A very distinctive r
attention with unconscious. An explanation of this process will help us, perhaps, to explain many incomprehensible and improbable things. “Even the unconscious psychic activities,–going up and down, smoking, playing with the hands, etc. conversation,– compete with the conscious or with other unconscious activities for psychic energy. Hence, a suddenly-appearing important idea may lead us to stop walking, to remain without a rule of action, may make the smoker drop his smoking, etc.” The explanation is as follows: I possess, let us say, 100 units of psychic energy which I might use in attention. Now we find it difficult to attend for twenty seconds to one point, and more so to direct our thought-energy to one thing. Hence I apply only, let us say, 90 units to the object in question, and apply 10 units to the unconscious play of ideas, etc. Now, if the first object suddenly demands even more attention, it draws off the other ten units, and I must stop playing, for absolutely without attention, even unconscious attention, nothing can be done.
This very frequent and well-known phenomenon, shows us, first of all, the unconscious activities in their agreement with the conscious, inasmuch as we behave in the same way when both are interrupted by the demand of another thing on our attention. If a row suddenly breaks out before my window I will interrupt an unconscious drumming with the fingers as well as a conscious reading, so that it would be impossible to draw any conclusion concerning the nature of these activities from the mere interruption or the manner of that interruption. This similarity is an additional ground for the fact that what is done unconsciously may be very complex. No absolute boundary may be drawn, and hence we can derive no proof of the incorrectness of an assertion from the performance itself, i. e., from _*what_ has been done unconsciously. Only human nature, its habits, idiosyncrasies, and its contemporary environment can give us any norm.
Section 49. (d) Subjective Conditions.
We have already seen that our ideation has the self for center and point of reference. And we shall later see that the kind of thinking which exclusively relates all events to itself, or the closest relations of the self, is, according to Erdmann, the essence of stupidity. There is, however, a series of intellectual processes in which the thinker pushes his self into the foreground with more or less
justification, judging everything else and studying everything else in the light of it, presupposing in others what he finds in himself, and exhibiting a greater interest in himself than may be his proper share. Such ideations are frequently to be found in high-minded natures. I know a genial high-school teacher, the first in his profession, who is so deeply absorbed in his thinking, that he never carries money, watch, or keys because he forgets and loses them. When in the examination of some critical case he needs a coin he turns to his auditors with the question: “Perhaps one of you gentlemen may _*by some chance_ have a quarter with you?” He judges from his habit of not carrying money with him, that to carry it is to be presupposed as a “perhaps,” and the appearance of a quarter in this crowded auditorium must be “by chance.”
The same thing is true with some of the most habitual processes of some of the most ordinary people. If a man sees a directory in which his name must be mentioned, he looks it up and studies it. If he sees a group photograph in which he also occurs he looks up his own picture, and when the most miserable cheater who is traveling under a false name picks that out, he will seek it out of his _*own_ relationships, will either alter his real name or slightly vary the maiden name of his mother, or deduce it from his place of birth, or simply make use of his christian name. But he will not be likely to move far from his precious self.
That similar things are true for readers, Goethe told us when he showed us that everything that anybody reads interests him only when he finds himself or his activities therein. So Goethe explains that business men and men of the world apprehend a scientific dissertation better than the really learned, “who habitually hear no more of it than what they have learned or taught and with which they meet their equals.”
It is properly indicated that every language has the largest number of terms for those things which are most important to those who speak it. Thus we are told that the Arabians have as many as 6000 words for camel, 2000 for horse, and 50 for lion. Richness of form and use always belong together, as is shown in the fact that the auxiliaries and those verbs most often used are everywhere the most irregular This fact may be very important in examinations, for definite inferences concerning the nature and affairs of the witness may be drawn from the manner and frequency with which he uses words, and whether he possesses an especially large number of forms in any particular direction.
The fact is that we make our conceptions in accordance with the things as _*we_ have seen them, and so completely persuade ourselves of the truth of one definite, partial definition, that sometimes we wonder at a phenomenon without judging that it might have been expected to be otherwise. When I first became a student at Strassbourg, I wondered, subconsciously, when I heard the ragged gamins talk French fluently. I knew, indeed, that it was their mother- tongue, but I was so accustomed to viewing all French as a sign of higher education that this knowledge in the gamins made me marvel. When I was a child I once had to bid my grandfather adieu very early, while he was still in bed. I still recall the vivid astonishment of my perception that grandfather awoke without his habitual spectacles upon his nose. I must have known that spectacles are as superfluous as uncomfortable and dangerous when one is sleeping, and I should not even with most cursory thinking have supposed that he would have worn his spectacles during the night. But as I was accustomed always to see my grandfather with spectacles, when he did not have them I wondered at it.
Such instances are of especial importance when the judge is himself making observations, i. e., examining the premises of the crime, studying corpora delicti, etc., because we often suppose ourselves to see extraordinary and illegal things simply because we have been habituated to seeing things otherwise. We even construct and name according to this habit. Taine narrates the instructive story of a little girl who wore a medal around her throat, of which she was told, “C’est le bon Dieu.” When the child once saw her uncle with a lorgnon around his neck she said, “C’est le bon Dieu de mon oncle.” And since I heard the story, I have repeatedly had the opportunity to think, “C’est aussi le bon Dieu de cet homme.” A single word which indicates how a man denotes a thing defines for us his nature, his character, and his circumstances.
For the same reason that everything interests us more according to the degree it involves us personally, we do not examine facts and completely overlook them though they are later shown to be unshakable, without our being able to explain their causal nexus. If, however, we know causes and relationships, these facts become portions of our habitual mental equipment. Any practitioner knows how true this is, and how especially visible during the examination of witnesses, who ignore facts which to us seem, in the nature of the case, important and definitive. In such cases we must first of all not assume that these facts have not oc-
curred because the witness has not explained them or has overlooked them; we must proceed as suggested in order to validate the relevant circumstances by means of the witness–i. e., we must teach him the conditions and relationships until they become portions of his habitual mental machinery. I do not assert that this is easy– on the contrary, I say that whoever is able to do this is the most effective of examiners, and shows again that the witness is no more than an instrument which is valueless in the hands of the bounder, but which can accomplish all sorts of things in the hands of the master.
One must beware, however, of too free use of the most comfortable means,–that of examples. When Newton said, “In addiscendis scientiis exempla plus prosunt, quam praecepta,” he was not addressing criminalists, but he might have been. As might, also, Kant, when he proved that thinking in examples is dangerous because it allows the use of real thinking, for which it is not a substitute, to lapse. That this fact is one reason for the danger of examples is certain, but the chief reason, at least for the lawyer, is the fact that an example requires not equality, but mere similarity. The degree of similarity is not expressed and the auditor has no standard for the degree of similarity in the mind of the speaker. “Omnis analogia claudicat” is correct, and it may happen that the example might be falsely conceived, that similarity may be mistaken for equality, or at least, that there should be ignorance of the inequality. Examples, therefore, are to be used only in the most extreme cases, and only in such wise, that the nature of the example is made very clearly obvious and its incorrectness warned against.
There are several special conditions, not to be overlooked. One of these is the influence of expectation. Whoever expects anything, sees, hears, and constructs, only in the suspense of this expectation, and neglects all competing events most astoundingly. Whoever keenly expects any person is sensible only of the creaking of the garden door, he is interested in all sounds which resemble it, and which he can immediately distinguish with quite abnormal acuteness; everything else so disappears that even powerful sounds, at any event more powerful than that of the creaking gate, are overlooked. This may afford some explanation for the very different statements we often receive from numerous observers of the same event; each one had expected a different thing, and hence, had perceived and had ignored different things.
Again, the opposition of the I and You in the person himself is a noteworthy thing. According to Noel, this is done particularly when one perceives one’s own foolish management: “How could you have behaved so foolishly!” Generalized it might be restated as the fact that people say You to themselves whenever the dual nature of the ego becomes visible, i. e., whenever one no longer entertains a former opinion, or when one is undecided and carries about contradictory intentions, or whenever one wants to compel himself to some achievement. Hence “How could you have done this?”–“Should you do this or should you not?”–“You simply shall tell the truth.”–More na
dialogues faithfully and without considering that they give themselves away thereby, inasmuch as the judge learns at least that when this occurred the practical ego was a stranger to the considering ego, through whom the subjective conditions of the circumstances involved may be explained.
What people call excellent characterizes them. Excellences are for each man those qualities from which others get the most advantage. Charity, self-sacrifice, mercy, honesty, integrity, courage, prudence, assiduity, and however else anything that is good and brave may be called, are always of use to the other fellow but barely and only indirectly the possessor of the virtues. Hence we praise the latter and spur others on to identical qualities (to our advantage). This is very barren and prosaic, but true. Naturally, not everybody has advantage in the identical virtues of other people, only in those which are of use to their individual situation– charity is of no use to the rich, and courage of no use to the protected. Hence, people give themselves away more frequently than they seem to, and even when no revelation of their inner lives can be attained from witnesses and accused, they always express enough to show what they consider to be virtue and what not.
Hartenstein characterizes Hegel as a person who made his opponents out of straw and rags in order to be able to beat them down the more easily. This characterizes not only Hegel but a large group of individuals whose daily life consists of it. Just as there is nowhere any particularly definite boundary between sanity and foolishness, and everything flows into everything else, so it is with men and their testimonies, normal and abnormal. From the sober, clear, and true testimony of the former, to the fanciful and impossible assertions of the latter, there is a straight, slowly rising road on which testimony appears progressively less true, and more impossible.
No man can say where the quality of foolishness begins–nervousness, excitement, hysteria, over-strain, illusion, fantasy, and pathoformic lies, are the shadings which may be distinguished, and the quantity of untruth in such testimonies may be demonstrated, from one to one hundred per cent., without needing to skip a single degree. We must not, however, ignore and simply set aside even the testimony of the outlaws and doubtful persons, because also they may contain some truth, and we must pay still more attention to such as contain a larger percentage of truth. But with this regard we have our so-called smart lawyers who are over-strained, and it is they who build the real men of straw which cost us so much effort and labor. The form is indeed correct, but the content is straw, and the figure appears subjectively dangerous only to its creator. And he has created it because he likes to fight but desires also to conquer easily. The desire to construct such figures and to present them to the authorities is widespread and dangerous through our habit of seeking some particular motive, hatred, jealousy, a long-drawn quarrel, revenge, etc. If we do not find it we assume that such a motive is absent and take the accusation, at least for the time, to be true. We must not forget that frequently there can be no other defining motive than the desire to construct a man of straw and to conquer him. If this explanation does not serve we may make use finally of a curious phenomenon, called by Lazarus _heroification_, which repeats itself at various levels of life in rather younger people. If we take this concept in its widest application we will classify under it all forms that contain the almost invincible demand for attention, for talking about oneself, for growing famous, on the part of people who have neither the capacity nor the perseverance to accomplish any extraordinary thing, and who, hence, make use of forbidden and even criminal means to shove their personalities into the foreground and so to attain their end. To this class belong all those half-grown girls who accuse men of seduction and rape. They aim by this means to make themselves interesting. So do the women who announce all kinds of persecutions which make them talked about and condoled with; and the numerous people who want to do something remarkable and commit arson; then again certain political criminals of all times who became “immortal” with one single stab, and hence devoted their otherwise worthless lives thereto; and finally, even all those who, when having suffered from some theft, arson, or bodily harm, defined their damage as considerably greater than it actually was, not for the purpose
of recovering their losses, but for the purpose of being discussed and condoled with.
As a rule it is not difficult to recognize this “heroification,” inasmuch as it betrays itself through the lack of other motives, and appears definitely when the intent is examined and exaggerations are discovered which otherwise would not appear.
Topic 5. ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
Section 50.
The question of association is essentially significant for lawyers because, in many cases, it is only by use of it that we can discover the conditions of the existence of certain conceptions, by means of which witnesses may be brought to remember and tell the truth, etc., without hypnotizing them, or overtesting the correctness of their statements. We will cursorily make a few general observations only:
Concerning the law of association, very little has been learned since the time of Aristotle. It is determined by:
1. Similarity (the common quality of the symbol).
2. Contrast (because every image involves opposition between its extremes).
3. Co-existence, simultaneity (the being together of outer or inner objects in space).
4. Succession (images call each other out in the same order in which they occur).
Hume recognized only three grounds of association of objects– similarity, contact in time and space, and causality. Theo. Lipps recognizes as the really different grounds of association only similarity and simultaneity (the simultaneity of their presence in the mind, especially).
If, however, simultaneity is to be taken in this sense it may be considered the sole ground of association, for if the images are not simultaneous there can be no question of association. Simultaneity in the mind is only the second process, for images are simultaneous in the mind only because they have occurred simultaneously, existed in the same space, were similar, etc. M
the matter and got important results, points out that all so-called inner associations, like similarity, contrast, etc., may be reduced to external association, and all the external associations, even that of
temporal sequence, may be reduced to co-existence, and all co- existence-associations are psychophysically intelligible. Further: “The fundamental error of all association processes leading to incorrect connection of ideas, must be contained in their incompleteness. One idea was associated with another, the latter with a third, and then we connect the first with the third . . . a thing we should not have done, since the first, while it co-existed with the second, was also connected with many others.”
[1] H. M
But even this account does not account for certain difficulties, because some associations are simply set aside, although they should have occurred. Man is inclined, according to Stricker, to inhibit associations which are not implied in his “funded” complexes.
If we find direct contradiction with regard to associations, the way out is not easy. We have then, first, to consider how, by comparatively remote indirection, to introduce those conditions into the “funded” complex, which will give rise to the association. But such a consideration is often a big problem in pedagogy, and we are rarely in the position of teaching the witness.
There is still the additional difficulty that we frequently do not know the circumstance with the help of which the witness has made his association. Thomas Hobbes tells the story of an association which involved a leap from the British Civil War to the value of a denarius under the Emperor Tiberius. The process was as follows: King Charles I was given up by the Scotch for $200,000, Christ was sold for 80 denarii, what then was a denarius worth? In order to pursue the thread of such an association, one needs, anyway, only a definite quantity of historical knowledge, but this quantity must be possessed. But such knowledge is a knowledge of universal things that anybody may have, while the personal relations and purely subjective experiences which are at the command of an individual are quite unknown to any other person, and it is often exceedingly difficult to discover them.[1] The case is simplest when one tries to aid the memory of a witness in order to make him place single dates, e. g., when the attempt is made to determine some time and the witness is reminded of certain events that occurred during the time in question in order to assist him in fixing the calendar time. Or again, when the witness is brought to the place of the crime and the individual conditions are associated with the local situation. But when not merely single dates are to
be associated, when complete events are to be associated, a profound knowledge of the situation must precede, otherwise no association is successful, or merely topsy-turvy results are attained. The difficulties which here ensue depend actually upon the really enormous quantity of knowledge every human being must possess in making use of his senses. Anything that a man has learned at school, in the newspapers, etc., we know approximately, but we have no knowledge of what a man has thought out for himself and what he has felt in his localized conditions, e. g., his home, his town, his travels, his relations and their experiences, etc.–However important this may be, we have no means of getting hold of it.
[1] A. Mayer and J. Orth: Zur qualitativen Untersuchung der Assoziation. Ztschrft. f. Psychol. u. Physiol. der Sinnesorgane, XXVI, 1, 1901.
Those associations which have physical expression are of importance only in particular cases. For example, the feeling of ants all over the body when you think that you have been near an ant- hill, or the feeling of physical pain on hearing the description of wounds. It is exceedingly funny to see how, during the lectures of dermatologists, the whole audience scratches that part of the body which is troubling the patient who is being described.
Such associations may be legally valuable in so far as the accused who plead innocence make unconscious movements which imply the denied wounds. In any event, it is necessary to be cautious because frequently the merely accurate description of a wound may bring about the same effect in nervous persons as the sight of that wound. If, however, the wound is not described and even its place not mentioned, and only the general harm is spoken of, then if the accused reaches for that part of his body in which the wound of his victim is located, you have a clew, and your attention should be directed upon it. Such an index is worth no more, but even as a clew it has some value.
All in all, we may say that the legally significant direction of association falls in the same class with “getting an idea.” We need association for the purpose of constructing an image and an explanation of the event in question; something must “occur to us.” We must “get an idea,” if we are to know how something happened. We need association, moreover, in order to discover that something has occurred to the witness.
“Getting an idea” or “occurrence” is essentially one and the same in all its forms. We have only to study its several manifestations:
1. “Constructive occurrence,” by means of which the correct thing may possibly be discovered in the way of combining, inferring,
comparing and testing. Here the association must be intentional and such ideas must be brought to a fixed image, which may be in such wise associated with them as to make a result possible. Suppose, e. g., that the case is one of arson, and the criminal is unknown. Then we will require the plaintiff to make local, temporal, identifying, and contrasting associations with the idea of all and each of his enemies, or of discharged servants, beggars, etc. In this wise we can attain to other ideas, which may help us to approach some definite theory.
2. “Spontaneous occurrence” in which a thought appears with apparent suddenness for no particular reason. As a matter of fact, such suddenness is always caused by some conscious, and in most cases, some unconscious association, the thread of which can not be later sought out and exhibited because of its being subconscious, or of its being overleaped so quickly and readily that it can not be traced. Very often some particular sense-perception exercises an influence which unites simultaneous ideas, now here again united. Suppose once during some extraordinary sound, e. g., the ringing of a bell, which I do not often hear, I had seen somebody. Now when I hear that bell ringing I will think of the person without perhaps knowing the definite association–i. e., the connection of the man with the tone of the bell occurs unconsciously. This may go still further. That man, when I first saw him, might have worn, perhaps, a red necktie, let us say poppy-red–it may now happen that every time I hear that bell-note I think of a field of poppy-flowers. Now who can pursue this road of association?
3. “Accluding occurrence,” in which, in the process of the longest possible calm retention of an idea, another appears of itself and associates with the first. E. g., I meet a man who greets me although I do not recognize him. I may perhaps know who he is, but I do not spontaneously think of it and can not get at his identity constructively, because of lack of material. I therefore expect something from this “accluding occurrence” and with my eyes shut I try as long as possible to keep in mind the idea of this man. Suddenly, I see him before me with serious face and folded hands, on his right a similar individual and a similar one on his left, above them a high window with a curtain–the man was a juryman who sat opposite me. But the memory is not exhausted with this. I aim to banish his image as seated and keep him again before my eyes. I see an apparent gate beyond him with shelves behind; it is the image of a shop-keeper in a small town who is standing before
the door of his shop. I hold this image straining before my eyes– suddenly a wagon appears with just that kind of trapping which I have only once seen to deck the equipage of a land-owner. I know well who this is, what the little town near his estate is called, and now I suddenly know that the man whose name I want to remember is the merchant X of Y who once was a juryman in my court. This means of the longest possible retention of an idea, I have made frequent use of with the more intelligent witnesses (it rarely succeeds with women because they are restless), and all in all, with surprising effects.
4. “Retrospective occurrence,” which consists of the development of associations backward. E. g.–do what I will, I can not remember the name of a certain man, but I know that he has a title to nobility, which is identical with the name of a small town in Obertfalz. Finally, the name of the town Hirschau occurs to me, and now I easily associate backwards, “Schaller von Hirschau.” It is, of course, natural that words should unroll themselves forwards with habitual ease, but backwards only when we think of the word we are trying to remember, as written, and then associate the whole as a MS. image. This is unhappily difficult to use in helping another.
Topic 6. RECOLLECTION AND MEMORY.
Section 51.
In direct connection with the association of ideas is our recollection and memory, which are only next to perception in legal importance in the knowledge of the witness. Whether the witness _*wants_ to tell the truth is, of course, a question which depends upon other matters; but whether he _*can_ tell the truth depends upon perception and memory. Now the latter is a highly complicated and variously organized function which is difficult to understand, even in the daily life, and much more so when everything depends upon whether the witness has noticed anything, how, how long, what part of the impression has sunk more deeply into his mind, and in what direction his defects of memory are to be sought. It would be inexcusable in the lawyer not to think about this and to make equivalent use of all the phenomena that are presented to him. To overlook the rich literature and enormous work that has been devoted to this subject is to raise involuntarily the question, for whom was it all done? Nobody needs a thorough-going knowledge of the essence of memory more than the lawyer.
I advise every criminalist to study the literature of memory and recommend the works of M
Cattell, Kr
Jodl,[1] etc.
[1] H. M
H. Ebbinghaus:
J. M. Cattell: Mind, Vols. 11-15. (Articles.) J. Bourdon: Influence de l’Age sur la Memoire Imm
Philosophlque, Vol. 35.
Kr
Diehl Zum Studium der Merkf
Section 52. (a) The Essence of Memory.
Our ignorance concerning memory is as great as its universal importance, and as our indebtedness to it for what we are and possess. At best we have, when explaining it, to make use of images.
Plato accounts for memory in the “Theaetetus” by the image of the seal ring which impresses wax; the character and duration of the impression depends upon the size, purity, and hardness of the wax. Fichte says, “The spirit does not conserve its products,– the single ideas, volitions, and feelings are conserved by the mind and constitute the ground of its inexhaustibly retentive memory. . . . The possibility of recalling what has once been independently done, this remains in the spirit.” James Sully compares the receptivity of memory with the infusion of dampness into an old MS. Draper also brings a physical example: If you put a flat object upon the surface of a cold, smooth metal and then breathe on the metal and, after the moisture has disappeared, remove the object, you may recall its image months after, whenever you breathe on the place in question. Another has called memory the safe of the mind. It is the opinion of E. Hering[2] that what we once were conscious of and are conscious of again, does not endure as image but as echo such as may be heard in a tuning fork when it is properly struck. Reid asserts that memory does not have present ideas, but past things for its object, Natorp explains recollection as an identification of the unidentical, of not-now with now. According to Herbart and his school,[3] memory consists in the possibility of recognizing the molecular arrangements which had been left by past impressions in the gan-
glion cells, and in reading them in identical fashion. According to Wundt and his pupils, the problem is one of the disposition of the central organs. And it is the opinion of James Mill that the content of recollection is not only the idea of the remembered object, but also the idea that the object had been experienced before. Both ideas together constitute the whole of that state of mind which we denote as memory. Spinoza[1b] deals freely with memory, and asserts that mankind does not control it inasmuch as all thoughts, ideas, resolutions of spirits, are bare results of memories, so that human freedom is excluded. Uphues[2b] distinguishes between memory and the conception which is presupposed in the recognition of an object different from that conception. This is the theory developed by Aristotle.
[2] E. Hering:
[3] Cf. V. Hensen:
[1b] Ethics. Bk. III, Prop. II, Scholium.
[2b] G K. Uphues:
According to Berkeley and Hume recognition is not directed upon a different object, nor does it presuppose one; the activity of recognition consists either in the exhibition or the creation of the object. Recognition lends the idea an independence which does not belong to it and in that way turns it into a thing, objectifies it, and posits it as substantial. Maudsley makes use of the notion that it is possible to represent any former content of consciousness as attended to so that it may again come into the center of the field of consciousness. Dorner[3] explains recognition as follows: “The possible is not only the merely possible in opposition to the actual; it is much more proper to conceive being as possible, i. e., as amenable to logical thinking; without this there could be no recognition.” K
[3] H Dorner: Das menschliche Erkennen. Berlin 1877.
[4] O. K
When we take all these opinions concerning memory together we conclude that neither any unity nor any clear description of the matter has been attained. Ebbinghaus’s sober statement may certainly be correct: “Our knowledge of memory rises almost exclusively from the observation of extreme, especially striking cases. Whenever we ask about more special solutions concerning the detail of what has been counted up, and their other relations of dependence, their structure, etc., there are no answers.”
Nobody has as yet paid attention to the simple daily events which constitute the routine of the criminalists. We find little instruction concerning them, and our difficulties as well as our mistakes are thereby increased. Even the modern repeatedly cited experimental investigations have no direct bearing upon our work.
We will content ourselves with viewing the individual conceptions of memory and recollection as occurring in particular cases and with considering them, now one, now the other, according to the requirements of the case. We shall consider the general relation of “reproduction” to memory. “Reproduction” we shall consider in a general sense and shall subsume under it also the so-called involuntary reproductions which rise in the forms and qualities of past events without being evoked, i. e., which rise with the help of unconscious activity through the more or less independent association of ideas. Exactly this unconscious reproduction, this apparently involuntary activity, is perhaps the most fruitful, and we therefore unjustly meet with unexceptionable distrust the later sudden “occurrence,” especially when these occurrences happen to defendant and his witnesses. It is true that they frequently deceive us because behind the sudden occurrence there often may be nothing more than a better training and instruction from experienced cell-mates; though very often the circumstances are such that the suspect has succeeded through some released prisoner, or by a blackened letter, in sending a message from his prison, by means of which false witnesses of alibi, etc., are provided. Distrust is in any event justified, when his most important witnesses suddenly “occur” to the accused. But this does not always happen, and we find in our own experience evidence of the fact that memory and the capacity to recall something often depend upon health, feeling, location, and chance associations which can not be commanded, and happen as accidentally as anything in life can. That we should remember anything at all depends upon the point of time. Everybody knows how important twilight may be for memory. Indeed, twilight has been called the visiting-hour of recollection, and it is always worth while to observe the situation when anybody asserts that some matter of importance occurred to him in the twilight. Such an assertion merits, at least, further examination. Now, if we only know how these occurrences constitute themselves, it would not be difficult to study them out and to estimate their probability. But we do not know, and we have to depend, primarily, on observation
and test. Not one of the theories applied is supported by experience altogether.
They may be divided into three essential groups.
1. What is received, fades away, becomes a “trace,” and is more or less overlaid by new perceptions. When these latter are ever set aside, the old trace comes into the foreground.
2. The ideas sink, darken, and disintegrate. If they receive support and intensification they regain complete clearness.
3. The ideas crumble up, lose their parts. When anything occurs that reunites them and restores what is lost, they become whole again.
Ebbinghaus maintains, correctly enough, that not one of these explanations is universally satisfactory, but it must be granted that now one, now another is useful in controlling this or that particular case. The processes of the destruction of an idea, may be as various as those of the destruction and restoration of a building. If a building is destroyed by fire, I certainly can not explain the image given by merely assuming that it was the victim of the hunger of time. A building which has suffered because of the sinking of the earth I shall have to image by quite other means than those I would use if it had been destroyed by water.
For the same reason when, in court, somebody asserts a sudden “occurrence,” or when we want to help him and something occurs to him, we shall have to proceed in different fashion and determine our action empirically by the conditions of the moment. We shall have to go back, with the help of the witness, to the beginning of the appearance of the idea in question and study its development as far as the material permits us. In a similar manner we must make use of every possibility of explanation when we are studying the disappearance of ideas. At one point or another we shall find certain connections. One chief mistake in such reconstructive work lies in overlooking the fact that no individual is merely passive when he receives sensations; he is bound to make use of a certain degree of activity. Locke and Bonnet have already mentioned this fact, and anybody may verify it by comparing his experiments of trying to avoid seeing or hearing, and trying actively to see or to hear. For this reason it is foolish to ask anybody how it happened that he perceived less than another, because both have equally good senses and were able to perceive as much. On the other hand, the grade of activity each has made use of in perception is rarely inquired into, and this is the more unfortunate because memory is often propor-
tionate to activity. If, then, we are to explain how various statements concerning contemporaneous matters, observed a long time ago, are to be combined, it will not be enough to compare the memory, sensory acuteness, and intelligence of the witnesses. The chief point of attention should be the activity which has been put in motion during the sense-perception in question.
Section 53. (b) The Forms of Reproduction.
Kant analyzes memory:
1. As apprehending something in memory.
2. As retaining it for a long time.
3. As immediately recalling it.
One might, perhaps add, as 4: that the memory-image is most conformable to the actual one. This is not identical with the fact that we recollect at all. It is to be assumed that the forms of memory- images vary very much with different persons, because each individual verifies his images of various objects variously. I know two men equally well for an equal time, and yet have two memory- images of them. When I recall one, a life-sized, moving, and moved figure appears before me, even the very man himself; when I think of the other, I see only a small, bare silhouette, foggy and colorless, and the difference does not require that the first shall be an interesting and the second a boresome individual. This is still clearer in memory of travels. One city appears in recollection with size, color and movement, real; the other, in which I sojourned for the same length of time and only a few days later, under similar conditions of weather, etc., appears like a small, flat photograph. Inquiry reveals that this is as true of other people as of me, and that the problem of memory is much differentiated by the method of recollection. In fact, this is so little in doubt that at some periods of time there are more images of one sort than of another and what is a rule for one kind of individual is an exception for another.
Now there is a series of phenomena for which we possess particular types of images which often have little to do with the things themselves. So Exner says: “We might know the physiognomy of an individual very accurately, be able to pick him out among a thousand, without being clear about the differences between him and another; indeed, we often do not know the color of his eyes and hair, yet marvel when it suddenly becomes different.”
Kries[1] calls attention to another fact: “When we try to mark in
memory the contour of a very well-known coin, we deceive ourselves, unbelievably–when we see the coin the size we imagine it to be, we wonder still more.”
[1] v. Kries: Beitr
Lotze shows correctly that memory never brings back a blinding flash of light, or the over-powering blow of an explosion with the intensity of the image in proper relation to the impression. I believe that it is not necessary to go so far, for example, and hold that not even the sparkling of a star, the crack of a pistol, etc., are kept in memory with more than partial implication of the event. Maudsley points out correctly that we can have no memory of pain–“because the disturbance of nervous elements disappears just as soon as their integrity is again established.” Perhaps, also, because when the pain has disappeared, the tertium comparationis is lacking. But one need not limit oneself to pain, but may assert that we lack memory of all unpleasant sensations. The first time one jumps into the water from a very high spring-board, the first time one’s horse rises over a hurdle, or the first time the bullets whistle past one’s ear in battle, are all most unpleasant experiences, and whoever denies it is deceiving himself or his friends. But when we think of them we feel that they were not so bad, that one merely was very much afraid, etc. But this is not the case; there is simply no memory for these sensations.
This fact is of immense importance in examination and I believe that no witness has been able effectively to describe the pain caused by a body wound, the fear roused by arson, the fright at a threat, not, indeed, because he lacked the words to do so, but because he had not sufficient memory for these impressions, and because he has nothing to-day with which to compare them. Time, naturally, in such cases makes a great difference, and if a man were to describe his experiences shortly after their uncomfortable occurrence he would possibly remember them better than he would later on. Here, if the examiner has experienced something similar, years ago, he is likely to accuse the witness of exaggeration under the belief that his own experience has shown the thing to be not so bad. Such an accusation will be unjust in most instances. The differences in conception depend to a large degree on differences in time, and consequent fading in memory. Several other particular conditions may be added.
Kant, e. g., calls attention to the power we have over our fancy: “In memory, our will must control our imagination and our imagina-
tion must be able to determine voluntarily the reproduction of ideas of past time.”
But these ideas may be brought up not only voluntarily; we have also a certain degree of power in making these images clearer and more accurate. It is rather foolish to have the examiner invite the witness to “exert his memory, to give himself the trouble, etc.” This effects nothing, or something wrong. But if the examiner is willing to take the trouble, he may excite the imagination of the witness and give him the opportunity to exercise his power over the imagination. How this is done depends naturally upon the nature and education of the witness, but the judge may aid him just as the skilful teacher may aid the puzzled pupil to remember. When the pianist has completely forgotten a piece of music that he knew very well, two or three chords may lead him to explicate these chords forward or backward, and then–one step after another–he reproduces the whole piece. Of course the chords which are brought to the mind of the player must be properly chosen or the procedure is useless.
There are rules for the selection of these clews. According to Ebbinghaus: “The difference in the content of the recollected is due to discoverable causes. Melodies may become painful because of their undesirable obstinacy in return. Forms and colors do not usually recur, and if they do, they do so with noticeable claims on distinctness and certainty. Past emotional conditions are reproduced only with effort, in comparatively pallid schemes, and often only by means of the accompanying movements.” We may follow these clews, in some directions at least, to our advantage. Of course, nobody will say that one should play tunes to witnesses in order to make them remember, because the tunes have sunk into the memory with such undesirable obstinacy as to be spurs to recollection. It is just as futile to operate with forms and colors, or to excite emotional conditions. But what has been said leads us back to the ancient rule of working so far as is possible with the constantly well-developed sense of location. Cicero already was aware of this
“Tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis, id quidem infinitum in hac urbe, quocumque enim ingredimur, in aliquam historiam vestigium possumus.” Indeed he deduces his whole doctrine of memory from the sense of location, or he at least justifies those who do so.
If, then, we bring a witness, who in our court house recollects nothing, in locum rei sitae, all the mentioned conditions act favor-
ably.[1] The most influential is the sense of location itself, inasmuch as every point at which something significant occurred not only is the content of an association, but is also the occasion of one. It is, moreover, to be remembered that reproduction is a difficult task, and that all unnecessary additional difficulties which are permitted to accrue, definitely hinder it. Here, too, there is only a definite number of units of psychical energy for use, and the number which must be used for other matters is lost to the principal task. If, e. g., I recall an event which had occurred near the window of a definite house, I should have considerable difficulty to recall the form of the house, the location of the window, its appearance, etc., and by the time this attempt has barely begun to succeed, I have made so much effort that there is not sufficient power left for the recollection of the event we are really concerned with. Moreover, a mistake in the recollection of extraneous objects and the false associations thereby caused, may be very disturbing to the correctness of the memory of the chief thing. If, however, I am on the spot, if I can see everything that I had seen at the time in question, all these difficulties are disposed of.
[1] Cf. Schneikert in H. Gross’s Archiv, XIII, 193.
We have still to count in the other conditions mentioned above. If acoustic effects can appear anywhere, they can appear in the locality where they first occurred. The same bell ringing, or a similar noise, may occur accidentally, the murmur of the brook is the same, the rustle of the wind, determined by local topography, vegetation, especially by trees, again by buildings, varies with the place. And even if only a fine ear can indicate what the difference consists of, every normal individual senses that difference unconsciously. Even the “universal noise,” which is to be found everywhere, will be differentiated and characteristic according to locality, and that, together with all these other things, is extraordinarily favorable to the association of ideas and the reproduction of the past. Colors and forms are the same, similar orders may occur, and possibly the same attitudes are awakened, since these depend in so great degree upon external conditions. Now, once these with their retrospective tendencies are given, the recollection of any contemporary event increases, as one might say, spontaneously. Whatever may especially occur to aid the memory of an event, occurs best at the place where the event itself happened, and hence, one can not too insistently advise the examination of witnesses, in important cases, only in loco rei sitae. Incidentally, the judge himself learns the real
situation and saves himself, thereby, much time and effort, for he is enabled in a few words to render the circumstantial descriptions which have to be composed with so much difficulty when the things are not seen and must be derived from the testimonies of the witnesses themselves.
Whoever does not believe in the importance of conducting the examination at the place of an event, needs only to repeat his examination twice, once at the court, and again at the place–then he certainly will doubt no more. Of course the thing should not be so done that the event should be discussed with the witness at the place of its occurrence and then the protocol written in the house of the mayor, or in an inn half an hour away–the protocol must to the very last stroke of the pen be written then and there, in order that every impression may be renewed and every smallest doubt studied and corrected. Then the differences between what has passed, what has been later added, and what is found to-day can be easily determined by sticking to the rule of Uphues, that the recognition of the present as present is always necessary for the eventual recognition of the past. Kant has already suggested what surprising results such an examination will give: “There are many ideas which we shall never again in our lives be conscious of, unless some occasion cause them to spring up in the memory.” But such a particularly powerful occasion is locality, inasmuch as it brings into play all the influences which our senses are capable of responding to.[1]
[1] Jost:
Of course the possibility of artificially-stimulated memory disappears like all memory, with the lapse of time. As a matter of fact, we know that those of our experiences which concern particular persons and things, and which are recalled at the sight of those persons and things, become, later on, when the connections of images have been broken, capable only of awakening general notions, even though the persons or things are as absolutely present as before. But very unfavorable circumstances must have been at work before such a situation can develop.
It is characteristic, as is popularly known, that memory can be intensified by means of special occasions. It is H
that the Spartan boys were whipped at the boundary stones of their country in order that they might recall their position, and even now-a-days our peasants have the custom, when setting up new boundary stones, of grasping small boys by the ears and hair in
order that they shall the better remember the position of the new boundary mark when, as grown men, they will be questioned about it. This being the case, it is safer to believe a witness when he can demonstrate some intensely influential event which was contemporaneous with the situation under discussion, and which reminds him of that situation.
Section 54. (c) The Peculiarities of Reproduction.
The differences in memory which men exhibit are not, among their other human qualities, the least. As is well known, this difference is expressed not only in the vigor, reliability, and promptness of their memory, but also in the field of memory, in the accompaniment of rapid prehensivity by rapid forgetfulness, or slow prehensivity and slow forgetfulness, or in the contrast between narrow, but intense memory, and broad but approximate memory.
Certain special considerations arise with regard to the field of greatest memory. As a rule, it may be presupposed that a memory which has developed with especial vigor in one direction has generally done this at the cost of memory in another direction. Thus, as a rule, memory for numbers and memory for names exclude each other. My father had so bad a memory for names that very frequently he could not quickly recall my Christian name, and I was his own son. Frequently he had to repeat the names of his four brothers until he hit upon mine, and that was not always a successful way.[1] When he undertook an introduction it was always: “My honored m–m–m,”–“The dear friend of my youth m–m–m.” On the other hand, his memory for figures was astounding. He noted and remembered not only figures that interested him for one reason or another, but also those that had not the slightest connection with him, and that he had read merely by accident. He could recall instantaneously the population of countries and cities, and I remember that once, in the course of an accidental conversation, he mentioned the production of beetroot in a certain country for the last ten years, or the factory number of my watch that he had given me fifteen years before and had never since held in his hand. He often said that the figures he carried in his head troubled him. In this regard the symptom may be mentioned that he was not a good mathematician, but so exceptional a card player that nobody wanted to play with him. He noticed
every single card dealt and could immediately calculate what cards each player had, and was able to say at the beginning of the game how many points each must have.
[1] Cf. S. Freud Psychopathologie des Alltagsleben.
Such various developments are numerous and of importance for us because we frequently are unwilling to believe the witness testifying in a certain field for the reason that his memory in another field had shown itself to be unreliable. Schubert and Drobisch cite examples of this sort of thing, but the observations of moderns, like Charcot and Binet, concerning certain lightning calculators (Inaudi, Diamandi, etc.), confirm the fact that the memory for figures is developed at the expense of other matters. Linn
who otherwise note nothing whatever, are able to recognize individually each one of their numberless reindeer. Again, the Dutch friend of flowers, Voorhelm, had a memory only for tulips, but this was so great that he could recognize twelve hundred species of tulips merely from the dry bulbs.
These fields seem to be of a remarkably narrow extent. Besides specialists (numismatists, zoologists, botanists, heralds, etc.) who, apart from their stupendous memory for their particular matters, appear to have no memory for other things, there are people who can remember only rhymes, melodies, shapes, forms, titles, modes, service, relationships, etc. V. Volkmar has devoted some space to showing this. He has also called attention to the fact that the semi-idiotic have an astounding memory for certain things. This has been confirmed by other students. One of them, Du Potet,[1] who is perhaps the expert in the popular mind of the Austrian Alps, has made it especially clear. As in all mountainous regions there are a great number of those unfortunate idiots who, when fully developed, are called cretins, and in their milder form are semi-human, but do not possess intelligence enough to earn their own living. Nevertheless, many of them possess astounding memories for certain things. One of them is thoroughly conversant with the weather prophecy in the calendar for the past and the present year, and can cite it for each day. Another knows the day and the history of every saint of the Catholic church. Another knows the boundaries of every estate, and the name, etc., of its owner. Another knows each particular animal in a collective herd of cattle, knows to whom it belongs, etc. Of course not one of these unfortunates can read. Drobisch mentions an idiotic boy, not altogether able to speak, who, through the untiring efforts of a lady, succeeded finally in
learning to read. Then after hasty reading of any piece of printed matter, he could reproduce what he had read word for word, even when the book had been one in a foreign and unknown tongue. Another author mentions a cretin who could tell exactly the birthdays and death-days of the inhabitants of his town for a decade.
[1] Du Potet: Journal du Magnetisme, V. 245.
It is a matter of experience that the semi-idiotic have an excellent memory and can accurately reproduce events which are really impressive or alarming, and which have left effects upon them. Many a thing which normal people have barely noticed, or which they have set aside in their memory and have forgotten, is remembered by the semi-idiotic and reproduced. On the contrary, the latter do not remember things which normal people do, and which in the latter frequently have a disturbing influence on the important point they may be considering. Thus the semi-idiotic may be able to describe important things better than normal people. As a rule, however, they disintegrate what is to be remembered too much, and offer too little to make any effective interpretation possible. If such a person, e. g., is witness of a shooting, he notices the shot only, and gives very brief attention to what precedes, what follows, or what is otherwise contemporary. Until his examination he not only knows nothing about it, but even doubts its occurrence. This is the dangerous element in his testimony. Generally it is right to believe his kind willingly. “Children and fools tell the truth,” what they say bears the test, and so when they deny an event there is a tendency to overlook the fact that they have forgotten a great deal and hence to believe that the event had really not occurred.
Similar experiences are yielded in the case of the memory of children. Children and animals live only in the present, because they have no historically organic ideas in mind. They react directly upon stimuli, without any disturbance of their idea of the past. This is valid, however, only for very small children. At a later age children make good witnesses, and a well-brought-up boy is the best witness in the world. We have only to keep in mind that later events tend in the child’s mind to wipe out earlier ones of the same kind.[1] It used to be said that children and nations think only of the latest events. And that is universally true. Just as children abandon even their most precious toys for the sake of a new one, so they tell only the latest events in their experience. And this is especially the case when there are a great many facts–
e. g., repeated mal-treatment or thefts, etc. Children will tell only of the very last, the earlier one may absolutely have disappeared from the memory.
[1] F. Kemsies Ged
Psych. III, 171 (1901).
Bolton,[1] who has made a systematic study of the memory of children, comes to the familiar conclusion that the scope of memory is measured by the child’s capacity of concentrating its attention. Memory and acute intelligence are not always cognate (the latter proposition, true not for children alone, was known to Aristotle). As a rule girls have better memory than boys (it might also be said that their intelligence is generally greater, so long as no continuous intellectual work, and especially the creation of one’s own ideas, is required). Of figures read only once, children will retain a maximum of six. (Adults, as a rule, also retain no more.) The time of forgetting in general has been excellently schematized by Ebbinghaus. He studied the forgetting of a series of thirteen nonsense syllables, previously learned, in such a way as to be able to measure the time necessary to re-learn what was forgotten. At the end of an hour he needed half the original time, at the end of eight hours two-thirds of that time. Then the process of loss became slower. At the end of twenty-four hours he required a third, at the end of six days a fourth, at the end of a month a clear fifth, of the time required at first.
[1] T E. Bolton: The Growth of Memory in School Children. Am. Jour. Psych. IV.
I have tested this in a rough way on various and numerous persons, and invariably found the results to tally. Of course, the measure of time alters with the memory in question, but the relations remain identical, so that one may say approximately how much may be known of any subject at the end of a fixed time, if only one ratio is tested. To criminalists this investigation of Ebbinghaus’ is especially recommended.
The conditions of prehensivity of particular instances are too uncertain and individual to permit any general identifications or differentiations. There are certain approximating propositions– e. g., that it is easier to keep in mind rhymed verse than prose, and definite rows and forms than block masses. But, on the one hand, what is here involved is only the ease of memory, not the content of memory, and on the other hand there are too many exceptions –e. g., there are many people who retain prose better than verse. Hence, it is not worth while to go further in the creation of such rules. Forty or fifty years ago, investigations looking toward them
had been pursued with pleasure, and they are recorded in the journals of the time.
That aged persons have, as is well known, a good memory for what is long past, and a poor one for recent occurrences is not remarkable. It is to be explained by the fact that age seems to be accompanied with a decrease of energy in the brain, so that it no longer assimilates influences, and the imagination becomes dark and the judgment of facts incorrect. Hence, the mistakes are those of apperception of new things,–what has already been perceived is not influenced by this loss of energy.
Again, it should not rouse astonishment that so remarkable and delicately organized a function as memory should be subject to anomalies and abnormalities of all kinds. We must take it as a rule not to assume the impossibility of the extraordinary phenomena that appear and to consult the expert about them.[1] The physician will explain the pathological and pathoformic, but there is a series of memory-forms which do not appear to be diseased, yet which are significantly rare and hence appear improbable. Such forms will require the examination of an experienced expert psychologist who, even when unable to explain the particular case, will still be able to throw some light on it from the literature of the subject. This literature is rich in examples of the same thing; they have been eagerly collected and scientifically studied in the earlier psychological investigations. Modern psychology, unfortunately, does not study these problems, and in any event, its task is so enormous that the practical problems of memory in the daily life must be set aside for a later time. We have to cite only a few cases handled in literature.
[1] L. Bazerque: Essai de Psychopathologie sur l’Amuesie Hyst
Epil
The best known is the story of an Irish servant girl, who, during fever, recited Hebrew sentences which she had heard from a preacher when a child. Another case tells of a very great fool who, during fever, repeated prolonged conversations with his master, so that the latter decided to make him his secretary. But when the servant got well he became as foolish as ever. The criminalist who has the opportunity of examining deeply wounded, feverish persons, makes similar, though not such remarkable observations. These people give him the impression of being quite intelligent persons who tell their stories accurately and correctly. Later on, after they are cured, one gets a different opinion of their intelligence. Still more frequently one observes that these feverish, wounded victims know
more, and know more correctly about the crime than they are able to tell after they have recovered. What they tell, moreover, is quite reliable, provided, of course, they are not delirious or crazy.
The cases are innumerable in which people have lost their memory for a short time, or for ever. I have already elsewhere mentioned an event which happened to a friend of mine who received a sudden blow on the head while in the mountains and completely lost all memory of what had occurred a few minutes before the blow. After this citation I got a number of letters from my colleagues who had dealt with similar cases. I infer, therefore, that the instances in which people lose their memory of what has occurred before the event by way of a blow on the head, are numerous.[1]
[1] Cf. H. Gross’s Archiv. I, 337.
Legally such cases are important because we would not believe statements in that regard made by accused, inasmuch as there seems to be no reason why the events _*before_ the wound should disappear, just as if each impression needed a fixative, like a charcoal drawing. But as this phenomenon is described by the most reliable persons, who have no axe to grind in the matter, we must believe it, other things being equal, even when the defendant asserts it. That such cases are not isolated is shown in the fact that people who have been stunned by lightning have later forgotten everything that occurred shortly before the flash. The case is similar in poisoning with carbonic-acid gas, with mushrooms, and in strangulation. The latter cases are especially important, inasmuch as the wounded person, frequently the only witness, has nothing to say about the event.
I cannot omit recalling in this place a case I have already mentioned elsewhere, that of Brunner. In 1893 in the town of Dietkirchen, in Bavaria, the teacher Brunner’s two children were murdered, and his wife and servant girl badly wounded. After some time the woman regained consciousness, seemed to know what she was about, but could not tell the investigating justice who had been sent on to take charge of the case, anything whatever concerning the event, the criminal, etc. When he had concluded his negative protocol she signed it, Martha Guttenberger, instead of Martha Brunner. Fortunately the official noted this and wanted to know what relation she had to the name Guttenberger. He was told that a former lover of the servant girl an evil-mouthed fellow, was called by that name. He was traced to Munich and there arrested. He immediately confessed to the crime. And when Mrs. Brunner
became quite well she recalled accurately that she had definitely recognized Guttenberger as the murderer.[1]
[1] J. Hubert: Das Verhalten des Ged
Basel, 1901.
The psychological process was clearly one in which the idea, “Guttenberger is the criminal,” had sunk into the secondary sphere of consciousness, the subconsciousness,–so that it was only clear to the real consciousness that the name Guttenberger had something to do with the crime. The woman in her weakened mental condition thought she had already sufficiently indicated this fact, so that she overlooked the name, and hence wrote it unconsciously. Only when the pressure on her brain was reduced did the idea that Guttenberger was the murderer pass from the subconscious to the conscious. Psychiatrists explain the case as follows:
The thing here involved is retrograde amnesia. It is nowadays believed that this phenomenon in the great majority of cases occurs according to the rule which defines traumatic hysteria, i. e., as ideogen. The ideational complexes in question are forced into the subconsciousness, whence, on occasion, by aid of associative processes, hypnotic concentration, and such other similar elements, they can be raised into consciousness. In this case, the suppressed ideational complex manifested itself in signing the name.
All legal medicine discusses the fact that wounds in the head make people forget single words. Taine, Guerin, Abercrombie, etc., cite many examples, and Winslow tells of a woman who, after considerable bleeding, forgot all her French. The story is also told that Henry Holland had so tired himself that he forgot German. When he grew stronger and recovered he regained all he had forgotten.
_Now would we believe a prisoner who told us any one of these things?_
The phenomena of memories which occur in dying persons who have long forgotten and never even thought of these memories, are very significant. English psychologists cite the case of Dr. Rush, who had in his Lutheran congregation Germans and Swedes, who prayed in their own language shortly before death, although they had not used it for fifty or sixty years. I can not prevent myself from thinking that many a death-bed confession has something to do with this phenomenon.[2]
[2] Cf. H. Gross’s Archiv. XV, 123.
At the boundary between incorrect perception and forgetting are those cases in which, under great excitement, important events
do not reach consciousness. I believe that the responsibility is here to be borne by the memory rather than by sense-perception. There seems to be no reason for failing to perceive with the senses under the greatest excitement, but there is some clearness in the notion that great excitement causes what has just been perceived to be almost immediately forgotten. In my “Manual” I have discussed a series of cases of this sort, and show how the memory might come into play. None of the witnesses, e. g., had seen that Mary Stuart received, when being executed, two blows. In the case of an execution of many years ago, not one of those present could tell me the color of the gloves of the executioner, although everyone had noticed the gloves. In a train wreck, a soldier asserted that he had seen dozens of smashed corpses, although only one person was harmed. A prison warden who was attacked by an escaping murderer, saw in the latter’s hand a long knife, which turned out to be a herring. When Carnot was murdered, neither one of the three who were in the carriage with him, nor the two footmen, saw the murderer’s knife or the delivery of the blow, etc.
How often may we make mistakes because the witnesses–in their excitement–have forgotten the most important things!
Section 55. (d) Illusions of Memory.
Memory illusion, or paramnesia, consists in the illusory opinion of having experienced, seen, or heard something, although there has been no such experience, vision, or sound. It is the more important in criminal law because it enters unobtrusively and unnoticed into the circle of observation, and not directly by means of a demonstrated mistake. Hence, it is the more difficult to discover and has a disturbing influence which makes it very hard to perceive the mistakes that have occurred in consequence of it.
It may be that Leibnitz meant paramnesia with his “perceptiones insensibiles.” Later, Lichtenberg must have had it in mind when he repeatedly asserted that he must have been in the world once before, inasmuch as many things seemed to him so familiar, although, at the time, he had not yet experienced them. Later on, Jessen concerned himself with the question, and Sander[1] asserts him to have been the first. According to Jessen, everybody is familiar with the phenomenon in which the sudden impression occurs, that
what is experienced has already been met with before so that the future might be predicted. Langwieser asserts that one always has the sensation that the event occurred a long time ago, and Dr. Karl Neuhoff finds that his sensation is accompanied with unrest and contraction. The same thing is discussed by many other authors.[1b]
[1] W. Sander:
Psychiatrie u. Nervenkrankheiten.
[1b] Sommer: Zur Analyse der Erinnerungst
d. Aussage, 1. 1903.
Various explanations have been offered. Wigand and Maudsley think they see in paramnesia a simultaneous functioning of both relations. Anje believes that illusory memory depends on the differentiation which sometimes occurs between perception and coming-into-consciousness. According to K
things that Plato interpreted in his doctrine of pre-existence.
Sully,[2] in his book on illusions, has examined the problem most thoroughly and he draws simple conclusions. He finds that vivacious children often think they have experienced what is told them. This, however, is retained in the memory of the adult, who continues to think that he has actually experienced it. The same thing is true when children have intensely desired anything. Thus the child- stories given us by Rousseau, Goethe, and De Quincey, must come from the airy regions of the dream life or from waking revery, and Dickens has dealt with this dream life in “David Copperfield.” Sully adds, that we also generate illusions of memory when we assign to experiences false dates, and believe ourselves to have felt, as children, something we experienced later and merely set back into our childhood.
[2] James Sully: Illusions. London.
So again, he reduces much supposed to have been heard, to things that have been read. Novels may make such an impression that what has been read or described there appears to have been really experienced. A name or region then seems to be familiar because we have read of something similar.
It will perhaps be proper not to reduce all the phenomena of paramnesia to the same conditions. Only a limited number of them seem to be so reducible. Impressions often occur which one is inclined to attribute to illusory memory, merely to discover later that they were real but unconscious memory; the things had been actually experienced and the events had been forgotten. So, for example, I visit some region for the first time and get the impression that I have seen it before, and since this, as a matter of fact, is not the case, I believe myself to have suffered from an illusion of memory.
Later, I perceive that perhaps in early childhood I had really been in a country that resembled this one. Thus my memory was really correct; I had merely forgotten the experience to which it referred.
Aside from these unreal illusions of memory, many, if not all others, are explicable, as Sully indicates, by the fact that something similar to what has been experienced, has been read or heard, while the fact that it has been read or heard is half forgotten or has sunk into the subconsciousness. Only the sensation has remained, not the recollection that it was read, etc. Another part of this phenomenon may possibly be explained by vivid dreams, which also leave strong impressions without leaving the memory of their having been dreams. Whoever is in the habit of dreaming vividly will know how it is possible to have for days a clear or cloudy feeling of the discovery of something excellent or disturbing, only to find out later that there has been no real experience, only a dream. Such a feeling, especially the memory of things seen or heard in dreams, may remain in consciousness. If, later, some similar matter is really met with, the sensation may appear as a past event.[1] This is all the easier since dreams are never completely rigid, but easily modeled and adaptable, so that if there is the slightest approximation to similarity, memory of a dream lightly attaches itself to real experience.
[1] H Gross’s Archiv I, 261, 335.
All this may happen to anybody, well or ill, nervous or stolid. Indeed, Kr
a village always looked like that–although I had never before seen such a Turkish street-hotel “in nature” or pictured.
Another mode of explanation may be mentioned, i. e., explanation by heredity. Hering[1] and Sully have dealt with it. According to the latter, especially, we may think that we have undergone some experience that really belongs to some ancestor. Sully believes that this contention can not be generically contradicted because a group of skilled activities (nest-building, food-seeking, hiding from the enemy, migration, etc.) have been indubitably inherited from the animals, but on the other hand, that paramnesia is inherited memory can be proved only with, e. g., a child which had been brought up far from the sea but whose parents and grandparents had been coast-dwellers. If that child should at first sight have the feeling that he is familiar with the sea, the inheritance of memory would be proved. So long as we have not a larger number of such instances the assumption of hereditary influence is very suggestive but only probable.
[1] E. Hering:
With regard to the bearing of memory-illusions on criminal cases I shall cite only one possible instance. Somebody just waking from sleep has perceived that his servant is handling his purse which is lying on the night-table, and in consequence of the memory-illusion he believes that he has already observed this many times before. The action of the servant was perhaps harmless and in no way directed toward theft. Now the evidence of the master is supposed to demonstrate that this has repeatedly occurred, then perhaps no doubt arises that the servant has committed theft frequently and has had the intention of doing so this time.
To generalize this situation would be to indicate that illusions of memory are always likely to have doubtful results when they have occurred only once and when the witness in consequence of paramnesia believes the event to have been repeatedly observed. It is not difficult to think of numbers of such cases but it will hardly be possible to say how the presence of illusions of memory is to be discovered without the knowledge _*that_ they exist.
When we consider all the qualities and idiosyncrasies of memory, this so varied function of the mind, we must wonder that its estimation in special cases is frequently different, although proceeding from a second person or from the very owner of the questionable memory. Sully finds rightly, that one of the keenest tricks in fighting deep-
rooted convictions is to attack the memory of another with regard to its reliability. Memory is the private domain of the individual. From the secret council-chamber of his own consciousness, into which no other may enter, it draws all its values.
The case is altered, however, when a man speaks of his personal memory. It must then assume all the deficiencies which belong to other mental powers. We lawyers, especially, hear frequently from witnesses: “My memory is too weak to answer this question,” “Since receiving the wound in question my memory has failed,” “I am already too old, my memory is leaving me,” etc. In each of these cases, however, it is not the memory that is at fault. As a matter of fact the witness ought to have said “I am too stupid to answer this question,” “Since the wound in question, my intellectual powers have failed,” “I am already old, I am growing silly,” etc. But of course no one will, save very rarely, underestimate his good sense, and it is more comfortable to assign its deficiencies to the memory. This occurs not only in words but also in construction. If a man has incorrectly reproduced any matter, whether a false observation, or a deficient combination, or an unskilled interpretation of facts, he will not blame these things but will assign the fault to memory. If he is believed, absolutely incorrect conclusions may result.
Section 56. (e) Mnemotechnique.
Just a few words concerning mnemotechnique, mnemonic, and anamnestic. The discovery of some means of helping the memory has long been a human purpose. From Simonides of Chios, to the Sophist Hippias of Elis, experiments have been made in artificial development of the memory, and some have been remarkably successful. Since the middle ages a large group of people have done this. We still have the figures of the valid syllogisms in logic, like Barbara, etc. The rules for remembering in the Latin grammar, etc., may still be learned with advantage. The books of Kothe and others, have, in their day, created not a little discussion.
As a rule, modern psychology pays a little attention to memory devices. In a certain sense, nobody can avoid mnemonic, for whenever you tie a knot in your handkerchief, or stick your watch into your pocket upside down, you use a memory device. Again, whenever you want to bear anything in mind you reduce difficulties and bring some kind of order into what you are trying to retain.
Thus, some artificial grip on the object is applied by everybody, and the utility and reliability of this grip determines the trustworthiness of a man’s memory. This fact may be important for the criminal lawyer in two ways. On the one hand, it may help to clear up misunderstandings when false mnemonic has been applied. Thus, once somebody called an aniline dye, which is soluble in water and is called “nigrosin,” by the name “moorosin,” and asked for it under that name in the store. In order to aid his memory he had associated it with the word for black man = niger = negro = moor, and thus had substituted moor for nigro in the construction of the word he wanted. Again, somebody asked for the “Duke Salm” or the “Duke Schmier.” The request was due to the fact that in the Austrian dialect _salve_ is pronounced like salary and the colloquial for “salary” is “schmier” (to wipe). Dr. Ernst Lohsing tells me that he was once informed that a Mr. Schnepfe had called on him, while, as a matter of fact the gentleman’s name was Wachtel. Such misunderstandings, produced by false mnemonic, may easily occur during the examination of witnesses. They are of profound significance. If once you suspect that false memory has been in play, you may arrive at the correct idea by using the proper synonyms and by considering similarly-pronounced words. If attention is paid to the determining conditions of the special case, success is almost inevitable.
The second way in which false mnemotechnique is important is that in which the technique was correct, but in which the key to the system has been lost, i. e., the witness has forgotten how he proceeded. Suppose, for example, that I need to recall the relation of the ages of three people to each other. Now, if I observe that M is the oldest, N the middle one, and O the youngest, I may suppose, in order to help my memory, that their births followed in the same order as their initials, M, N, O. Now suppose that at another time, in another case I observe the same relation but find the order of the initials reversed O N, M. If now, in the face of the facts, I stop simply with this technique, I may later on substitute the two cases for each other. Hence, when a witness says anything which appears to have been difficult to remember, it is necessary to ask him how he was able to remember it. If he assigns some aid to memory as the reason, he must be required to explain it, and he must not be believed unless it is found reliable. If the witness in the instance above, for example, says, “I never make use of converse relations,” then his testimony will seem comparatively trustworthy. And it is not
difficult to judge the degree of reliability of any aid to memory whatever.
Great liars are frequently characterized by their easy use of the most complicated mnemotechnique. They know how much they need it.
Topic 7. THE WILL.
Section 57.
Of course, we do not intend to discuss here either the “will” of the philosopher, or the “malice” or “ill-will” of criminal law, nor yet the “freedom of the will” of the moralist. We aim only to consider a few facts that may be of significance to the criminal lawyer. Hence, we intend by “will” only what is currently and popularly meant. I take will to be the _*inner_ effect of the more powerful impulses, while action is the _*external_ effect of those impulses. When Hartmann says that will is the transposition of the ideal into the real, he sounds foolish, but in one sense the definition is excellent. You need only understand by ideal that which does not yet exist, and by real that which is a fact and actual. For when I voluntarily compel myself to think about some subject, something has actually happened, but this event is not “real” in the ordinary sense of that word. We are to bear in mind, however, that Locke warned us against the contrast between intelligence and will, as real, spiritual essences, one of which gives orders and the other of which obeys. From this conception many fruitless controversies and confusions have arisen. In this regard, we criminalists must always remember how often the common work of will and intelligence opposes us in witnesses and still more so in defendants, causing us great difficulties. When the latter deny their crime with iron fortitude and conceal their guilt by rage, or when for months they act out most difficult parts with wonderful energy, we must grant that they exhibit aspects of the will which have not yet been studied. Indeed, we can make surprising observations of how effectively prisoners control the muscles of their faces, which are least controllable by the will. The influence the will may have on a witness’s power even to flush and grow pale is also more extensive than may be established scientifically. This can be learned from quite remote events. My son happens to have told me that at one time he found himself growing pale with cold, and as under the circumstance he was afraid of being accused of lacking courage to pursue his task, he tried with all his power to
suppress his pallor, and succeeded perfectly. Since then, at court, I have seen a rising blush or beginning pallor suppressed completely; yet this is theoretically impossible.
But the will is also significant in judging the man as a whole. According to Drobisch,[1] the abiding qualities and ruling “set” of a man’s volition constitute his character. Not only inclination, and habits, and guiding principles determine the character, but also meanings, prejudices, convictions, etc. of all kinds. Since, then, we can not avoid studying the character of the individual, we must trace his volitions and desires. This in itself is not difficult; the idea of his character develops spontaneously when so traced. But the will contains also the characteristic signs of difference which are important for our purposes. We are enabled to work intelligently and clearly only by our capacity for distinguishing indifferent, from criminal and logically interpretable deeds. Nothing makes our work so difficult as the inconceivably superfluous mass of details. Not every deed or activity is an action; only those are such which are determined by will and knowledge. So Abegg[2] teaches us, what is determined by means of the will may be discovered by analysis.
Of course, we must find the proper approach to this subject and not get lost in the libertarian-deterministic quarrel, which is the turning-point in contemporary criminal law. Forty years ago Renan said that the error of the eighteenth century lay generally in assigning to the free and self-conscious will what could be explained by means of the natural effects of human powers and capacities. That century understood too little the theory of instinctive activity. Nobody will claim that in the transposition of willing into the expression of human capacity, the question of determinism is solved. The solution of this question is not our task. We do get an opening however through which we can approach the criminal,–not by having to examine the elusive character of his will, but by apprehending the intelligible expression of his capacity. The weight of our work is set on the application of the concept of causality, and the problem of free-will stands or falls with that.
[1] M. W. Drobisch: Die moralische Statistik. Leipzig 1867.
[2] Neues Archiv des Kriminal-Rechts. Vol. 14.
Bois-Reymond in his “Limits of the Knowledge of Nature” has brought some clearness into this problem: “Freedom may be denied, pain and desire may not; the appetite which is the stimulus to action necessarily precedes sense-perception. The problem, therefore, is that of sense-perception, and not as I had said a minute
ago, that of the freedom of the will. It is to the former that analytic mechanics may be applied.” And the study of sense-perception is just what we lawyers may be required to undertake.
Of course, it is insufficient merely to study the individual manifestations of human capacities, for these may be accidental results or phenomena, determined by unknown factors. Our task consists in attaining abstractions in accord with careful and conscientious perceptions, and in finding each determining occasion in its particular activities.
According to Drobisch, “maxims and the subjective principles of evolution are, as Kant calls them, laws of general content required to determine our own volitions and actions. Then again, they are rules of our own volition and action which we ourselves construct, and which hence are subjectively valid. When these maxims determine our future volitions and actions they are postulates.” We may, therefore, say that we know a man when we know his will, and that we know his will when we know his maxims. By means of his maxims we are able to judge his actions.
But we must not reconstruct his maxims theoretically. We must study everything that surrounds, alters, and determines him, for it is at this point that a man’s environments and relationships most influence him. As Grohmann said, half a century ago, “If you could find an elixir, which could cause the vital organs to work otherwise, if you could alter the somatic functions of the body, you would be the master of the will.” Therefore it is never superfluous to study the individual’s environmental conditions, surroundings, all his outer influences. That the effort required in such a study is great, is of course obvious, but the criminal lawyer must make it if he is to perform his task properly.[1]
[1] H. M
Topic 8. EMOTION.
Section 58.
Little as emotion, as generally understood, may have to do with the criminalist, it is, in its intention, most important for him. The motive of a series of phenomena and events, both in prisoners and witnesses, is emotion. In what follows, therefore, we shall attempt to show that feeling, in so far as we need to consider it, need not be taken as an especial function. This is only so far significant as to
make our work easier by limiting it to fewer subjects. If we can reduce some one psychic function to another category we can explain many a thing even when we know only the latter. In any event, the study of a single category is simpler than that of many.[1]
[1] A. Lehman: Die Hauptgesetze des menschlichen Gef
1892.
Abstractly, the word emotion is the property or capacity of the mind to be influenced pleasantly or unpleasantly by sensations, perceptions, and ideas. Concretely, it means the conditions of desire or disgust which are developed by the complex of conditions thereby aroused. We have first to distinguish between the so-called animal and the higher emotions. We will assume that this distinction is incorrect, inasmuch as between these classes there is a series of feelings which may be counted as well with one as with the other, so that the transition is incidental and no strict differentiation is possible. We will, however, retain the distinction, as it is easier by means of it to pass from the simpler to the more difficult emotions. The indubitably animal passions we shall take to be hunger, thirst, cold, etc. These are first of all purely physiological stimuli which act on our body. But it is impossible to imagine one of them, without, at the same time, inevitably bringing in the idea of the defense against this physiological stimulus. It is impossible to think of the feeling of hunger without sensing also the strain to find relief from this feeling, for without this sensation hunger would not appear as such. If I am hungry I go for food; if I am cold I seek for warmth; if I feel pain I try to wipe it out. How to satisfy these desiderative actions is a problem for the understanding, whence it follows that successful satisfaction, intelligent or unintelligent, may vary in every possible degree. We see that the least intelligent–real cretins–sometimes are unable to satisfy their hunger, for when food is given the worst of them, they stuff it, in spite of acute sensations of hunger, into their ears and noses, but not into their mouths. We must therefore say that there is always a demand for a minimum quantity of intelligence in order to know that the feeling of hunger may be vanquished by putting food into the mouth.
One step further: In the description of the conduct of anthropoid apes which are kept in menageries, etc., especial intelligence is assigned to those who know how to draw a blanket over themselves as protection against cold. The same action is held to be a sign of intelligence in very young children.
Still more thoroughly graded is the attitude toward pain, inasmuch
as barely a trace of intelligence is required, in order to know that it is necessary to wipe away a hot liquid drop that has fallen on the body. Every physiological text-book mentions the fact that a decapitated frog makes such wiping movements when it is wet with acid. From this unconscious activity of the understanding to the technically highest-developed treatment of a burn, a whole series of progressively higher expressions of intelligence may be interpolated, a series so great as to defy counting.
Now take another, still animal, but more highly-developed feeling, for example, the feeling of comfort. We lay a cat on a soft bolster– she stretches herself, spreads and thins herself out, in order to bring as many nerve termini as possible into contact with the pleasant stimuli of the bolster. This behavior of the cat may be construed as instinctive, also as the aboriginal source of the sense of comfort and as leading to luxury in comfort, the stage of comfort which Roscher calls highest. (I. Luxury in eating and drinking. II. Luxury in dress. III. Luxury in comfort.)
Therefore we may say that the reaction of the understanding to the physiological stimulus aims to set it aside when it is unpleasant, and to increase and exhaust it when it is pleasant, and that in a certain sense both coincide (the ousting of unpleasant darkness is equivalent to the introduction of pleasant light). We may therefore say generally, that feeling is a physiological stimulus indivisibly connected with the understanding’s sensitive attitude thereto. Of course there is a far cry from instinctive exclusion and inclusion to the most refined defensive preparation or interpretation, but the differences which lie next to each, on either side, are only differences in degree.
Now let us think of some so-called higher feeling and consider a special case of it. I meet for the first time a man who is unpleasantly marked, e. g., with badly colored hair. This stimulates my eyes disagreeably, and I seek either by looking away or by wishing the man away to protect myself from this physiologically-inimical influence, which already eliminates all feeling of friendship for this harmless individual. Now I see that the man is torturing an animal,–I do not like to see this, it affects me painfully; hence I wish him out of the way still more energetically. If he goes on so, adding one disagreeable characteristic to another, I might break his bones to stop him, bind him in chains to hinder him; I even might kill him, to save myself the unpleasant excitation he causes me. I strain my intelligence to think of some means of opposing him, and clearly, in
this case, also, physiological stimulus and activity of the understanding are invincibly united.
The emotion of anger is rather more difficult to explain. But it is not like suddenly-exploding hatred for it is acute, while hatred is chronic. I might be angry with my beloved child. But though at the moment of anger, the expression is identical with that of hatred, it is also transitive. In the extremest cases the negating action aims to destroy the stimulus. This is the most radical means of avoiding physiological excitation, and hence I tear in pieces a disagreeable letter, or stamp to powder the object on which I have hurt myself. Where persons are involved, I proceed either directly or symbolically when I can not, or may not, get my hands on the responsible one.
The case is the same with feeling of attraction. I own a dog, he has beautiful lines which are pleasant to my eye, he has a bell- like bark that stimulates my ear pleasantly, he has a soft coat which is pleasant to my stroking hand, I know that in case of need the dog will protect me (and that is a calming consideration), I know that he may be otherwise of use to me–in short my understanding tells me all kinds of pleasant things about the beast. Hence I like to have him near me; i. e., I like him. The same explanation may be applied to all emotions of inclination or repulsion. Everywhere we find the emotion as physiological stimulus in indivisible union with a number of partly known, partly unknown functions of the understanding. The unknown play an important r
understandings, i. e., inherited from remote ancestors, and are characterized by the fact that they lead us to do the things we do when we recognize intelligently any event and its requirements.
When one gets thirsty, he drinks. Cattle do the same. And they drink even when nobody has told them to, because this is an inherited action of countless years. If a man is, however, to proceed intelligently about his drinking, he will say, “By drying, or other forms of segregation, the water will be drawn from the cells of my body, they will become arid, and will no longer be sufficiently elastic to do their work. If, now, by way of my stomach, through endosmosis and exosmosis, I get them more water, the proper conditions will return.” The consequences of this form of consideration will not be different from the instinctive action of the most elementary of animals–the wise man and the animal drink. So the whole content of every emotion is physiological stimulation and function of the understanding.
And what good is all this to the criminal lawyer? Nobody
doubts that both prisoners and witnesses are subject to the powerful influence of emotional expression. Nobody doubts that the determination, interpretation, and judgment of these expressions are as difficult as they are important to the judge. And when we consider these emotions as especial conditions of the mind it is indubitable that they are able to cause still greater difficulty because of their elusiveness, their very various intensity, and their confused effect. Once, however, we think of them as functions of the understanding, we have, in its activities, something better known, something rather more disciplined, which offers very many fewer difficulties in the judgment concerning the fixed form in which it acts. Hence, every judgment of an emotional state must be preceded by a reconstruction in terms of the implied functions of the understanding. Once this is done, further treatment is no longer difficult.
Topic 9. THE FORMS OF GIVING TESTIMONY.
Section 59.
Wherever we turn we face the absolute importance of language for our work. Whatever we hear or read concerning a crime is expressed in words, and everything perceived with the eye, or any other sense, must be clothed in words before it can be put to use. That the criminalist must know this first and most important means of understanding, completely and in all its refinements, is self- evident. But still more is required of him. He must first of all undertake a careful investigation of the essence of language itself. A glance over literature shows how the earliest scholars have aimed to study language with regard to its origins and character. Yet, who needs this knowledge? The lawyer. Other disciplines can find in it only a scientific interest, but it is practically and absolutely valuable only for us lawyers, who must, by means of language, take evidence, remember it, and variously interpret it. A failure in a proper understanding of language may give rise to false conceptions and the most serious of mistakes. Hence, nobody is so bound as the criminal lawyer to study the general character of language, and to familiarize himself with its force, nature, and development. Without this knowledge the lawyer may be able to make use of language, but failing to understand it, will slip up before the slightest difficulty. There is an exceedingly rich literature open to everybody.[1]
[1] Cf. Darwin: Descent of Man.
Jakob Grimm:
E. Renan: De l’Origine du Language, etc., etc.
Section 60. (a) General Study of Variety in Forms of Expression.
Men being different in nature and bringing-up on the one hand, and language, being on the other, a living organism which varies with its soil, i. e., with the human individual who makes use of it, it is inevitable that each man should have especial and private forms of expression. These forms, if the man comes before us as witness or prisoner, we must study, each by itself. Fortunately, this study must be combined with another that it implies, i. e., the character and nature of the individual. The one without the other is unthinkable. Whoever aims to study a man’s character must first of all attend to his ways of expression, inasmuch as these are most significant of a man’s qualities, and most illuminating. A man is as he speaks. It is not possible, on the other hand, to study modes of expression in themselves. Their observation requires the study of a group of other conditions, if the form of speech is to be explained, or its analysis made even possible. Thus, one is involved in the other, and once you know clearly the tricks of speech belonging to an individual, you also have a clear conception of his character and conversely. This study requires, no doubt, considerable skill. But that is at the command of anybody who is devoted to the lawyer’s task.
Tylor is correct in his assertion, that a man’s speech indicates his origin much less than his bringing-up, his education, and his power. Much of this fact is due to the nature of language as a living growth and moving organism which acquires new and especial forms to express new and especial events in human life. Geiger[1] cites the following example of such changes in the meaning of words. “Mriga” means in Sanscrit, “wild beast;” in Zend it means merely “bird,” and the equivalent Persian term “mrug” continues to mean only “bird,” so that the barnyard fowls, song-birds, etc., are now called “mrug.” Thus the first meaning, “wild animal” has been transmuted into its opposite, “tame animal.” In other cases we may incorrectly suppose certain expressions to stand for certain things. We say, “to bake bread, to bake cake, to bake certain meats,” and then again, “to roast apples, to roast potatoes, to roast certain meats.” We should laugh if some foreigner told us that he had “roasted” bread.
[1] Ursprung u. Eutwieklung der Sprache. Stuttgart, 1869.
These forms of expression have, as yet, no relation to character,
but they are the starting-point of quite characteristic modes which establish themselves in all corporations, groups, classes, such as students, soldiers, hunters, etc., as well as among the middle classes in large cities. Forms of this kind may become so significant that the use of a single one of them might put the user in question into jeopardy. I once saw two old gentlemen on a train who did not know each other. They fell into conversation and one told the other that he had seen an officer, while jumping from his horse, trip over his sword and fall. But instead of the word sword he made use of the old couleur-student slang word “speer,” and the other old boy looked at him with shining eyes and cried out “Well, brother, what color?”
Still more remarkable is the mutation and addition of new words of especially definite meaning among certain classes. The words become more modern, like so much slang.
The especial use of certain forms is individual as well as social. Every person has his private usage. One makes use of “certainly,” another of “yes, indeed,” one prefers “dark,” another “darkish.” This fact has a double significance. Sometimes a man’s giving a word a definite meaning may explain his whole nature. How heartless and raw is the statement of a doctor who is telling about a painful operation, “The patient sang!” In addition, it is frequently necessary to investigate the connotation people like to give certain words, otherwise misunderstandings are inevitable This investigation is, as a rule, not easy, for even when it is simple to bring out what is intended by an expression, it is still quite as simple to overlook the fact that people use peculiar expressions for ordinary things. This occurs particularly when people are led astray by the substitution of similars and by the repetition of such a substitution. Very few persons are able to distinguish between identity and similarity; most of them take these two characters to be equivalent. If A and B are otherwise identical, save that B is a little bigger, so that they appear similar, there is no great mistake if I hold them to be equivalent and substitute B for A. Now I compare B with C, C with D, D with E, etc., and each member of the series is progressively bigger than its predecessor. If now I continue to repeat my first mistake, I have in the end substituted for A the enormously bigger E and the mistake has become a very notable one. I certainly would not have substituted E for A at the beginning, but the repeated substitution of similars has led me to this complete incommensurability.
Such substitutions occur frequently during the alterations of meanings, and if you wish to see how some remarkable signification of a term has arisen you will generally find it as a progression through gradually remoter similarities to complete dissimilarity. All such extraordinary alterations which a word has undergone in the course of long usage, and for which each linguistic text-book contains numerous examples, may, however, develop with comparative speed in each individual speaker, and if the development is not traced may lead, in the law-court, to very serious misunderstandings.
Substitutions, and hence, sudden alterations, occur when the material of language, especially in primitive tongues, contains only simple differentiations. So Tylor mentions the fact, that the language of the West African Wolofs contains the word “_d
go, “_d
“dag