowed the supposed poison. Questioned by the Chief Magistrate Mme. C. remembers nothing; she had seen nothing, done nothing, given no drink to any one. She does not know what they are talking about.”

Again all this is proof to me, that Mme. C. feels that she is being told to perform an innocent action. It would have been interesting to have awakened her in the middle of the act, to see whether she would have remembered her thoughts, just at the moment when she was giving the drink to M. D.... I am not sure but that she would have answered like Miss E... that she had no doubt the poison was imaginary, and the scene prearranged.

We have seen M. D... ask an unforeseen question, which upset the carrying out of the crime. We have witnessed M. Bernheim’s patient steal an orange under the nose of its proprietor, who was looking at him. Admitting, therefore, that all had been foreseen, that M. Liégeois had warned Mme. C... of all the possible questions that might be put to her; that M. Bernheim had strongly recommended his subject to commit his theft secretly, and that every possible detail had been perfectly carried out—should we have even then a faithful transcript of a crime? Can we have the unerring certitude from these occurrences, that a subject in the hypnotic sleep, a bona fide somnambulist will allow himself to be used as an accomplice by a veritable criminal?

In the preceding paragraphs, I carefully analysed the slightest details invalidating experiments, in which the hypnotic subject acts the part of a criminal, in a fictitious crime. I was able to show, that in all these tests, there had been certain suspicious traits suggesting doubt as to the complete illusion of the actor therein, and I finally added: Supposing that everything had worked smoothly, i. e. that everything had been foreseen and that the subject had not been tripped up anywhere, are we authorised in maintaining that a subject thus far unimpeachable as regards a fictitious crime, would accomplish this same deed in reality? I answer, No.

In order to justify this denial, it will be necessary for us to enter into the Psychology of Hypnosis.

A person in the hypnotic sleep, as well as in the natural sleep, is not so absolutely withdrawn from the real world about him as is generally supposed. The hypnotic subject even less so, than the sleeper, for the former remains in intelligent communication with his magnetiser. If the latter tells him to take a book from a table upon which is an inkstand, some boxes, a statuette, he will pick up the book and not any of the other objects. If he is enjoined to walk straight before him in a room encumbered with chairs he will manage to avoid them, and even if the illusion is pushed further he may knock up against them, but the action will be done quite cautiously. And this is why, in public séances, he never hurts himself, in spite of the wildness and apparent excitement of his movements. This is also the reason, that in experiments intended to demonstrate this absolute automatism, the preparation for the proposed crime, the attitude of the spectators, while the subject is carrying out his part, the integrity of the person who is suggesting the action, the calmness of the intended victim; all these things, render the suggestion less illusive than even an ordinary dream would be.

M. Liégeois asks this question at the conclusion of his first narrative: “Where is the spectator, who could believe that this scene was only a melodrama with clever acting; and that a daughter for her amusement, and solely to deceive an audience, would fire an unloaded revolver at her mother?” To this I answer: And why should she not play her part in this melodrama, when she sees M. Liégeois devise it, her mother lend her co-operation, and the audience watch it with curiosity and interest?

Here again we find the same fallacy in the argument: Because a subject does not reveal what is going on within himself, and only puts into visible speech what is suggested to him, it is taken for granted that he is going through a mental process identical with that of his magnetiser. But allow me to ask in my turn: Will it be easily credited, that a daughter, would, deliberately and without a trace of feeling, shoot at her mother, unless, she fully believed the action would have no serious consequences, and that the person who had suggested this impious deed, was only requiring her to act a part?

Hypnotic subjects do not take long to realise that they are being used as tests in experiments. Some are always gracious in responding to them, many end by refusing to lend themselves to be used in such fashion, especially in public séances. All these details go far to prove that in hypnosis, the subjects retain, at least a partial independence.

If a sleeper, who dreamed he was murdering his mother, should behold her terrified, beseeching, invoking the pity of her son, calling for help to the horrified spectators, he would feel that he was induced to commit this deed by some sort of motive, which, absurd or unlikely though it might be, would still be the controlling power; in a word, the dream would be in reality a kind of incoherent and unreal drama, though composed of very real elements, in which horror would play a very present part. But if he should see his ostensible victim smiling and conversing with him amidst a company animated only by a sentiment of curiosity, he might well suspect, even in his sleep, that what he sees and what he is doing, is a pure delusion. And this is exactly what he would say to himself, should it come into his head to fire upon a magistrate, and for the reason that his looks displeased him.

These prearranged scenes fail in verisimilitude and no more deceive the actors in them, than they do the spectators or the author.

To this you may object: But, if the pistol had been loaded, Miss E. would have shot her mother! This rests upon the supposition that the mother and the spectators, still believed it to be unloaded, otherwise, their terror alone, would have been quite sufficient to call back the subject to the reality. And even with this assumption, this murder-test would have borne a greater resemblance to a simple homicide from imprudence. By this I mean to say, that so far as the spectators, the victim, and the assassin were concerned, the act would not have been changed in its character, simply because the magnetiser, had by mistake, given a loaded instead of an unloaded pistol to the subject. I need hardly remark that a real crime would never be perpetrated in this manner.

Thoroughly convinced though I was, of the impossibility of making experiments that would entirely fathom this question, circumstances nevertheless, allowed me once more to make a test which is well adapted to show that it is not as easy as some may think, to transform an hypnotic subject into a murderous automaton.

J... is that excellent somnambulist to whom my experiments have given a certain notoriety. It is she together with her sister, whom I made use of in my studies on “Memory in Hypnosis,” on “Imitation,” and “Hypnotic Consciousness.” She it is, who three several times allowed herself to be experimented upon by blistering on corresponding parts of the body; and notably in one case where in accordance with suggestion no inflammation took place.⁠[56] She is tall, robust, intelligent, industrious, healthy. She is now married and has had a child. The accouchement took place in the hypnotic sleep. The case being in the hands of M. Fraipont, Professor of Obstetrics in the University of Liège; and never was the power of hypnotism more remarkably exhibited.⁠[57] In the case of this patient there remained no trace of remembrance whatever, after awakening.

I have gone into these details merely to show the reader that no better subject could have been found for my purpose. I have in another place (see Revue Philosophique, article on “Hypnotic Consciousness”) pointed out certain traits in her case, which at my début, were strongly calculated to make me a believer in the absolute servility of the hypnotic subject; traits which I shall subsequently recall to your attention and comment upon.

To judge more fairly of the value of the experiment, I must further state, that J. is both resolute and courageous. During several summers she remained in the country in the environs of Seraing in attendance upon my wife who was in ill-health, and in whose room she slept. After the summer vacation it often happened that she spent the whole night alone with her. At the head of the bed hung a six-barrelled revolver, loaded; a precaution that we had taken on account of the well-known strikes which took place in 1886, amongst the workmen of the numerous factories in our neighborhood.

In the summer of 1887 I happened to be absent. A man came one night, prowling round the garden and fumbling at the lock of the door, which he even tried to force. The barking of the dogs wakened J., she opened the window, perceived the man, took the revolver and went down into the hall watching for the moment in which to fire at the nocturnal visitor. The man hearing the noise slipped away with celerity. And the same year that this occurrence took place, J. slept on the first floor with her loaded revolver hanging on a nail beside her bed.

The 24th Feb. 1888, without communicating my intentions to anybody except to my daughter, and that only at the very moment of beginning the experiment, I discharged the revolver. It was six o’clock in the evening. A young lady, (herself an hypnotic subject,) and my daughter, were seated at a table, cutting out articles from a newspaper, which they afterwards tied up in bundles. I called J. and at the moment she opened the door, I hypnotised her by a motion. I said to her in an agitated tone—“Here are some thieves, who are carrying off papers.”—J. came quickly forward and turning towards me said: “No sir, they are playing with them—Why sure enough they are taking them.” Then she walked resolutely up to them and tore the papers out of their hands, put them on the table in front of her and in an imperious tone said: “Don’t you touch them any more.”

I—“You are never going to let those knaves remain in the house—run and fetch the revolver” (it was in the adjoining room). J. ran without hesitation. She returned holding the weapon in her hand and stood on the threshold. “Fire,” cried I.

“Sir, we must not kill them.”

“Thieves? Why certainly!”

“No sir! I will not kill them.”

“You must.”

“I won’t do it.” And she walked backwards still holding the revolver, I following her and energetically reiterating my command. “I won’t. I won’t do it. I will not murder.” She then placed the revolver on the floor but cautiously. She continued to go backwards, I, meanwhile insisting and following her. “I will not do it.”—Having come to a dead stand in the corner of the room, she repulsed me violently and I thought it prudent to awaken her, upon which she came to herself smiling in her usual pleasant manner. She remembered, however, nothing whatever, although at the sight of the revolver lying on the floor, she seemed to have a kind of vague recollection. She did not seem at all discomposed in manner. If this scene had taken place in a dream, she would certainly have exhibited more excitement.

This is what we may term conclusive evidence, that is to say if ever negative evidence can be called so. Let us comment now upon these facts.

It will be noticed that J. is not the dupe of the hallucination to which she has been subjected. She does not take either of the young ladies for thieves, nor the newspapers for valuable papers. Her first answer is very significant—“No sir, they are playing with them.” Besides which her expression, her attitude, the manner in which she looked at the two reputed thieves, and tore the newspapers out of their hands, had something so keenly observant, so prepared, so theatrical, that both my witnesses and myself could not possibly believe her actions ingenuous. I have often questioned her about the illusions that I suggested to her. I asked her for example, if, when I appeared to her under another aspect, for instance under the appearance of a young man, with clustering locks and a black beard, she ever perceived anything of my real resemblance. She invariably answered, that she saw my actual person, as it were in a cloud, behind the figure which I had called up before her mental vision. It is very probable that she recognised my daughter and her friend in the persons whom I pointed out as the robbers. I might have assured myself of this by causing her to recall her thoughts at the time. I am aware that the opponents of this opinion challenge, and not unreasonably, tests made in this manner because they have doubts about the suggestion.

If then the facts were such as are related, J. was playing a rôle not perhaps strictly in accordance with the rules of ordinary acting, knowing that she was reciting a part, but feeling nevertheless that she had a certain part to play and must enter into the spirit of it.

It is incontrovertible that the hypnotic subject really does play his part in precisely this fashion. When, for example, you extend his arm and defy him to put it down he seems to make an effort to lower it, but in reality he does not bring the required muscles into play at all. If you bid him keep his hand open, he never dreams of using the flexor muscles. Again, if the spectators try to change the position of either hand or arm, they meet with energetic resistance.

You will ask me how it was that J. did not carry out her acting all through? Why, after she had gone for the revolver with such deliberation, she did not fire it? It was because, the action being so rapid in its development, she had no time for reflection; she must have thought and she actually did believe, that the revolver was loaded as it always was. This is proved by the precaution with which she handled it and put it on the floor. It is evident that she thought it was a dangerous game. If I had known how the affair would terminate, I would have taken the pistol and told her that I would fire myself, in order to see what her thought and action would have been. But notwithstanding all this, supposing she had fired could we have concluded from this, that she really had latent murderous tendencies? We could not have drawn any legitimate conclusions even yet. For if, as we have just stated, J. was not entirely withdrawn from her actual surroundings, she might naturally suppose that I was only joking, and that I should never make her fire on my own child, and on this account she need not feel any anxiety in fulfilling the order that I had given her.

The problem is a serious one. It is also a psychological problem. I have already partially disclosed the solution which I myself am led to give to it, and I can best translate my thoughts by these words and in the following formula: Persons in hypnosis will only execute acts similar to those they would naturally perform in dreams. I have asked a number of persons, among others, those connected with the law, whether they had ever dreamt they committed murders or robberies, and up to the present time all have answered in the negative. And yet, lawyers interrogate criminals, and it would be quite within the realm of possibility through one of those duplications of personality which I pointed out in my work on “Sleep and Dreams,”⁠[58] that they should take up for an instant the rôle of an assassin. This is not an impossible supposition. Does it ever happen that the novelist or the actor, in portraying or impersonating an infamous character, the creation of his imagination, does so identify himself for the nonce, with his own invention, that even in sleep, for a brief space, he incorporates himself, so to speak, into the fictitious personage he has evoked. There are some very curious investigations to make on this subject. But even if any positive facts could be gathered from this, we should still be left in doubt, as to whether by post-hypnotic suggestion the subject would continue to carry out the same rôle.

Doubtless, an anatomist may dream that he is dissecting a body, but could we produce an hypnotic condition such as to make him use the knife as freely upon a living body? Can I make a butcher believe that a child is a sheep? I consider the thing to be perfectly feasible, yet my thesis is not at all weakened by this concession. We will take it for granted that, animated by evil designs you proceed to hypnotise beforehand, the anatomist and the butcher, and then bring them at a given moment to the victim! And let us further imagine that the combination succeeds perfectly. How will you manage to veil in deepest secrecy all your previous manœuvres and cast a semblance of likelihood over the culpability of your accomplices?

Will not the old adage, Cui bono, be quoted against you? In order to insure perfect impunity, you would have to overcome such an accumulation of material impedimenta, the lightest of which would suffice to dissipate all apprehensions in the minds of those in whom chimerical fears have not entirely obliterated their common sense. It is therefore evident that in so far as we know now, from experiments intended to test this theory and these possibilities of Criminal Suggestion, no positive results can be obtained. These criminal actions, so appositely named—Laboratory Crimes—bear no resemblance to actual ones.

If this debate is ever to be closed it can only be before a Criminal Court when a Troppman, a Pranzini, or an Eyraud, shall have been the operator, and it shall have been clearly shown, what interest the assassin had in making use of a so-called, unconscious and automatic accomplice. Then only, shall we be able to appreciate to what degree hypnotism may become a dangerous enemy to society at large. And even then, we shall have to remind ourselves that all our medicines are poisons and that they have the power of destroying even more surely, than that of healing.

Thus the problem is still unsolved.

Here is a story told me by Dr. Liébeault. He, or perhaps it was M. Bernheim, or both together, hypnotised a workman and told him to steal a couple of little plaster figures, that were used as ornaments on the mantel-piece in a house where he was working. He did so. The affair had been forgotten for some time because the suggestion had not been carried out on the spot. About three months after the occurrence, this same workman was arrested for stealing a pair of trousers from the front of a shop. Upon which the previous hypnotic suggestion was remembered.

My opinion is that the workman—and how many there are of the same calibre—had a very slight regard for meum and tuum. This reminds us of that hospital patient, whom we saw pilfering the tobacco from his comrades, and I do not think it was at all necessary to have thrown the workman into the hypnotic sleep in order to make him steal the statuettes. But from another point of view, this experiment, which did not prove anything, might give rise to party arguments from those who deem it desirable to maintain that it was the initiatory suggestion that first gave this man the taste for stealing.

To sum up in a few words this portion of my investigation; the result of my experiments and of my analyses is this: that the experiments of my opponents prove nothing.

For the present I shall confine myself to this purely negative conclusion.

But there are other grounds besides experiments on which we may examine this question. We can do so by careful observation and minute analysis of the actions of hypnotised persons.

I have said before that the degree of morality observable in the dreams of the subject, gives the measure of what may be expected from him during hypnosis.

According to my opinion, hypnotism is less powerful in inciting to actions of grave moral import, than the corrupting influence of word or example, the love of gold, or the excitement of the passions.

All truly scientific experiments have brought into prominence the analogy between physiological and incited dreams, and to-day we may say that this is the doctrine of the future. Thus if an hypnotic subject admits without opposition that he is made of sugar, or of glass, that he feels he is melting in the rain, or being broken to atoms by the awkwardness of the bystanders; if he thinks he is a lamp, or allows himself to be trundled along like a wheelbarrow; if such a subject, I repeat, refuses to steal a purse, or to receive an embrace, the conclusion forces itself upon one that the hypnotic subject has more power over himself than some persons would wish us to believe; in spite of his docility, there are some things he absolutely refuses to do.

If then, reasoning by analogy has ever been legitimate, it is surely so in this case, when the inference can be drawn that the man who refuses to give a blow will refuse to use a knife; and that the woman who refuses to give a token of affection will certainly refuse to allow of serious tampering with morals.

Let us then pay close attention to what observation may teach us.

I shall hope to be able to demonstrate by actual facts, that persons in an hypnotic condition, preserve at least a sufficient portion of their intelligence, their reason, together with freedom of action, to prevent them from committing deeds that neither their conscience nor their habits approve of.

J. Delbœuf.

FOOTNOTES:

LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE

I. FRANCE.

When, some ten years ago, M. de Roberty published in the Review of Positive Philosophy a series of articles, under the title of the “New and the Old Philosophy,” I was much impressed by the work. The conception of the three types; the idealistic, the materialistic, and the sensualistic, under which nomenclature he ranged the various philosophic systems, seemed to bring order into the history of philosophy. He also proceeded to treat, after the same manner and in a very happy way, the “law of the three states” of Auguste Comte, by this means rectifying and justifying the latter. The law of the three states, wrote M. de Roberty, corresponds with the present state of philosophy, which is again explained by science, so that to whatever measure knowledge may attain to, it will be equalled by philosophy, which borrows its types and its characteristics from the sequence of facts, at the point where it leaves the sphere of explanatory hypotheses.

Since then M. de Roberty has completed by a new study, his first work on this subject. In the “Unknown” he has laid his finger on one of the weak points of modern positivism; perhaps by dint of searching into details, he has shown himself a little too severe on Comte in the book about which I am going to speak to-day, The Philosophy of the Century (La Philosophie du Siècle.).

This book contains a thoughtful criticism of the three doctrines that occupy contemporaneous thought; and which are: criticism, positivism, and evolutionism. He considers these in conformance to his criterium, as simply the varieties of one single species and the absolutely identical manifestation of a common fund of beliefs and hypotheses held generally by all. According to him critical philosophy derives its direct origin from idealism. Positive philosophy, from materialism; and the philosophy of evolution from sensualism. Going further still, he considers critical philosophy as the legitimate outcome of sensualistic idealism; and positive philosophy, similarly, as the product of sensualistic materialism. Sensualism is thus the common ancestor; the three systems inter-penetrating each other. But the promoters of these systems must be judged with equity, put back into their proper places, and ranged according to their epochs. In my opinion, a philosophical doctrine is valuable, not so much by the clear solutions it affords us, as by its methods of procedure, may I say, even by the coloring it gives to thoughtful minds.

I do not hesitate to recognise in Kant, the strong, rough-handed workman of modern philosophy; in Comte, the most utilitarian; in Spencer the subtlest as well as the most successful. Kant possesses the greatest speculative vigor; Comte, the clearest scientific turn of mind; Spencer, the keenest conception of, and insight into, psychological subjects. Taking these philosophers as a whole, Spencer, in spite of his merits, appears to me the least original, the least remarkable of the three. His universal metaphysics has feet of clay. The classification of the sciences that he wished to substitute for that of Comte is obscure, devoid of general utility; in short the influence of Comte on succeeding generations will be more considerable than Spencer’s, if indeed there are any philosophers who will be bold enough to avow themselves deliberately as Comtists.

This contradiction should not surprise us. It not seldom happens that the influence of a master continues even when his doctrines have suffered shipwreck. We notice this in the great schools of thought of the present day. We may say with truth, that the criticists are inclined to dialectics; the positivists, to methods and systems; the evolutionists to facts. The first excel in the analysis of ideas, but they expose themselves to be lost in abstractions. The second endeavor to reduce to a system all scientific matter, but they run the risk of being either rigorists or becoming too elementary. The last while making rapid strides in the genesis of the subtler phenomena of life, incur the danger of accepting arbitrary liaisons, or of remaining in an inchoate condition. Each one possesses most valuable qualities, which it would be desirable indeed to meet with in the same mind. Each has rendered services which it is but just to recognise and which it would be unwise to disregard.

The main thing is always to be able to understand one another upon the question of what philosophy means and its relation to science. What M. de Roberty cares most for, in all his writings, is the elucidation of this problem. We must concede, that it is one which is worth striving after. And it is surely not asking too much if we demand of every philosopher, that he shall know, more or less, what is meant by philosophising.

Philosophy will be, in the future, very much what it has always been in the past, a general conception of the world. This is a fixed fact for M. de Roberty. Is it true that philosophy preceded science, or, that on the contrary it has always been and will continue to be subsidiary to it? Many are, we know, partisans of the first opinion; it has seemed to them that the sciences have separated little by little from the hazy and indistinct conglomerate which bore the name of theology, metaphysics, in a word, of philosophy. M. de Roberty does not hesitate to adopt the contrary opinion. Philosophy, according to him, has always sprung from science, it has always been the equal of science. But though he proclaims this equality as existing between science and philosophy, this does not in the least oblige him to recognise any equality in their manifestations “in history.” The knowledge of a given science, implies a certain conception of the world; this is the supreme law of philosophical evolution. Philosophy is an abstract science of general interest, having for its end, the integration of the documentary evidence furnished by the various sciences. Comte was strongly imbued with this truth. Spencer made it his own, but he makes a more serious mistake than his predecessor, when he asserts that philosophy is able to “play an active part” in scientific discovery. In the opinion of M. de Roberty, it is neither the antecedent of science, nor is it even to be called an art. Must it then be called a science? Or is it to be comprehended in science? Neither the one, nor the other. He prefers rather to regard it as a link (“un trait d’union”) between these two different kinds of intellectual activity, science and art. The mental faculties may, he tells us, aim at subjugating nature, either in a direct manner, the result of which will be called science; or in an indirect way, in which case we name it art; or they may have still a third intention, taking a kind of middle course between the utility of science and the indirect utility of art, which while actively participating in both, facilitates as well the transition from one to the other, from which springs philosophy. “Most unmistakably identical,” says he finally, “are the elements which produce a particular combination, in the one, they are called science, in the other philosophy.”

But we must not confound the two propositions. “If a house is to be built of brick, does that mean that we are not to distinguish between the materials required in its erection?—that we are to apply to its construction, the ingredients and the procedures used in the making and firing of bricks? We never should build a house if we acted thus.”

Let us not misunderstand this comparison! The house here spoken of is entirely figurative. The hypothesis which underlies it is universally accepted, but its primal condition is always wanting—i. e. universal knowledge. It would be presumptuous indeed, to draw, to-day, the plans and define the style of architecture which shall be used in our future philosophical habitation, since we do not yet possess even the materials wherewith to build it. We can only hope to erect such a temporary shelter, a fort, that may be swept away in a few hours, whenever the enemy shall have discovered an explosive powerful enough to blow it into atoms. I do not care very much, I confess, for the distinction spoken of “between a direct and an indirect utility” and the idea of philosophy forming a link between art and science. This way of representing the facts of the case, seems to me both cumbersome and incomplete. I will not stop here to discuss it. The thoughtful study of M. de Roberty is not compromised by such a small detail, and I would rather remember the positive teaching which is given in the very striking book that I have just been criticising.

“Philosophy and science,” writes the author, “are terms which define two principal species of the vast genus designated under the one name,—knowledge.” The most marked trait of the philosophy of the future, will be the distinction between the two species, as confusion was the predominant characteristic of the philosophy of the past.

The work of M. de Roberty gave us a methodic history of philosophy. That of M. F. Picavet, The Ideologists—An Essay on the Scientific, Philosophic, Religious, etc., ideas and theories in France since 1789, stretches over a very vast area of descriptive history. His book conducts us from Condorcet to Destutt de Tracy, and Cabanis; from these to Degérando and Laromiguière; it embraces thus nearly the whole of the philosophy of the eighteenth century, which it carries back to the seventeenth, from thence following the thread of its history, through the intervening years, down to our own times. The name “Ideologist” is vague, as are all the rest of the battle-cries which are used by the leaders of parties, or that their adversaries may make use of against them. Ideology, in the sense used by Destutt de Tracy, signifies, that philosophers must confine themselves to psychological research, more particularly to that which concerns the origin and the formation of ideas, an immense field, embracing philology, ethnology, etc. With regard to the wrong sense which Napoleon attached to this word, it was justified in a certain measure by the pretensions of the philosophers in governing life, politics, and law, by doubtful hypotheses, which did not often accord with practice. It cannot be denied that since the time of Rousseau, we pass much too easily from theory to action, and that we fall back too readily on our imagination, to supplement our actual experience. We find in M. Picavet’s book, new and valuable information about all the men who have contributed to the intellectual life of the French nation, during and since the time of the Revolution. We can trace there the origin of certain doctrines, which have appeared to spring up suddenly before our eyes, and shall often be extremely surprised by what we shall read there. It is a most valuable and important work, showing an enormous amount of erudition, fine critical acumen, and a rare descriptive talent. It is quite voluminous (more than 600 pp. 8vo.), and some might indeed consider that it could have been more condensed. But it is primarily a book of reference, in whose pages we shall surely not complain of finding a large amount of information, when we refer to it.

With the book of M. Bernard Pérez, Le Caractère, de l’enfant à l’homme, (Character, from Childhood to Manhood), we leave the domain of philosophy and history to enter into that of psychology. M. Pérez modestly disclaims all pretension to founding a science of character. Nevertheless, that which he has given us and produced here, bears the stamp of originality in a subject in which authors have hitherto only repeated one another. His work is composed of two parts, of which the second forms the completion of, or rather a commentary on, the first. We find here, to start with, a classification of characters, illustrated by portraits which render the developments more tangible; secondly, a study on the common combinations of the principle traits of personality.

The classification of M. Pérez is founded on movements, that is to say it is displayed in sufficiently complete groups connected with some distinct mode of expression, such as rapidity, slowness, and energy of movements. It offers the practical advantage of substituting for the four or six temperaments of the old schools, which are frequently hard to distinguish, classes more flexible and distinguished by visible gestures which betray, more or less clearly, their physiological foundation. M. Pérez has provisorily established six of these classes. He distinguishes the vivacious, the vivacious-ardent, the ardent, the sluggish, the sluggish-ardent, and lastly the balanced type. The last category is in my judgment a sort of utility-box, apparently designed to receive specimens which we are at a loss where else to put. For one of two things is certainly true, either this balance is an insignificant trait or it is one that is dominant in the person, and it is absolutely necessary to state which.

Many will undoubtedly question this doctrine that the movements of a person express all his character and that consequently they are competent to reveal it to us. We might maintain, indeed, that if the movements supply us with the labels of each class, it is not always to be distinctly seen how the different traits of character and of intelligence (the author does not separate the two, and gives his reasons for so doing) subordinate themselves to one another and vary with the motor sign chosen to express them. There can be no question, however, that rapidity, energy, or slowness of movement, do not have certain actual and profound connections with our visceral and cerebral functions, and that the motor sign is easy to be made use of, although it does not reach all the facts which it is employed to describe, and although the explanation of these facts still remains to be sought in the physiological substratum.

M. Pérez has secondly attempted a systematisation of character-traits, by successively studying the relations of gaiety and sadness, irascibility and gentleness, courage and fear, kindness and malevolence, self-love and will, with the principal emotional intellectual and volitional traits of character. He has perceived, instinctively as it were, that the pointing out of generic, specific, and individual marks does not possess its entire worth except on the condition that we also point out the subordination of the same, and he has given this factor much prominence in the last chapters of his book. This portion of the work is replete with subtle observations, and ingenious and profound reflections, but it is fragmentary in character, a half-way production, I might say, between the disconnected literature of the moralist and a reasoned and methodical description such as ethology ought to furnish later on, after the manner, if possible, of the natural sciences.

The desiderata which I here briefly refer to, are not set forth to diminish the value of the work of M. Pérez. It will in its present form render great services, and I should not be at all surprised if the terminology which he has invented should pass into the language of the day, as it is convenient and easily lends itself to the description of character-portraits. Even readers who shall find here much to criticise, will not refuse to accord to it real and solid merit.

After the work of M. Pérez, a study of my own naturally ranges itself—La Psychologie du peintre⁠[59]—concerning which I ask permission to offer a few remarks. I have set myself the problem, in this work, of determining a professional type, and I have chosen one of those which are certainly the most distinctly defined. If other authors could give us the psychology of the musician, of the lawyer, of the physician, and of the geometer, such a task would not be an indifferent performance in what concerns our knowledge of character, and we should arrive at the construction of a natural history of society from a different point of view and by different methods from those at the disposal of the novelist. We should accomplish, unquestionably, the passage from general and abstract psychology, to concrete psychology.

Do professional types really exist? and if they exist, what are they composed of? The question as I view it, is not bereft of interest for the psychologist. We do, no doubt, find among painters, vivacious, sluggish, and ardent individuals, and we may indeed, in studying this or that particular painter, discover in him some one or other of the combinations described by M. Pérez. But that does not stand in the way of the growth and constitution of social types, and individuals may find a natural place in the different categories of a general classification without ceasing to belong to their professional category in consequence of a natural self-grouping of their intellectual faculties, and a definite tendency of the traits of their emotional nature. It would be justifiable to say, at the same time simplifying and enlarging a little the facts, that originally our viscera form our character but our cerebral organism forms our profession; and if it is true furthermore that a certain physiological state brings with it a definite intellectual mode of operation, it is none the less true that the same culture of the mind and the long-continued habits of a profession are apt to impose upon one’s personality a definite discipline and mean equilibrium of tendencies and sentiments; and it is in this sense that it has seemed to me we are at liberty to speak of a professional type without equivocation or violence.

Those who will not accept this manner of looking at this subject will find, I hope, some additional interest in my work on the score of the special questions which are treated of there: the heredity of genius, memory, the classification of the sentiments (implied rather than formulated), the relations of the will to the design considered as writing, the evolution of art in its connection with visual analysis, and so forth. There is here a sufficiently abundant supply of materials capable of being wrought up in social psychology and the criticism of art. But it does not become me to bestow praises on my own work, and it would be too easy for me to subject it to criticism. My readers will find in it themselves the weak portions, without my pointing them out to them; and it would be a source of great pleasure to me to have the same assurance that they will discover in it qualities which I do not perceive there.

There remains still to be mentioned La Première partie d’une étude sur la théorie du droit musulman,⁠[60] by Savvas Pacha, one time governor and governor general, one time minister of public works and foreign secretary of Turkey. Savvas Pacha—a Christian of Greek descent—has held high positions in the Ottoman Empire and is esteemed as one of the most learned men in Islamic law who have ever lived. His book therefore demands the greatest consideration; it will not possess less interest for philosophers than for statesmen and jurists. In my opinion, works of this class should be consulted by psychologists as much as by sociologists; we are too much inclined nowadays to neglect certain social studies which offer us valuable information respecting the genius of races and the conditions of their moral existence.

The work of Savvas Pacha will undoubtedly contribute much toward the elucidation of some mooted points of very first importance; I should like to mention—the history of creation, and the exposition of the principles of a law which rules more than a million human beings and is intimately interwoven with their political life; a more exact knowledge of the Semitic genius; an estimate of the relations which have existed between the juridical metaphysics of the Semitic peoples and that of the schools of Greece, between the Mohammedan law and the Roman law in provinces once Romanised but afterwards subjected to the empire of the Caliphs.

It does not seem at all doubtful that the ontology of Aristotle in particular has exercised an influence on the philosophy of the Arabian jurisconsults. A second truly remarkable fact, too, is not the new ontology which they have produced, but the use they have made of it in their legislative fabrics. It is impossible to enter into details here; I limit myself to the mere pointing out of the facts.

With respect to the originality of the institutions that belong to the period of the first Abbassids, the same has been contested by a number of historians. M. Renan, among others has maintained that they are the work of the Iranian genius. Savvas Pacha refutes this opinion in a peremptory manner, and we shall no longer be able to deny, after having read him, that the Mohammedan civilisation, with the corpus juris which stands for its most perfect production, has really proceeded from the genius of the races that bore the banner of Islam from the confines of China to the Straits of Gibraltar.

Shall I add that we may deduce from this work, so learned and so suggestive, the elements of an instructive comparison between two grand divisions of human history whose evolution seems still to be pursued on lines wholly apart—that which we call Christianity and that which has sprung from the teachings of Mohammed?

I fervently hope that Savvas Pacha will not delay the publication of the other works which he has promised. When they appear he will have furnished us with the most considerable work which we possess on the institutions of a great division of humanity, still too little known to us.

Lucien Arréat.

FOOTNOTES:

II. GERMANY.

Productions of a literary-historical character are under certain circumstances also entitled to mention in a philosophical magazine, especially if they present to us the intellectual development and physiognomy of an individual or of a community in a scientific manner, as is done in the Essays of Karl Weigand which have just been published by Merhoff, of Munich. Of the larger essays contained in this book we will especially mention those on Voltaire, Rousseau, Baudelaire, and Taine, to which in psychological respects a high value is to be accorded, and which although not exactly easy are nevertheless pleasant reading.

Viewed from this standpoint the History of North American Literature by Karl Knortz (Berlin, 1891, Lustenöder) hardly admits of consideration; not even Edgar Allen Poe, who in the psychological point of view is of unexceptionally great importance, is in any respect profoundly treated. The work is made up of a series of well written articles which first no doubt were published in newspapers and magazines for the public at large. We deem it proper, however, to mention the work in this place, because it contains a chapter on the philosophical literature of North America, in which, we must admit, philosophy does not appear to the best advantage. The representatives of philosophy in North America, the author says, are in the main doctors of divinity and securely installed university professors, and this department of study has therefore no dangerous connections; the gentlemen calmly wend their way along the ancient and well-trodden path of the aprioristic philosophers and proscribe without any ado all modern innovations, Darwinism in particular.

As they have not as yet consigned the belief in God and immortality and the freedom of the will to the lumber-room of traditional opinions, and as they are as a rule only superficially acquainted with the results of the exact sciences, despite the fact that many assure us of the contrary, they accordingly fancy that they are easily able to solve the imagined chief problem of philosophy, the reconciliation of religion and science.

This judgment may contain much that is true, but from the little that we personally know of things in North America, is to be decidedly restricted. Moreover, we by no means share the low opinion which the author entertains of all attempts to reconcile religion and science. Religion is a phenomenon of too great antiquity and its influence in the life of nations is too thoroughly established to entitle us, on the ground of science with which it is still involved in violent conflict, summarily to disregard it; and consequently every attempt at reconciliation is worthy of the best efforts of the noblest. It is of course a question whether we shall ever arrive at the point where we will completely understand all religious things, but we certainly must with time arrive at a point where religion shall no longer contain inconsistencies, contain nothing, that is, of which the absurdities are patent.

There was indeed, in Germany also, a time when the belief was very widely spread that religion as compared with science might be ignored completely; it was the time when Ludwig Büchner and Karl Vogt were so much read, when the magazine Gartenlaube counted its greatest number of readers. But this time is long since past, and just as since that time employment with philosophy, especially with ethics, has become more comprehensive, so also the interest in religio-philosophical questions, which aim at a reconcilement of the two hostile powers, has been considerably augmented. Aside from the German productions which have been written in a conciliatory tone, like the book, to give an example, of Moriz Carrière on Christianity and the Modern World Conception, foreign works of this same class have also been much read, particularly Drummond’s Natural Law in the Spiritual World, to which indeed in our judgment no particular value is attributable, as it does not help us to any real knowledge but contents itself with analogies which scientifically are absolutely worthless.

Recently the little treatise Ernste Gedanken of the Saxon officer Von Egidy (Leipsic, 1891, Wilh. Wigand) has been much talked about. The reformatory effect of this brochure has, indeed, hitherto been very slight and will hardly become more extensive in the future, but the response that it has met with in the widest circles of the German public, proves that many ardent friends of religion anxiously desire that the dogmatic shackles and integuments shall be stripped from the body of the Christian beliefs, and that it shall appear, in the clearest and purest light, that which it is, the religion of love.

Theological criticism has not taken an exactly favorable attitude towards the little book of Lieut. Egidy, and even the liberals, who pay the fullest credit to the good intentions of the author call attention to the fact that the greater part of what Egidy advances has been said before and said better, and that there is an almost absolute lack of positive proposals to be adopted. The Egidy movement will thus probably have, they conclude, no lasting effects.

We cannot indeed absolutely say that these critics are wrong, if we are at all conversant with the development of protestant theology. A very instructive and opportune work in this respect is a book of the well-known Berlin professor Otto Pfleiderer, who, as his religio-philosophical treatises evidence, himself belongs to the reconcilers of Christianity and the modern world-conceptions. In the year 1889, at the instigation of the editor of the Library of Philosophy issued by Swan, Sonnenschein, & Co. of London, he published in the English language a work on The Development of Protestant Theology since Kant and in Great Britain since 1825, and this same work has now just appeared in German (published by Mohr of Freiburg) in a somewhat more extended form. As its title proclaims, and as its belonging to the Library of Philosophy would signify, the work is chiefly concerned with the influence which philosophy has exercised on theological thought. To make this influence plain, the author presents at the start, in the form of an introduction, a concise but extremely lucid exposition of the philosophical doctrines that especially demand consideration in this direction. Of German philosophers, Kant, Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, and of English, Herbert Spencer are treated of at length.

In view of the great respect which Hegel still enjoys in America, it will perhaps interest many of the readers of The Monist if I give here an utterance of Pfleiderer, which in the point of view of the history of religion is also deserving of consideration, at least on the part of those who are recognised adherents of evolutionism.

“No other branch of inquiry,” says Pfleiderer, “owes so much to Hegel as History; the arbitrary construction of details from the philosophical concept which had crept in by Hegel and his immediate followers, has of course been discarded by exact historical inquirers, but there has remained that profounder conception of historical life generally as a development of the common mind of all ages and nations, conformable to law, dominated by ideas, and aiming at necessary general purposes; there has remained that profounder insight into the intricate play of phenomena, into the kernel of things and men, into the dominating ideas that lie as guiding impulses at the foundation of even the apparent disharmony of individual passions; there has remained that unprepossessed understanding for the necessity of even the contrarieties and struggles, for the errors and passions of men, for conflict is the father of all things, as Hegel says with Heraclitus, and as it is only through the struggle of partial rights and one-sided truths that the whole truth of the idea can force its way into existence; there has remained finally that intelligent respect for the heroic figures of history in which the genius of a people and of an age have been incarnated, which as the instruments of a higher power have awakened the thought that slumbered in all souls, given it clear expression, and infused in it life by their mighty deeds. Neither a Leopold Ranke, nor a Thomas Carlyle, nor a Ferdinand Christian Bauer would be conceivable without Hegel’s philosophy of history.”

Pfleiderer expresses himself here very cautiously concerning Hegel, and in other passages his caution is extended further still. Nevertheless, it will seem to many as if that philosopher has been too highly estimated by Pfleiderer. Especially will the followers of Herbart be dissatisfied, who was involved in violent combat with Schelling and Hegel. It is not the place here to enter minutely into this subject; but it is to be mentioned that the name of Herbart does not occur once in this large book. Perhaps Pfleiderer is of Edward Zeller’s opinion who says in his “History of Modern Philosophy,” that the philosophy of Herbart has proved itself unfruitful. It must be confessed, indeed, that the philosophy of Hegel has proved itself for religious doctrine very fruitful; but whether we should be satisfied with its results is quite a different question. Be that however as it may; still, after Schoel has presented Herbart’s ideas concerning religion in a special work, since men like Drobisch, Thilo, and Strumpell have further elaborated these ideas; since particularly Ziller in his Ethics has also profoundly treated religious problems in the sense of Herbart, it is no longer allowable to omit the name of Herbart when we treat of the modern philosophy of religion.

In other respects also we are not always in full accord with the author. So, for example, in Hausrath’s Neutestamentliche Zeitgeschichte, a work to which we ourselves are very much indebted, the perfection of the form of the presentment is justly praised, as is also the merit of having inserted into the greater setting of universal history the development of early Christianity; but it is not mentioned that Hausrath has often allowed himself to be misguided into combinations whose flimsiness cannot escape the notice even of the lay student.

But these are only slight deficiencies of a work that is otherwise excellent and full of matter, closing with the words: “This much is certain, that the labors of the best and wisest of all the theologians of our century, who have here been passed in review before the eyes of the reader, however different the paths may be which individually they have entered upon, have yet been all directed to the one end that Christianity shall strip itself of its dogmatic coverings and fetters and evince its world-conquering power in the ethical idealism of a love that unites us with God and joins together the hands of humanity into the federation of brotherhood.”

If this aim were universal, that is if it were also recognised by the theologians, a not inconsiderable portion of the dispute between religion and science would be done away with, and the sole question would then turn on the contrariety of theological and philosophical ethics. But even respecting this point a settlement would be much sooner brought about, if those concerned would evince the same spirit of reconciliation as Hans Gallwitz, city pastor of Sigmaringen, has recently done in his book Das Problem der Ethik in der Gegenwart (Göttingen, 1891, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht). The author, it is true, deals critically not only with the philosophical ethics of a Paulsen and a Wundt, but also with the theological ethics of a Hermann and a Kaftan; still the settlement of things with the philosophers forms the bulk of this rather extensive work, the contents of which we cannot of course give here. Gallwitz also speaks in considerable detail of Kant, whom he opposes in respect of the psychological questions here involved, wholly rejecting anything like a transcendental will. If we must agree with him in this respect, we can nevertheless not follow him in his assumption of a special ethical constitution of the soul.

In conclusion let me note the titles of two works to which I shall revert in a subsequent letter. On The Psychology in Kant’s Ethics Dr. Alfred Hegler of Tübingen presents a meritorious and compendious treatise of 300 pages (Freiburg, 1891, Mohr), and Professor Hostinsky of Prague publishes an exposition and interpretation, based on the sources, of Herbart’s Æsthetics, in which, as is well known, ethics and æsthetics in the restricted sense are wholly severed from psychology.

Chr. Ufer.

CRITICISMS AND DISCUSSIONS.

THOUGHT AND LANGUAGE.

To the Editor of The Monist:

Sir—I am glad to hear that Prof. Max Müller intends to answer our double-barrelled criticism of his article on the above subject. Meanwhile, however, I should like to say a few words with regard to the point which he selects for immediate response (see The Monist, Jan. 1892, p. 286). And my object in saying these few words is to remove from his mind the idea that with regard to the point in question I had the smallest intention of bringing against him “a serious charge of want of accuracy, unpardonable in a scholar.” On the contrary, as regards this point I was simply defending myself from his charge against me—to wit, the charge of arrogance.

In his article on “Thought and Language” he observed, “Professor Romanes has no right to speak of men like Noiré, Huxley, Herbert Spencer, to say nothing of Hobbes, with an air of superiority.” In answer to this charge I stated the bare facts of the case,—viz. that in my book I had alluded to Noiré merely for the sake of stating his theory as to the origin of speech, and of expressing my large measure of agreement therewith; that I had quoted Huxley only in places where my argument needed authoritative opinions on matters of comparative anatomy; that I had only once mentioned Hobbes, and then in order to back by his authority a philosophical doctrine for which I was contending; and, lastly, that I had never mentioned Herbert Spencer at all. Now, if my critic feels that a mere statement of these facts amounts to a serious charge against him as a scholar, I can only express my regret that he should have imposed on me the necessity of stating them.

But what now is his reply to this simple statement of facts? Briefly, he drops his own “serious charge” as regards Noiré, Huxley, and Hobbes, and takes his stand upon the case of Herbert Spencer. “It is true,” he says, “Mr. Spencer’s name does not occur in the index. But on p. 230 we read: ‘So here again we meet with additional proof, were any required, of the folly of regarding the copula as an essential ingredient of a proposition.’ Now it is well known that it is Herbert Spencer who regards the copula as an essential ingredient of a proposition.” As if it were one man alone who takes this view, and that man Herbert Spencer! Or as if Herbert Spencer’s name were so specially identified with it, that in calling it a philosophically foolish view I expected my readers to understand a disrespectful allusion to him! Surely my critic knows as well as I do that this question touching the function of the copula is one which has been debated for centuries; and therefore that with much more show of reason he might accuse me of making an attack on the President of the United States, on the ground that I had expressed a decided opinion in favor of free trade.

But more than this. So far is it from being “well known that it is Herbert Spencer who regards the copula as an essential ingredient of a proposition,” that I am under the necessity of asking Prof. Max Müller for references in proof of such a statement. Chapters X and XI of the “Principles of Psychology” (Vol. II) are those which, as far as I am aware, most nearly approach the subject. Yet the word “copula” does not once occur in them. Moreover, with all that Mr. Spencer has there said upon the nature and structure of propositions I am, and always have been, in full agreement.

Yours faithfully,

George J. Romanes.

Oxford, Feb. 12.

A DEFENSE OF LITTRÉ.

To the Editor of The Monist.

If all the readers of The Monist for October were acquainted with the life and writings of Littré I should not have to defend him against your criticism, as everyone could see that there is more truth than poetry in my sonnet. But I fear that “the voice, the spirit, and the soul of Positivism” is not so well known as he deserves to be, and I venture to ask for space to reply.

Proceeding in order, I should like to correct the impression left by the following passage: “Comte had not nominated a successor who should in his place be the Directeur du positivisme. Littré had forfeited this honor on account of his quarrels with Comte in which he strongly sided with Madame Comte against her husband.” The misunderstanding between the two men had a more serious origin than these family squabbles and arose from the fact that Littré would not follow Comte through the mystic vagaries of the Politique Positive. He admits that being under his intellectual ascendency he went too far on the new way, but he soon found that the master was violating his own method and, having to choose between them, he held to the method. Littré’s refusal to join Comte in his adhesion to the régime of the coup d’état of 1851 was the immediate cause of the rupture. His “excessive tolerance” did not extend to the Bonapartes, whom he detested cordially. It is characteristic of the man that he continued his yearly subscription to the fund that he had created for his friend’s support notwithstanding this break in their relations.

As to his tolerance, I think with you that he carried it a little too far in his own family. Greater firmness might have spared us the vision of priests bedeviling him in his agony and dragging his body in triumph to holy ground. But the case that you take as an example does not seem to me conclusive. It was not necessary to possess his knowledge of history in order to appreciate the difficulties attendant upon interference with his catholic wife in the education of their daughter, and as success was impossible he wisely limited his endeavor to fields unobstructed by the “eternal feminine.”

Seriously, we admit that Littré was tolerant to excess, but not that the attitude of his philosophy is, as you say, “mere scepticism leading to indifferentism.” In the words of M. Wyrouboff, who aided him for many years in editing the magazine called La Philosophie Positive, “men, no matter how superior they may be, are never abstract formulas interpreting with equal facility all the parts of a mental conception; they always represent a mixture of strength and weakness in variable proportions.... It seemed as if intellectual activity had absorbed all the living forces of his (Littré’s) being, leaving in the place of physical activity only the faculty of passive resistance to the will of others.” This refers to the man in his old age but in youth he was an athlete of remarkable strength. Renan said of him: “While his temperament was calm his mind was revolutionary, and therefore he never gave way. In July 1830, he was in the first line of those who broke into the place du Carrousel and George Farcy was shot through by his side.” I am tempted to quote a little more from this master of words. “So great was his love of truth that, perhaps alone in our century, he could retract without lessening himself. Truth led him like a child.... It is not well to be too perfect.... His apparent negations were only the extreme reserve of a mind that dreads hazardous appreciations. He was so much afraid of going beyond what he saw clearly that he often stopped short of it. Hesitation that implies a thousand times more delicate worship of the eternal ideal than the rash solutions that satisfy superficial minds.”

Even in old age there were no signs of “indifferentism” in his conduct. In the words of Pasteur, “At the Mesnil he was consulting physician for the whole village (always gratuitously). Continuing his labors till three o’clock in the morning, the light of his lamp shone afar during the night like a beacon that reassured the sick. It was known that at the first call, M. Littré would leave his work and go wherever his aid was needed.”

These are the words of men that knew him, but my first-hand opinion of him was formed solely from his writings and his public acts as senator, etc.; fancy such a man in our senate!

The note in which you say that I attended positivistic lectures (Comte’s?) in France together with Mr. Frederic Harrison is a flattering anachronism.

Littré’s father received a sword of honor while in the navy for beating off an English ship of superior force, and the son’s philosophy prompts not only to action but to action, if necessary, in the good old fashioned positive way.

My second objection refers to the line where you say that your positivism “has nothing to do with Comte or with any of Comte’s disciples,” and, leaving Comte aside, I hope to show that you and Littré are much better friends than you imagine. A view noted by him on p. 27, Vol. 1, of his magazine, La Philosophie Positive, ought to assure this happy result.

In the preface of your valuable work entitled “Fundamental Problems” you draw particular attention to the part that treats of “Form and Formal Thought,” which, you say, discusses a subject of fundamental importance. “A correct conception of form and the laws of form will clear away many mysteries; it will afford a satisfactory explanation of causality and shed a new light on all the other problems of philosophy.”

The part referred to begins thus: “In the introduction to his ‘Critique of Pure Reason,’ Immanuel Kant proposes the question: How are synthetical Judgments a priori possible? on the solution of this problem the whole structure of his philosophy rests, which he characterises as Transcendental Idealism.” (“A priori, as used in the limited sense by Kant, is purely formal knowledge, while a posteriori is identical with experience.”)

Further on I read, “Our own views grew out of a study of Kant’s Transcendentalism”; and the first words of your “Conclusion” are these: “Although Kant’s Transcendental Idealism cannot be considered as a final solution of the basic problem of philosophy, it nevertheless pursues the right method and has thus actually led us to a solution which, we hope, will in time be recognised as final.”

In looking for the difference between the two solutions to find the part in yours that belongs to you alone, I see on p. 50 of “Fundamental Problems” that “Kant thinks it is a strange and wonderful fact that our formal thought (the rules of arithmetic, mathematics, logic, etc., which are a priori) agrees so precisely with the highest (i. e. the most general) laws of nature, which can be ascertained and verified by experience. Kant sees only two ways of solution. Either the laws of pure reason, he says, have been gathered by experience from nature, or, on the contrary, the laws of nature have been deduced from our a priori rules. The former solution is impossible, since the formal sciences are proven to have been formulated with the exclusion of all sensory experience. ‘Therefore,’ says Kant, ‘the second solution only remains. Reason dictates its laws to nature’; i. e. ... the sensory impressions are the raw material only from which the well-ordered whole of nature, as an object of science, is created by the synthetic faculty of reason.... Kant has taken into consideration two ways only. He overlooks the third and most obvious explanation.... The third possibility is that which has been propounded in the foregoing pages. According to our explanation, the formal (the highest or most general) laws of nature and the formal laws of thought are identical. Their agreement is not wonderful but inevitable as both are expressions of the forms of existence in general.”

This then is your “solution of the basic problem of philosophy.”

Turning back to page 34, I find under the title “The Origin of the A Priori”: “Kant answers the question ‘How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?’ by showing that such synthetic judgments undoubtedly exist.” “He might have ventured a step further by proposing another question: ‘What is the origin of the a priori?’ Only by answering this question could he have shown how synthetic judgments a priori are possible. This he did not do, and the omission has produced great confusion among German, French, and English thinkers.” On the next page, 36, I find “According to our view, form is a property of reality as well as of our cognition. Formless matter does not exist. Form and matter as they exist in reality, are inseparable.... Knowledge also in its primitive shape, when it is, so to say, natural and crude, is an intimate combination of sense-perceptions and formal cognition. The sense-perceptions are the real substance of knowledge, while formal cognition is the principle which arranges and systematises sense-experiences.” ... “Logic does not create order and system in our brain, but it makes us conscious of the order that naturally grew in our mind.”

In the division entitled “The Order of Nature” you say that “Formal thought represents the mere laws of thought in their abstractness, and has been acquired by abstraction. The mere forms of thought exhibit a wonderful regularity.... This regularity of formal thought, which is expressed in all logical laws, arithmetical calculations, and in all mathematical conceptions, has naturally grown in our mind as the psychical expression of a physical regularity in the arrangement of the various brain-structures and their combinations. The arrangement of brain-structures in certain regular forms has been effected in accordance with the same laws that govern the development of forms generally.”

This answer to the question, “What is the origin of the a priori” is what you call the corner-stone of your positivism, which, you say, “it is to be hoped, will prove the only true Monism.”

Now I give my translation of Littré’s view, which he published in 1867, in an article entitled “The Three Philosophies.”

“The effective certainty that the mathematical laws of number, of figure and of motion are at the base of physical phenomena, and the inductive belief that they are equally at the base of chemical and of biological phenomena induce me to note here a view upon the relation that must be found between subjective phenomena and objective phenomena, that is to say upon the relation that causes the subject to draw from the object a science and laws. The nervous substance, which is the organ of all intelligence, is made up of material elements which arrive with their conditions; and when this substance becomes capable of thinking, it passes under the conditions proper to the elements that form it; which results in (se traduit par) a science and its laws. The material work that takes place in the brain while it fulfils its office, is, as is known, a work of nutrition, which consists of a chemical exchange of molecules. Every chemical action is, in turn, equivalent to a certain quantity of heat; and again, this heat is equivalent to a certain quantity of motion. Thus thought, no matter how we represent to ourselves the relation to nervous substance, is connected with mathematical modes of which it becomes conscious when it becomes luminous. Not that I would in any way have it understood that thought is but an equivalent of heat or of motion. Far from that, equivalence is not identity; and whenever we change from one degree to another in the natural and scientific order we meet a new unknown which is the characteristic of this degree. The induction that leads us to connect thought with mathematical conditions, leads us also to connect it with physical, chemical, and biological conditions, of which it is necessarily participant. Finally, when, at the highest point, it arrives face to face with itself, it studies itself experimentally like the rest, and forms its own doctrine. If it attempts to go out metaphysically into space, it is reduced to combining subjectively its own elements, turns in a circle without issue and falls back upon itself. If, on the contrary, it makes the same attempt towards nature from which it emanates, then the ways open, science is established, and positive philosophy appears. The material constitution of the nervous substance is the point of junction between the human mind and laws or general facts. If I had been younger, I should have made a work of this view, not a paragraph; but old age must hasten.”