Chapter XI: Part 11

The dancing mania, which spread through a large part of Europe in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, although it eventually attacked persons who were seemingly in robust health, yet had its origin in disease. Dr. Hecker, who has given the most complete account we have of this strange mania, in his _Epidemics of the Middle Ages_, says that when the disease was completely developed the attack commenced with epileptic convulsions. 'Those affected fell to the ground senseless, panting and labouring for breath. They foamed at the mouth, and suddenly springing up began their dance amidst strange contortions. They formed circles hand in hand, and appearing to have lost all control over their senses continued dancing, regardless of the bystanders, for hours together, in wild delirium, until at length they fell to the ground in a state of exhaustion. They then complained of extreme oppression, and groaned as if in the agonies of death, until they were swathed in clothes bound tightly round their waists; upon which they again recovered, and remained free from complaint until the next attack.... While dancing they neither saw nor heard, being insensible to external impressions through the senses; but they were haunted by visions, their fancies conjuring up spirits, whose names they shrieked out; and some of them afterwards asserted that they felt as if they had been immersed in a stream of blood, which obliged them to leap so high. Others during the paroxysm saw the heavens open, and the Saviour enthroned with the Virgin Mary, according as the religious notions of the age were strangely and variously reflected in their imaginations.' The epidemic attacked people of all stations, but especially those who led a sedentary life, such as shoemakers and tailors; yet even the most robust peasants finally yielded to it. They 'abandoned their labours in the fields as if they were possessed by evil spirits, and those affected were seen assembling indiscriminately from time to time, at certain appointed places, and unless prevented by the lookers-on, continued to dance without intermission, until their very last breath was expended. Their fury and extravagance of demeanour so completely deprived them of their senses, that many of them dashed their brains out against the walls and corners of buildings, or rushed headlong in rapid rivers, where they found a watery grave. Roaring and foaming as they were, the bystanders could only succeed in restraining them by placing benches and chairs in their way, so that by the high leaps they were thus tempted to take, their strength might be exhausted. As soon as this was the case they fell, as it were, lifeless to the ground, and by very slow degrees recovered their strength. Many there were who even with all this exertion had not expended the violence of the tempest which raged within them; but awoke with newly revived powers, and again and again mixed with the crowd of dancers; until at length the violent excitement of their disordered nerves was allayed by the great involuntary exertion of their limbs, and the mental disorder was calmed by the exhaustion of the body. The cure effected by these stormy attacks was in many cases so perfect, that some patients returned to the factory or plough, as if nothing had happened. Others, on the contrary, paid the penalty of their folly by so total a loss of power, that they could not regain their former health, even by the employment of the most strengthening remedies.'

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

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

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

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

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

The effects of hachisch are specially interesting in this connection, because, unless a very powerful dose has been taken, the hachischin does not wholly lose the power of introspection, so that he is able afterwards to recall what has passed through his mind when he was under the influence of the drug. Now Moreau, in his interesting _Etudes Psychologiques_ (_Du Hachich et d'Aliénation Mentale_), says that the first result of a dose sufficient to produce the _hachisch fantasia_ is a feeling of intense happiness. 'It is really _happiness_ which is produced by the hachisch; and by this simply an enjoyment entirely moral, and by no means sensual as we might be induced to suppose. This is surely a very curious circumstance; and some remarkable inferences might be drawn from it; this, for instance, among others--that every feeling of joy and gladness, even when the cause of it is exclusively moral--that those enjoyments which are least connected with material objects, the most spiritual, the most ideal, may be nothing else than sensations purely physical, developed in the interior of the system, as are those procured by hachisch. At least so far as relates to that of which we are internally conscious, there is no distinction between these two orders of sensations, in spite of the diversity in the causes to which they are due; for the hachisch-eater is happy, not like the gourmand or the famished man when satisfying his appetite, or the voluptuary in gratifying his amative desires, but like him who hears tidings which fill him with joy, like the miser counting his treasures, the gambler who is successful at play, or the ambitious man who is intoxicated with success.'

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

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

There seems no reason for supposing that there was any deceit on the part of Louise Lateau herself, though that she was self-deceived no one can reasonably doubt. Of course many in Belgium, especially the more ignorant and superstitious (including large numbers of the clergy and of religious orders of men and women), believed that her ecstasies were miraculous, and no doubt she believed so herself. But none of the circumstances observed in her case, or related by her, were such as the physiologist would find any difficulty in accepting or explaining. Her visions were such as might have been expected in a person of her peculiar nervous organisation, weakened as her body had been by long illness, and her mind affected by what she regarded as her miraculous recovery. As to the transudation of blood from the skin, Dr. Tuke, in his 'Illustrations of the Influence of the Mind upon the Body in Health and Disease' (p. 267), shows the phenomenon to be explicable naturally. It is a well-authenticated fact, that under strong emotional excitement blood escapes through the perspiratory ducts, apparently through the rupture of the walls of the capillary passages of the skin.

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: Since the above was written I have noticed a passage in Dr. Carpenter's _Mental Physiology_, p. 719, bearing on the matter I have been dealing with:--'The following statement recently made to me by a gentleman of high intelligence, the editor of a most important provincial newspaper, would be almost incredible, if cases somewhat similar were not already familiar to us:--'I was formerly,' he said, 'a reporter in the House of Commons; and it several times happened to me that, having fallen asleep from sheer fatigue towards the end of a debate, I had found, on awaking after a short interval of entire unconsciousness, that I had continued to note down correctly the speaker's words.' 'I believe,' he added, 'that this is not an uncommon experience among Parliamentary reporters.' The reading aloud with correct emphasis and intonation, or the performance of a piece of music, or (as in the case of Albert Smith) the recitation of a frequently repeated composition, whilst the conscious mind is _entirely engrossed_ in its own thoughts and feelings, may be thus accounted for without the supposition that the mind is actively engaged in two different operations at the same moment, which would seem tantamount to saying that there are two egos in the same organism.' An instance in my own experience seems even more remarkable than the reporter's work during sleep, for he had but to continue a mechanical process, whereas in my case there must have been thought. Late one evening at Cambridge I began a game of chess with a fellow-student (now a clergyman, and well known in chess circles). I was tired after a long day's rowing, but continued the game to the best of my ability, until at a certain stage I fell asleep, or rather fell into a waking dream. At any rate all remembrance of what passed after that part of the game had entirely escaped me when I awoke or returned to consciousness about three in the morning. The chessboard was there, but the men were not as when the last conscious move was made. The opponent's king was checkmated. I supposed my opponent had set the men in this position either as a joke or in trying over some end game. But I was assured that the game had continued to the end, and that I had won, apparently playing as if fully conscious! Of course I cannot certify this of my own knowledge.]

_DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS._

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

Among the cases dealt with by Brown-Sequard was that of a boy at Notting Hill, who had two mental lives. Neither life presented anything specially remarkable in itself. The boy was a well-mannered lad in his abnormal as well as in his normal condition,--or one might almost say (as will appear more clearly after other cases have been considered) that the _two_ boys were quiet and well-behaved. But the two mental lives were entirely distinct. In his normal condition the boy remembered nothing which had happened in his abnormal condition; and _vice versâ_, in his abnormal condition he remembered nothing which had happened in his normal condition. He changed from either condition to the other in the same manner. 'The head was seen to fall suddenly, and his eyes closed, but he remained erect if standing at the time, or if sitting he remained in that position (if talking, he stopped for a while, and if moving, he stopped moving); and after a minute or two his head rose, he started up, opened his eyes, and was wide awake again.' While the head was drooped he appeared as if either sleeping or falling asleep. He remained in the abnormal state for a period which varied between one hour and three hours; it appears that every day, or nearly every day, he fell once into his abnormal condition.

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

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

It would not be easy to find an exact parallel to the case of the two-lived boy in any recorded instance of somnambulism. In fact, it is to be remembered that recorded instances of mental phenomena are all selected for the very reason that they are exceptional, so that it would be unreasonable to expect them closely to resemble each other. One case, however, may be cited, which in certain points resembles the case of Dr. Brown-Sequard's patient. It occurred within Dr. Carpenter's own experience. A young lady of highly nervous temperament suffered from a long and severe illness, characterised by all the most marked forms of hysterical disorder. In the course of this illness came a time when she had a succession of somnambulistic seizures. 'The state of somnambulism usually supervened in this case in the waking state, instead of arising, as it more commonly does, out of the conditions of ordinary sleep. In this condition her ideas were at first entirely fixed upon one subject--the death of her only brother, which had occurred some years previously. To this brother she had been very strongly attached; she had nursed him in his last illness; and it was perhaps the return of the anniversary of his death, about the time when the somnambulism first occurred, that gave to her thoughts that particular direction. She talked constantly of him, retraced all the circumstances of his illness, and was unconscious of anything that was said to her which had not reference to this subject.... Although her eyes were open, she recognised no one in this state,--not even her own sister, who, it should be mentioned, had not been at home at the time of her brother's last illness.' (It will presently appear, however, that she was able to recognise those who were about her during these attacks, since she retained ill-feeling against one of them; moreover, the sentences which immediately follow suggest that the sense of sight was not dormant.) 'It happened on one occasion, that when she passed into this condition, her sister, who was present, was wearing a locket containing some of their deceased brother's hair. As soon as she perceived this locket she made a violent snatch at it, and would not be satisfied until she had got it into her possession, when she began to talk to it in the most endearing and even extravagant terms. Her feelings were so strongly excited on this subject, that it was deemed prudent to check them; and as she was inaccessible to all entreaties for the relinquishment of the locket, force was employed to obtain it from her. She was so determined, however, not to give it up, and was so angry at the gentle violence used, that it was found necessary to abandon the attempt, and having become calmer after a time, she passed off into ordinary sleep. Before going to sleep, however, she placed the locket under her pillow, remarking, "Now I have hid it safely, and they shall not take it from me." On awaking in the morning she had not the slightest consciousness of what had passed; but the impression of the excited feelings still remained, for she remarked to her sister, 'I cannot tell what it is that makes me feel so, but every time that S. comes near me I have a kind of shuddering sensation;' the individual named being a servant, whose constant attention to her had given rise to a feeling of strong attachment on the side of the invalid, but who had been the chief actor in the scene of the previous evening. This feeling wore off in the course of a day or two. A few days afterwards the somnambulism again returned; and the patient being upon her bed at the time, immediately began to search for the locket under her pillow.' As it had been removed in the interval, 'she was unable to find it, at which she expressed great disappointment, and continued searching for it, with the remark, "It _must_ be there--I put it there myself a few minutes ago, and no one can have taken it away." In this state the presence of S. renewed her previous feelings of anger; and it was only by sending S. out of the room that she could be calmed and induced to sleep. The patient was the subject of many subsequent attacks, in every one of which the anger against S. revived, until the current of thought changed, no longer running exclusively upon what related to her brother, but becoming capable of direction by _suggestions_ of various kinds presented to her mind, either in conversation, or, more directly, through the several organs of sense.'

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

The subject of the disorder, Felida X., was born in Bordeaux in 1843. Until the age of thirteen she differed in no respect from other girls. But about that time symptoms of hysterical disorder presented themselves, and although she was free from lung-disease, she was troubled with frequent spitting of blood. After this had continued about a year, she for the first time manifested the phenomena of double consciousness. Sharp pains attacked both temples, and in a few moments she became unconscious. This lasted ten minutes, after which she opened her eyes, and entered into what M. Azam calls her second state, in which she remained for an hour or two, after which the pains and unconsciousness came on again, and she returned to her ordinary condition. At intervals of about five or six days, such attacks were repeated; and her relations noticed that her character and conduct during her abnormal state were changed. Finding also that in her usual condition she remembered nothing which had passed when she was in the other state, they thought she was becoming idiotic; and presently called in M. Azam, who was connected with a lunatic asylum. Fortunately, he was not so enthusiastic a student of mental aberration as to recognise a case for the lunatic asylum in every instance of phenomenal mental action. He found Felida intelligent, but melancholy, morose, and taciturn, very industrious, and with a strong will. She was very anxious about her bodily health. At this time the mental changes occurred more frequently than before. Nearly every day, as she sat with her work on her knees, a violent pain shot suddenly through her temples, her head dropped upon her breast, her arms fell by her side, and she passed into a sort of sleep, from which neither noises, pinches, nor pricks could awaken her. This condition lasted now only two or three minutes. 'She woke up in quite another state, smiling gaily, speaking briskly, and trilling (_fredonnant_) over her work, which she recommenced at the point where she left it. She would get up, walk actively, and scarcely complained of any of the pains she had suffered from so severely a few minutes before. She busied herself about the house, paid calls, and behaved like a healthy young girl of her age. In this state she remembered perfectly all that had happened in her two conditions.' (In this respect her case is distinct from both the former, and is quite exceptional. In fact, the inclusion of the consciousness of both conditions during the continuance of one condition only, renders her case not, strictly speaking, one of double consciousness, the two conditions not being perfectly distinct from each other.) 'In this second life, as in the other, her moral and intellectual faculties, though different, were incontestably sound. After a time (which in 1858 lasted three or four hours), her gaiety disappeared, the torpor suddenly ensued, and in two or three minutes she opened her eyes and re-entered her ordinary life, resuming any work she was engaged in just where she left off. In this state she bemoaned her condition, and was quite unconscious of what had passed in the previous state. If asked to continue a ballad she had been singing, she knew nothing about it, and if she had received a visitor, she believed she had seen no one. The forgetfulness extended to everything which happened during her second state, and not to any ideas or information acquired before her illness.' Thus her early life was held in remembrance during both her conditions, her consciousness in these two conditions being in this respect single; in her second or less usual condition she remembered also all the events of her life, including what had passed since these seizures began; and it was only in her more usual condition that a portion of her life was lost to her--that, namely, which had passed during her second condition. In 1858 a new phenomenon was noticed as occasionally occurring--she would sometimes wake from her second condition in a fit of terror, recognising no one but her husband. The terror did not last long, however; and during sixteen years of her married life, her husband only noticed this terror on thirty occasions.

A painful circumstance preceding her marriage somewhat forcibly exhibited the distinction between her two states of consciousness. Rigid in morality during her usual condition, she was shocked by the insults of a brutal neighbour, who told her of a confession made to M. Azam during her second condition, and accused her of shamming innocence. The attack--unfortunately, but too well founded as far as facts were concerned--brought on violent convulsions, which required medical attendance during two or three hours. It is important to notice the difference thus indicated between the character of the personalities corresponding to her two conditions. 'Her moral faculties,' says M. Azam, 'were incontestably sound in her second life, though different,'--by which, be it understood, he means simply that her sense of right and wrong was just during her second condition, not, of course, that her conduct was irreproachable. She was in this condition, as in the other, altogether responsible for her actions. But her power of self-control, or rather perhaps the relative power of her will as compared with tendencies to wrong-doing, was manifestly weaker during her second condition. In fact, in one condition she was oppressed and saddened by pain and anxiety, whereas in the other she was almost free from pain, gay, light-hearted, and hopeful. Now I cannot altogether agree with Mr. Slack's remark, that if, during her second state, 'she had committed a robbery or an assassination, no moral responsibility could have been assumed to rest upon her with any certainty, by any one acquainted with her history,' for her moral faculties in her second condition being incontestably sound, she was clearly responsible for her actions while in that condition. But certainly, the question of punishment for such an offence would be not a little complicated by her twofold personality. To the woman in her ordinary condition, remembering nothing of the crime committed (on the supposition we are dealing with), in her abnormal condition, punishment for that crime would certainly seem unjust, seeing that her liability to enter into that condition had not in any degree depended on her own will. The drunkard who, waking in the morning with no recollection of the events of the past night, finds himself in gaol for some crime committed during that time, although he may think the punishment he has to endure severe measure for a crime of which in his ordinary condition he is incapable, knows at least that he is responsible for placing himself under that influence which made the crime possible. Supposing even he had not had sufficient experience of his own character when under the influence of liquor, to have reason to fear he might be guilty of the offence, he yet perceives that to make intoxication under any circumstances an excuse for crime would be most dangerous to the community, and that he suffers punishment justly. But the case of dual consciousness is altogether different, and certainly where responsibility exists under both conditions, while yet impulse and the restraining power of will are differently related in one and the other condition, the problem of satisfying justice is a most perplexing one. Here are in effect two different persons residing in one body, and it is impossible to punish one without punishing the other also. Supposing justice waited until the abnormal condition was resumed, then the offender would probably recognise the justice of punishment; but if the effects of the punishment continued until the usual condition returned, a person would suffer who was conscious of no crime. If the offence were murder, and if capital punishment were inflicted, the ordinary individuality, innocent entirely of murder, would be extinguished along with the first, a manifest injustice. As Huxley says of a similar case, 'the problem of responsibility is here as complicated as that of the prince-bishop, who swore as a prince and not as a bishop. 'But, your highness, if the prince is damned, what will become of the bishop?' said the peasant.'[21]

It does not appear to me that there is in the case of Felida X. any valid reason for regarding the theory of two brains as the only available explanation. It is a noteworthy circumstance, that the pains preceding each change of condition affected both sides of the head. Some modification of the circulation seems suggested as the true explanation of the changes in condition, though the precise nature of such modification, or how it may have been brought about, would probably be very difficult to determine. The state of health, however, on which the attacks depended seems to have affected the whole body of the patient, and the case presents no features suggesting any lateral localisation of the cerebral changes.

On the other hand, the case of Sergeant F. (a few of the circumstances of which were mentioned in my essay entitled 'Have we two Brains?'), seems to correspond with Dr. Holland's theory, though that theory is far from explaining all the circumstances. The man was wounded by a bullet which fractured his _left_ parietal bone, and his _right_ arm and leg were almost immediately paralysed. When he recovered consciousness three weeks later, the _right_ side of the body was completely paralysed, and remained so for a year. These circumstances indicate that the cause of the mischief still existing lay in the shock which the left side of the brain received when the man was wounded. The right side may have learned (as it were) to exercise the functions formerly belonging to the left side, and thus the paralysis affecting the right side until this had happened may have passed away. These points are discussed in the essay above named, however, and need not here detain us. Others which were not then dealt with may now be noted with advantage. We would specially note some which render it doubtful whether in the abnormal condition the man's brain acts at all, whether in fact his condition, so far as consciousness was concerned, is not similar to that of a frog deprived of its brain in a certain well-known experiment. (This appears to be the opinion to which Professor Huxley inclines, though, with proper scientific caution, he seems disposed to suspend his judgment.) The facts are very singular, whatever the explanation may be.

In the normal condition, the man is what he was before he was wounded--an intelligent, kindly fellow, performing satisfactorily the duties of a hospital attendant. The abnormal state is ushered in by pains in the forehead, as if caused by the constriction of a band of iron. In this state the eyes are open and the pupils dilated. (The reader will remember Charles Reade's description of David Dodd's eyes, 'like those of a seal.') The eyeballs work incessantly, and the jaws maintain a chewing motion. If the man is _en pays de connaissance_, he walks about as usual; but in a new place, or if obstacles are set in his way, he stumbles, feels about with his hands, and so finds his way. He offers no resistance to any forces which may act upon him, and shows no signs of pain if pins are thrust into his body by kindly experimenters. No noise affects him. He eats and drinks apparently without tasting or smelling his food, accepting assafoetida or vinegar as readily as the finest claret. He is sensible to light only under certain conditions. But the sense of touch is strangely exalted (in all respects apparently except as to sensations of pain or pleasure), taking in fact the place of all the other senses. I say the sense of touch, but it is not clear whether there is any real sensation at all. The man appears in the abnormal condition to be a mere machine. This is strikingly exemplified in the following case, which I translate directly from Dr. Mesnet's account:--'He was walking in the garden under a group of trees, and his stick, which he had dropped a few minutes before, was placed in his hands. He feels it, moves his hand several times along the bent handle of the stick, becomes watchful, seems to listen, suddenly he calls out, "Henry!" then, "There they are! there are at least a score of them! join us two, we shall manage it." And then putting his hand behind his back as if to take a cartridge, he goes through the movement of loading his weapon, lays himself flat on the grass, his head concealed by a tree, in the posture of a sharpshooter, and with shouldered weapon follows all the movements of the enemy whom he fancies he sees at a short distance.' This, however, is an assumption: the man cannot in this state _fancy_ he sees, unless he has at least a recollection of the sensation of sight, and this would imply cerebral activity. Huxley, more cautious, says justly that the question arises 'whether the series of actions constituting this singular pantomime was accompanied by the ordinary states of consciousness or not? Did the man dream that he was skirmishing? or was he in the condition of one of Vaucanson's automata--a mechanism worked by molecular changes in his nervous system? The analogy of the frog shows that the latter assumption is perfectly justifiable.'

The pantomimic actions just related corresponded to what probably happened a few moments before the man was wounded; but this human automaton (so to call him, without theorising as to his actual condition) goes through other performances. He has a good voice, and was at one time a singer in a _café_. 'In one of his abnormal states he was observed to begin humming a tune. He then went to his room, dressed himself carefully, and took up some parts of a periodical novel which lay on his bed, as if he were trying to find something. Dr. Mesnet, suspecting that he was seeking his music, made up one of these into a roll and put it into his hand. He appeared satisfied, took up his cane and went downstairs to the door. Here Dr. Mesnet, turned him round, and he walked quite contentedly in the opposite direction, towards the room of the _concierge_. The light of the sun shining through a window now happened to fall upon him, and seemed to suggest the footlights of the stage on which he was accustomed to make his appearance. He stopped, opened his roll of imaginary music, put himself into the attitude of a singer, and sung, with perfect execution, three songs, one after the other. After which he wiped his face with his handkerchief and drank, without a grimace, a tumbler of strong vinegar and water which was put into his hand.'

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