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Topic 3. MISTAKES.
(a) Mistakes of the Senses.

Section 98. (1) General Considerations.

As sensation is the basis of knowledge, the sensory process must be the basis of the correctness of legal procedure. The information we get from our senses and on which we construct our conclusion, may be said, all in all, to be reliable, so that we are not justified in approaching things we assume to depend on sense-perception with exaggerated caution. Nevertheless, this perception is not always completely correct, and the knowledge of its mistakes must help us and even cause us to wonder that we make no greater ones.

Psychological examination of sense-perception has been going on since Heraclitus. Most of the mistakes discovered have been used for various purposes, from sport to science. They are surprising and attract and sustain public attention; they have, hence, become

familiar, but their influence upon other phenomena and their consequences in the daily life have rarely been studied. For two reasons. First, because such illusions seem to be small and their far-reaching effects are rarely thought of, as when, e. g., a line drawn on paper seems longer or more inclined than it really is. Secondly, it is supposed that the influence of sensory illusions can not easily make a difference in practical life. If the illusion is observed it is thereby rendered harmless and can have no effect. If it is not observed and later on leads to serious consequences, their cause can not possibly be sought out, because it can not be recognized as such, and because there have been so many intermediate steps that a correct retroduction is impossible.

This demonstrates the rarity of a practical consideration of sense-perception, but does not justify that rarity. Of course, there are great difficulties in applying results of limited experiments to extensive conditions. They arise from the assumption that the conditions will be similar to those which the scientist studies, and that a situation which exhibits certain phenomena under narrow experimental conditions will show them, also, in the large. But this is not the case, and it is for this reason that the results of modern psychology have remained practically unproductive. This, of course, is not a reproach to the discipline of experimental psychology, or an assault upon the value of its researches. Its narrow limitations were necessary if anything definite was to be discovered. But once this has been discovered the conditions may be extended and something practical may be attained to, particularly in the matter of illusion of sense. And this possibility disposes of the second reason for not paying attention to these illusions.

Witnesses do not of course know that they have suffered from illusions of sense; we rarely hear them complain of it, anyway. And it is for this very reason that the criminalist must seek it out. The requirement involves great difficulties for we get very little help from the immense literature on the subject. There are two roads to its fulfilment. In the first place, we must understand the phenomenon as it occurs in our work, and by tracing it back determine whether and which illusion of the sense may have caused an abnormal or otherwise unclear fact. The other road is the theoretical one, which must be called, in this respect, the preparatory road. It requires our mastery of all that is known of sense-illusion and particularly of such examples of its hidden nature as exist. Much of the material of this kind is, however, irrelevant to our purpose, particularly

all that deals with disease and lies in the field of medicine. Of course, where the nature of the disease is uncertain or its very presence is unknown, it is as well for us to consider the case as for the physician. But above all, it is our duty to consult the physician.

Apart from what belongs to the physician there is the material which concerns other professions than ours. That must be set aside, though increasing knowledge may require us to make use even of that. It is indubitable that we make many observations in which we get the absolute impression that matters of sensory illusion which do not seem to concern us lie behind some witnesses' observations, etc., although we can not accurately indicate what they are. The only thing to do when this occurs is either to demonstrate the possibility of their presence or to wait for some later opportunity to test the witness for them.

Classification will ease our task a great deal. The apparently most important divisions are those of "normal" and "abnormal." But as the boundary between them is indefinite, it would be well to consider that there is a third class which can not fall under either heading. This is a class where especially a group of somatic conditions either favor or cause illusory sense-perceptions, e. g., a rather over-loaded stomach, a rush of blood to the head, a wakeful night, physical or mental over-exertion. These conditions are not abnormal or diseased, but as they are not habitual, they are not normal either. If the overloaded stomach has turned into a mild indigestion, the increase of blood into congestion, etc., then we are very near disease, but the boundary between that and the other condition can not be determined.

Another question is the limit at which illusions of sense begin, how, indeed, they can be distinguished from correct perceptions. The possibility of doing so depends upon the typical construction of the sense-organs in man. By oneself it would be impossible to determine which sensation is intrinsically correct and which is an illusion. There are a great many illusions of sense which all men suffer from under similar conditions, so that the judgment of the majority can not be normative. Nor can the control of one sense by another serve to distinguish illusory from correct perception. In many cases it is quite possible to test the sense of sight by touch, or the sense of hearing by sight, but that is not always so. The simplest thing is to say that a sense-impression is correct and implies reality when it remains identical under various circumstances, in various conditions, when connected with other senses, and observed

by different men, with different instruments. It is illusory when it is not so constant. But here again the limit of the application of the term "illusion" is difficult to indicate. That distant things seem to be smaller than they are; that railway tracks and two sides of a street seem to run together are intrinsically real illusions of sense, but they are not so called—they are called the laws of perspective, so that it would seem that we must add to the notion of sense-perception that of rarity, or extraordinary appearance.

I have found still another distinction which I consider important. It consists in the difference between real illusions and those false conceptions in which the mistake originates as false inference. In the former the sense organ has been really registering wrongly, as when, for example, the pupil of the eye is pressed laterally and everything is seen double. But when I see a landscape through a piece of red glass, and believe the landscape to be really red, the mistake is one of inference only, since I have not included the effect of the glass in my concluding conception. So again, when in a rain I believe mountains to be nearer than they really are, or when I believe the stick in the water to be really bent, my sensations are perfectly correct, but my inferences are wrong. In the last instance, even a photograph will show the stick in water as bent.

This difference in the nature of illusion is particularly evident in those phenomena of expectation that people tend to miscall "illusions of sense." If, in church, anybody hears a dull, weak tone, he will believe that the organ is beginning to sound, because it is appropriate to assume that. In the presence of a train of steam cars which shows every sign of being ready to start you may easily get the illusion that it is already going. Now, how is the sense to have been mistaken in such cases? The ear has really heard a noise, the eye has really seen a train, and both have registered correctly, but it is not their function to qualify the impression they register, and if the imagination then effects a false inference, that can not be called an illusion of sensation.

The incorrectness of such classification becomes still more obvious when some numerical, arithmetical demonstration can be given of the presence of faulty inference. For example, if I see through the window a man very far away clearing a lot with an ax, I naturally see the ax fall before I hear the noise of the blow. Now, it may happen that the distance may be just great enough to make me hear the sound of the second blow at the moment in which I see the delivery of the third blow. Thus I perceive at the same moment,

in spite of the great distance, both the phenomena of light and of sound, just as if I were directly on the spot. Perhaps I will wonder at first about these physical anomalies, and then, if I have made my simple mistake in inference, I shall tell somebody about the remarkable "sensory illusion" I had today, although no one had ever supposed me capable of being deceived in this way. Schopenhauer calls attention to the familiar fact that on waking after a short nap all localizations are apparently perverted, and the mind does not know what is in front, what behind, what to the right, and what to the left. To call also this sensory illusion, would again be wrong, since the mind is not fully awake, and sufficiently orientated to know clearly its condition. The matter is different when we do not properly estimate an uncustomary sense-impression. A light touch in an unaccustomed part of the body is felt as a heavy weight. After the loss of a tooth we feel an enormous cave in the mouth, and what a nonsensical idea we have of what is happening when the dentist is drilling a hole in a tooth! In all these cases the senses have received a new impression which they have not yet succeeded in judging properly, and hence, make a false announcement of the object. It is to this fact that all fundamentally incorrect judgments of new impressions must be attributed,—for example, when we pass from darkness into bright light and find it very sharp; when we find a cellar warm in winter that we believe to be ice-cold in summer; when we suppose ourselves to be high up in the air the first time we are on horseback, etc. Now, the actual presence of sensory illusions is especially important to us because we must make certain tests to determine whether testimony depends on them or not, and it is of great moment to know whether the illusions depend on the individual's mind or on his senses. We may trust a man's intellect and not his senses, and conversely, from the very beginning.

It would be superfluous to talk of the importance of sensory illusion in the determination of a sentence. The correctness of the judgment depends on the correctness of the transmitted observations, and to understand the nature of sense-illusion and its frequency is to know its significance for punishment. There are many mistakes of judges based entirely on ignorance of this matter. Once a man who claimed, in spite of absolute darkness, to have recognized an opponent who punched him in the eye, was altogether believed, simply because it was assumed that the punch was so vigorous that the wounded man saw sparks by the light of which he could recognize

the other. And yet already Aristotle knew that such sparks are only subjective. But that such things were believed is a notable warning.[1]

Section 99. (2) Optical Illusions.

It will be best to begin the study of optical illusions with the consideration of those conditions which cause extraordinary, lunatic images. They are important because the illusion is recognizable with respect to the possibility of varied interpretations by any observer, and because anybody may experiment for himself with a bit of paper on the nature of false optical apprehension. If we should demonstrate no more than that the simplest conditions often involve coarse mistakes, much will have been accomplished for the law, since the "irrefutable evidence" of our senses would then show itself to need corroboration. Nothing is proved with "I have seen it myself," for a mistake in one point shows the equal possibility of mistakes in all other points.

Generally, it may be said that the position of lines is not without influence on the estimation of their size.[1] Perpendicular dimensions are taken to be somewhat greater than they are. Of two crossed lines, the vertical one seems longer, although it is really equal to the horizontal one. An oblong, lying on its somewhat longer side, is taken to be a square; if we set it on the shorter side it seems to be still more oblong than it really is. If we divide a square into equal angles we take the nearer horizontal ones to be larger, so that we often take an angle of thirty degrees to be forty-five. Habit has much influence here. It will hardly be believed, and certainly is not consciously known, that in the letter S the upper curve has a definitely smaller radius than the lower one; but the inverted S shows this at once. To such types other false estimations belong: inclinations, roofs, etc., appear so steep in the distance that it is said to be impossible to move on them without especial help. But whoever does move on them finds the inclination not at all so great. Hence, it is necessary, whenever the ascension of some inclined plane is declared impossible, to inquire whether the author of the declaration was himself there, or whether he had judged the thing at a distance.

Slight crooks are underestimated. Exner[2] rightly calls attention to the fact that in going round the rotunda of the Viennese Prater, he always reached the exit much sooner than he expected. This is due to the presence of slight deviations and on them are based the numerous false estimates of distance and the curious fact that people, on being lost at night in the woods, go round in a significantly small circle. It is frequently observed that persons, who for one reason or another, i. e., robbery, maltreatment, a burglarious assault, etc., had fled into the woods to escape, found themselves at daybreak, in spite of their flight, very near the place of the crime, so that their honesty in fleeing seems hardly believable. Nevertheless it may be perfectly trustworthy, even though in the daytime the fugitive might be altogether at home in the woods. He has simply underestimated the deviations he has made, and hence believes that he has moved at most in a very flat arc. Supposing himself to be going forward and leaving the wood, he has really been making a sharp arc, and always in the same direction, so that his path has really been circular.

Some corroboration for this illusion is supplied by the fact that the left eye sees objects on the left too small, while the right eye underestimates the right side of objects. This underestimation varies from 0.3 to 0.7%. These are magnitudes which may naturally be of importance, and which in the dark most affect deviations that are closely regarded on the inner side of the eye—i. e., deviations to the left of the left eye or the right of the right eye.

Such confusions become most troublesome when other estimations are added to them. So long as the informant knows that he has only been estimating, the danger is not too great. But as a rule the informant does not regard his conception as an estimate, but as certain knowledge. He does not say, "I estimate," he says, "It is so." Aubert tells how the astronomer Förster had a number of educated men, physicians, etc., estimate the diameter of the moon. The estimation varied from 1" to 8" and more. The proper diameter is 1.5" at a distance of 12".

It is well known that an unfurnished room seems much smaller than a furnished one, and a lawn covered with snow, smaller than a thickly-grown one. We are regularly surprised when we find an enormous new structure on an apparently small lot, or when a lot is parcelled out into smaller building lots. When they are planked off we marvel at the number of planks which can be laid on the surface.

The illusions are still greater when we look upward. We are less accustomed to estimation of verticals than of horizontals. An object on the gutter of a roof seems much smaller than at a similar distance on the ground. This can be easily observed if any figure which has been on the roof of a house for years is once brought down. Even if it is horizontally twice as far as the height of the house, the figure still seems larger than before. That this illusion is due to defective practice is shown by the fact that children make mistakes which adults find inconceivable. Helmholtz tells how, as child, he asked his mother to get him the little dolls from the gallery of a very high tower. I remember myself that at five years I proposed to my comrades to hold my ankles so that I could reach for a ball from the second story of a house down to the court-yard. I had estimated the height as one-twelfth of its actual magnitude. Certain standards of under and overestimations are given us when there is near the object to be judged an object the size of which we know. The reason for the fact that trees and buildings get such ideal sizes on so-called heroic landscape is the artistically reduced scale. I know that few pictures have made such a devilish impression on me as an enormous landscape, something in the style of Claude Lorraine, covering half a wall. In its foreground there is to be seen a clerk riding a horse in a glen. Rider and horse are a few inches high, and because of this the already enormous landscape becomes frightfully big. I saw the picture as a student, and even now I can describe all its details. Without the diminutive clerk it would have had no particular effect.

In this connection we must not forget that the relations of magnitude of things about us are, because of perspective, so uncertain that we no longer pay any attention to them. "I find it difficult," says Lipps,[3] "to believe that the oven which stands in the corner of the room does not look larger than my hand when I hold it a foot away from my eyes, or that the moon is not larger than the head of a pin, which I look at a little more closely.... We must not forget how we are in the custom of comparing. I compare hand and oven, and I think of the hand in terms of the oven." That is because we know how large the hand and the oven are, but very often we compare things the sizes of which we do not know, or which we can not so easily get at, and then there are many extraordinary illusions.

In connection with the cited incident of the estimation of the

moon's diameter, there is the illusion of Thomas Reid who saw that the moon seemed as large as a plate when looked at with the unhampered eye, but as large as a dollar when looked at through a tube. This mistake establishes the important fact that the size of the orifice influences considerably the estimation of the size of objects seen through it. Observations through key-holes are not rarely of importance in criminal cases. The underestimations of sizes are astonishing.

Aërial perspective has a great influence on the determination of these phenomena, particularly such as occur in the open and at great distances. The influence is to be recognized through the various appearances of distant objects, the various colors of distant mountains, the size of the moon on the horizon, and the difficulties which aërial perspective offers painters. Many a picture owes

its success or failure to the use of aërial perspective. If its influence is significant in the small space of a painting, the illusions in nature can easily become of enormous significance, particularly when extremes are brought together in the observations of objects in unknown regions. The condition of the air, sometimes foggy and not pellucid, at another time particularly clear, makes an enormous difference, and statements whether about distance, size, colors, etc., are completely unreliable. A witness who has several times observed an unknown region in murky weather and has made his important observation under very clear skies, is not to be trusted.

An explanation of many sensory illusions may be found in the so-called illusory lines. They have been much studied, but Zöllner[4] has been the first to show their character. Thus, really quite parallel lines are made to appear unparallel by the juxtaposition of inclined or crossing lines. In figures 1 and 2 both the horizontal lines are actually parallel, as may be determined in various ways.

The same lines looked at directly or backwards seem, in Fig. 1, convex, in Fig. 2 concave.

Still more significant is the illusion in Fig. 3, in which the convexity is very clear. The length, etc., of the lines makes no difference in the illusion.

On the other hand, in Fig. 4 the diagonals must be definitely thicker than the parallel horizontal lines, if those are to appear not parallel. That the inclination is what destroys the appearance of parallels is shown by the simple case given in Fig. 5, where the distance from A to B is as great as from B to C, and yet where the first seems definitely smaller than the second.

Still more deceptive is Fig. 6 where the first line with the angle inclined inwards seems incomparably smaller than the second with the angle inclined outwards.

All who have described this remarkable subject have attempted to explain it. The possession of such an explanation might put

us in a position to account for a large number of practical difficulties. But certain as the facts are, we are still far from their why and how. We may believe that the phenomenon shown in Figs. 1 and 2 appears when the boundaries of a field come straight up to a street with parallel sides, with the result that at the point of meeting the street seems to be bent in. Probably we have observed this frequently without being aware of it, and have laid no particular stress on it, first of all, because it was really unimportant, and secondly, because we thought that the street was really not straight at that point.

In a like manner we may have seen the effect of angles as shown in Figs. 5 and 6 on streets where houses or house-fronts were built cornerwise. Then the line between the corners seemed longer or shorter, and as we had no reason for seeking an accurate judgment

we paid no attention to its status. We simply should have made a false estimate of length if we had been required to judge it. It is also likely that we may have supposed an actual or suppository line on the side of the gables of a house enclosed by angles of the gables, to be short,—but until now the knowledge of this supposition has had no practical value. Nevertheless, the significance of these illusions should not be underestimated. They mean most of all the fact that we really can be much deceived, even to the degree of swearing to the size of a simple thing and yet being quite innocently mistaken. This possibility shows, moreover, that the certainty of our judgment according to sensible standards is inadequate and we have no way of determining how great this inadequacy is. We have already indicated that we know only the examples cited by Zöllner, Delboeuf and others. It is probable that they were hit upon by accident and that similar ones can not be discovered empirically or intentionally. Hence, it may be assumed that such illusions occur in great number and even in large dimensions. For example, it is known that Thompson discovered his familiar "optical circle illusion" (six circles arranged in a circle, another in the middle. Each possesses bent radii which turn individually if the whole drawing is itself turned in a circle) by the accident of having seen the geometrical ornament drawn by a pupil. Whoever deals with such optical illusions may see very remarkable ones in almost every sample of ladies' clothes, particularly percale, and also in types of carpets and furniture. And these are too complicated to be described. In the course of time another collection of such illusions will be discovered and an explanation of them will be forthcoming, and then it may be possible to determine how our knowledge of their existence can be turned to practical use.

Practical application is easier in the so-called inversion of the visual object. Fig. 7 shows the simplest case of it—the possibility of seeing the middle vertical line as either deeper or higher than the others. In the first instance you have before you a gutter,

in the second a room. Similar relations are to be observed in the case of a cube in which the corner a may be seen as either convex or concave according as

you think it behind or before the background of the angles from which a proceeds. It is still clearer when, in a rhomboid, the line XY is drawn. Then x or y may be seen alternately as nearer or further and the figure can thereby be brought into a different position. (Fig. 9.) Done once it may be repeated voluntarily.

There are many practical examples of these illusions. Sinsteden saw one evening the silhouette of a windmill against a luminous background. The arms seemed now

to go to the right, now to the left—clearly because he did not make out the body of the mill and might equally assume that he saw it from the front or from the rear, the wheels going toward the right in the first, and toward the left in the other case. An analogous case is cited by Bernstein. If (Fig. 10) the cross made of the thin lines stand for the bars of a weather vane and the heavy lines represent the weather vane itself, it may be impossible under the conditions of illumination for an eye looking from N to distinguish whether the weather vane points NE or SW; there is no way of determining the starting point of motion. All that can certainly be said is that the weather vane lies between NE and SW and that

its angle is at the crossing of the two lines, but the direction in which its heads point can not be determined at even a slight distance. Both forms of this illusion may occur in a criminal trial. If once a definite idea of some form of order has been gained, it is not abandoned or doubted, and is even sworn to. If asked, for example, whether the mill-wheel moved right or left, the observer will consider hardly one time in a hundred whether there might not have been an optical illusion. He will simply assure

us that the thing was as he thinks he saw it, and whether he saw it correctly is purely a matter of luck.

To all these illusions may be added those which are connected with movement or are exposed by movement. During the movement of certain bodies we can distinguish their form only under definite conditions. As their movement increases they seem shorter in the direction of movement and as it decreases they seem broader than normally. An express train with many cars seems shorter when moving directly near us, and rows of marching men seem longer. The illusion is most powerful when we look through a stationary small opening. The same thing occurs when we move quickly past bodies, for this makes them seem very short as we go by.

Of such cases sense-illusion does not constitute an adequate explanation; it must be supplemented by a consideration of certain inferences which are, in most instances, comparatively complex.[5] We know, e. g., that objects which appear to us unexpectedly at night, particularly on dark, cloudy nights, seem inordinately magnified. The process is here an exceedingly complex one. Suppose I see, some cloudy night, unexpectedly close to me a horse whose environment, because of the fog, appears indistinct. Now I know from experience that objects which appear from indistinct environments are as a rule considerably distant. I know, further, that considerably distant objects seem much smaller, and hence I must assume that the horse, which in spite of its imaginary distance appears to retain its natural size, is really larger than it is. The train of thought is as follows: "I see the horse indistinctly. It seems to be far away. It is, in spite of its distance, of great size. How enormous it must be when it is close to me!" Of course these inferences are neither slow nor conscious. They occur in reflection with lightning-like swiftness and make no difference to the certainty of the instantaneous judgment. Hence it is frequently very difficult to discover the process and the mistake it contains.

If, however, the observer finds an inexplicable hiatus in an event he happens to notice, he finds it strange because unintelligible. In this way is created that notion of strangeness which often plays so great a rôle in the examination of witnesses. Hence when under otherwise uncomfortable conditions, I see a horse run without hearing the beat of his hoofs, when I see trees sway without feeling any storm; when I meet a man who, in spite of the moonlight, has no shadow, I feel them to be very strange because something is lacking

in their logical development as events. Now, from the moment a thing becomes strange to an individual his perceptions are no longer reliable, it is doubtful whether he knows what he has really experienced before his world became strange to him. Add to this that few people are unwilling to confess that they felt ill at ease, that perhaps they do not even know it,[6] and you get the complicated substitution of sensory illusions and uncanny sensation, the one causing the other, the other magnifying the one, and so on until the whole affair is turned into something quite unrecognizable. So we find ourselves in the presence of one of the inexplicable situations of the reality of which we are assured by the most trustworthy individuals.

To magnify this phenomenon, we need only think of a few slightly abnormal cases. It has already been indicated that there are many such which are not diseased, and further, that many diseased cases occur which are not known as such, at least, as being so much so as to make the judge call in the doctor. This is the more likely because there are frequently, if I may say so, localized diseases which do not exhibit any extraordinary symptoms, at least to laymen, and hence offer no reason for calling in experts. If we set aside all real diseases which are connected with optical illusions as not concerning us, there are still left instances enough. For example, any medical text-book will tell you that morphine fiends and victims of the cocaine habit have very strong tendencies to optical illusions and are often tortured by them. If the disease is sufficiently advanced, such subjects will be recognized by the physician at a single glance. But the layman can not make this immediate diagnosis. He will get the impression that he is dealing with a very nervous invalid, but not with one who is subject to optical illusions. So, we rarely hear from a witness that he knows such people, and certainly not that he is one himself. A very notable oculist, Himly, was the first to have made the observation that in the diseased excitability of the retina every color is a tone higher. Luminous black looks blue, blue looks violet, violet looks red, red looks yellow. Torpor of the retina inverts the substitution.

Dietz[7] tells of color-illusions following upon insignificant indigestion; Foderè of hysterics who see everything reversed, and Hoppe[8] says, "If the order of the rods and cones of the retina is somewhat disturbed by an inflammatory touch, the equilibrium of vision is

altered and changes in size, in form, or appearance occur." Naturally the criminalist can not perceive slight indigestion, weak hysteria, or an inflamed area in the retina when he is examining witnesses, yet false observations like those described may have a definite influence upon the decision in a case.

If such abnormal occasions are lacking the reasons for optical illusions are of another nature. As a rule optical illusions occur when there is an interruption in the communication between the retina, the sense of movement, and the sense of touch, or when we are prevented from reducing the changes of the retinal image to the movement of our body or of our eyes. This reduction goes on so unconsciously that we see the idea of the object and its condition as a unit. Again, it is indubitable that the movement of the body seems quicker when we observe it with a fixed glance than when we follow it with our eyes. The difference may be so significant that it is often worth while, when much depends on determining the speed of some act in a criminal case, to ask how the thing was looked at.

Fechner has made a far-reaching examination of the old familiar fact that things on the ground appear to run when we ride by them rapidly.[9] This fact may be compared with the other, that when you look directly into swift-moving water from a low bridge, the latter seems all of a sudden to be swimming rapidly up stream, though the water does not appear to stand still. Here some unknown factor is at work and may exercise considerable influence on many other phenomena without our being able to observe the results. To this class may be added the extraordinary phenomenon that from the train objects easily seem too near and hence appear smaller than they are. It may be, however, that the converse is true and objects appear smaller, or at least shorter, and that inasmuch as we are in the habit of attributing the diminution of size in objects to their distance, we tax the latter as false. So much is certain—that whenever we ourselves move quickly we make false judgments of size, distance, and even color. The last may be due to the fact that during a quick passage, colors may so compose themselves, that green and red become white, and blue and yellow, green, etc. I believe that all these illusions are increasing in connection with the spread of bicycling, inasmuch as many observations are made from the fleeting wheel and its motion tends to increase the illusions considerably. Concerning the differences in movement Stricker[10]

says: "If I lie on my back and see a bird fly in the uniformly blue heaven, I recognize the movement although I have no object with which to compare it. This can not be explained by the variety of points on the retina which are affected, for when the bird pauses and I turn my eye, I know that it is not moving." The last argument is not correct. If the bird is sitting on a branch I know, in spite of all my occipital movement, that it is quiet, but only because I perceive and observe the bird's immobility. If, however, I lie on my back like Stricker and see above me a bird of the class that, so to speak, swim motionless in the air for minutes at a time, and if then I turn my head, I can not tell when the bird begins to move. Here then we have no exception to the general rule and can always say that we are speaking of movement optically perceived when the rays issuing from any body progressively touch various points on the retina. And since this occurs when we are in motion as well as when the object is in motion it happens that we can not locate the movement, we cannot say whether it be in us or in the object.

Of course, the possibility that fanciful images may appear during movement is familiar. If I sit quietly in the forest and at some distance see a stone or a piece of wood or a little heap of dried leaves, etc., it may be that, because of some illusion, I take it to be a rolled up hedgehog, and it may happen that I am so convinced of the nature of the object while I am looking at it that I see how the hedgehog stretches itself, sticks out its paws and makes other movements. I remember one winter when, because of some delay, a commission on which I was serving had failed to reach a village not far from the capital. We had gone to investigate a murder case and had found the body frozen stiff. The oven in the room was heated and the grave-digger placed the stiff body near the oven in order to thaw it out. We at this time were examining the place. After a while I was instructed by the examining justice to see about the condition of the corpse, and much to my disgust, I found it sitting near the oven, bent over. It had thawed out and collapsed. During the subsequent obduction I saw most clearly how the corpse made all kinds of movements, and even after the section, during the dictation of the protocol, my imagination still seemed to see the corpse moving a hand or a foot.

The imagination may also cause changes in color. Once, I saw on my desk, which stood next to a window, a great round drop of water on the left side of which the panes of the window were reflected. (Fig. 11). The whole business was about a meter

from my eye. I saw it repeatedly while working and it finally occurred to me to inquire how such a great drop of water could get there. I had sat at my desk for hours without moving. I must have observed it if it had dropped there. Refraining intentionally from going closer, I started, without avail, to consider how it could have

come. Some time after I examined the drop of water FIG. 11. and found it to be an ink-blot, long ago completely dried, and bearing on its left side a few grains of white cigar ash. I had taken these to be the image of the window, and hence, had immediately attached to it the idea of the shining, raised drop of water. I had altogether overlooked the deep black color of the drop. On the witness stand I would have sworn that I had seen a drop of water, even if I had known the evidence on the matter to be important.

In many cases it is possible to control the imagination, but only when it is known that the images can not be as they are seen. Everybody is aware how a half-covered object at a distance, or objects accidentally grouped in one way or another, are taken for God knows what. Thus once, looking from my desk to my smoking table, I saw an enormous pair of tailor's scissors half-covered by a letter. It remained identical under a number of repeated glances. Only when I thought vigorously that such a thing could not possibly be in my room did it disappear. A few scales of ashes, the lower round of the match safe, the metal trimmings of two cigar boxes half-covered by a letter and reflected by the uncertain light breaking through the branches of a tree, were all that the tailor's scissors was composed of. If there had been such a thing in the house, or if I had believed something like it to exist in the house, I should have sought no further and should have taken my oath that I had seen the thing. It is significant that from the moment I understood the phenomenon I could not restore the image of the scissors. How often may similar things be of importance in criminal trials!

The so-called captivation of our visual capacity plays a not unimportant part in distinguishing correct from illusory seeing. In order to see correctly we must look straight and fully at the object. Looking askance gives only an approximate image, and permits the imagination free play. Anybody lost in a brown study who pictures some point in the room across the way with his eyes can easily mistake a fly, which he sees confusedly askance, for a great big bird. Again, the type of a book seems definitely smaller if the eyes are fixed on the point of a lead pencil with a certain distance

before or above the book. And yet again, if you stand so that at an angle of about 90 degrees from the fixation point, you look at a white door in a dark wall, observing its extent in indirect vision, you will find it much higher than in direct vision.

These examples indicate how indirect vision may be corrected by later correct vision, but such correction occurs rarely. We see something indirectly; we find it uninteresting, and do not look at it directly. When it becomes of importance later on, perhaps enters into a criminal case, we think that we have seen the thing as it is, and often swear that "a fly is a big bird."

There are a number of accidents which tend to complete illusion. Suppose that the vision of a fly, which has been seen indirectly and taken for a big bird happens to be synchronous with the shriek of some bird of prey. I combine the two and am convinced that I have seen that bird of prey. This may increase, so much so that we may have series of sense-illusions. I cite the example of the decorative theatrical artist, who can make the most beautiful images with a few, but very characteristic blots. He does it by emphasizing what seems to us characteristic, e. g., of a rose arbor, in such a way that at the distance and under the conditions of illumination of the theatre we imagine we really see a pretty rose arbor. If the scene painter could give definite rules he would help us lawyers a great deal. But he has none, he proceeds according to experience, and is unable to correct whatever mistakes he has committed. If the rose arbor fails to make the right impression, he does not try to improve it—he makes a new one. This may lead to the conclusion that not all people require the same characteristics in order to identify a thing as such, so that if we could set the rose arbor on the stage by itself, only a part of the public would recognize it as properly drawn, the other part would probably not recognize it at all. But if, of an evening, there is a large number of decorations on the stage, the collective public will find the arbor to be very pretty. That will be because the human senses, under certain circumstances, are susceptible to sympathetic induction. In the case of the rose arbor we may assume that the artist has typically represented the necessary characteristics of the arbor for one part of the audience, for another part those of a castle, for another part those of a forest, and for a fourth those of a background. But once an individual finds a single object to be correct, his senses are already sympathetically inductive, i. e., captivated for the correctness of the whole collection, so that the correctness passes from one object to the total

number. Now, this psychic process is most clear in those optical illusions which recently have been much on public exhibition (the Battle of Gravelotte, the Journey of the Austrian Crown Prince in Egypt, etc.). The chief trick of these representations is the presenting of real objects, like stones, wheels, etc., in the foreground in such a way that they fuse unnoticeably with the painted picture. The sense of the spectator rests on the plastic objects, is convinced of their materiality and transfers the idea of this plasticity to the merely pictured. Thus the whole image appears as tri-dimensional.

The decorations of great parks at the beginning of the last century indicate that illumination and excited imagination are not alone in causing such illusions. Weber tells ecstatically of an alley in Schwetzing at the end of which there was a highly illuminated concave wall, painted with a landscape of mountains and water-falls. Everybody took the deception for a reality because the eye was captivated and properly inducted. The artist's procedure must have been psychologically correct and must have counted upon the weakness of our observation and intellection. Exner points to the simple circumstance that we do not want to see that things under certain conditions must terminate. If we draw a straight line and cover an end with a piece of paper, every one wonders that the line is not longer when the paper is removed.

I know of no case in criminal procedure where illusions of this kind might be of importance, but it is conceivable that such illusions enter in numberless instances. This is especially susceptible of observation when we first see some region or object hastily and then observe it more accurately. We are astonished how fundamentally false our first conception was. Part of this falseness may be adduced to faults of memory, but these play little or no part if the time is short and if we are able to recall that the false conception appeared just as soon as we observed the situation in question. The essential reason for false conception is to be found only in the fact that our first hasty view was incorrectly inducted, and hence, led to illusions like those of the theatre. Thus, it is possible to take a board fence covered at points with green moss, for a moss-covered rock, and then to be led by this to see a steep cliff. Certain shadows may so magnify the size of the small window of an inn that we may take it to be as large as that of a sitting room. And if we have seen just one window we think all are of the same form and are convinced that the inn is a mansion. Or again, we see, half-covered, through the woods, a distant pool, and in memory we then see the possibly,

but not necessarily, present river. Or perhaps we see a church spire, and possibly near it the roof of a house rises above the trees; then we are inducted into having seen a village, although there really are visible only the church and the house.

These illusions again, I must repeat, are of no importance if they are at all doubted, for then the truth is ascertained. When, however, they are not doubted and are sworn to, they cause the greatest confusion in trials. A bar-room quarrel, a swung cane, and a red handkerchief on the head, are enough to make people testify to having seen a great brawl with bloody heads. A gnawing rat, a window accidentally left open through the night, and some misplaced, not instantaneously discovered object, are the ingredients of a burglary. A man who sees a rather quick train, hears a shrill blowing of the whistle, and sees a great cloud, may think himself the witness of a wreck. All these phenomena, moreover, reveal us things as we have been in the habit of seeing them. I repeat, here also, that the photographic apparatus, in so far as it does not possess a refracting lens, shows things much more truly than our eye, which is always corrected by our memory. If I permit a man sitting on a chair to be photographed, front view, with his legs crossed and stretched far out, the result is a ludicrous picture because the boots seem immensely larger than the head of the subject. But the photograph is not at fault, for if the subject is kept in the same position and then the apparent size of head and boot are measured, we get accurately the same relation as on the photograph. We know by experience how big a head is. And hence, we ordinarily see all relations of size in proper proportion. But on the photograph we can not apply this "natural" standard because it is not given in nature, and we blame the camera.

If, in a criminal case, we are dealing with a description of size, and it is given as it is known from experience, not as it really appears, then if experience has deceived us, our testimony is also wrong, although we pretend to have testified on the basis of direct sense-perception.

The matter of after-images, probably because of their short duration, is of no criminalistic importance. I did once believe that they might be of considerable influence on the perception of witnesses, but I have not succeeded in discovering a single example in which this influence is perceptible.

On the other hand, the phenomenon of irradiation, the appearance of dark bodies as covered with rays of light by adjacent luminosities,

is of importance. This phenomenon is well-known, as are Helmholtz's and Plateau's explanations of it. But it is not sufficiently applied. One needs only to set a white square upon the blackest possible ground and at the same time a similar black square of equal size on a white ground, and then to place them under a high light, to perceive how much larger the white square appears to be. That such phenomena often occur in nature need not be expounded. Whenever we are dealing with questions of size it is indubitably necessary to consider the color of the object and its environment with respect to its background and to the resulting irradiation.

Section 100. (3) Auditory Illusions.

From the point of view of the criminalist, auditory illusions are hardly less significant than visual illusions, the more so, as incorrect hearing is much more frequent than incorrect seeing. This is due to the greater similarity of tones to each other, and this similarity is due to the fact that sound has only one dimension, while vision involves not only three but also color. Of course, between the booming of cannons and the rustling of wings there are more differences than one, but the most various phenomena of tones may be said to vary only in degree. For purposes of comparison moreover, we can make use only of a class of auditory images on the same plane, e. g., human voices, etc. Real acoustic illusions are closely connected with auditory misapprehension and a distinction between these two can not be rigorously drawn. A misapprehension may, as a rule, be indicated by almost any external condition, like the relations of pitch, echo, repetition, false coincidence of waves of sound, etc. Under such circumstances there may arise real illusions.

The study of auditory illusions is rendered especially difficult by the rarity of their repetition, which makes it impossible reliably to exclude accidents and mistakes in observation. Only two phenomena are susceptible of accurate and sufficient study. For three summers a man used to ride through the long street in which I live. The man used to sell ice and would announce himself by crying out, "Frozen," with the accent on the Fro. This word was distinctly audible, but if the man came to a definite place in the street, there were also audible the words "Oh, my." If he rode on further the expression became confused and gradually turned into the correct, "Frozen." I observed this daily, got a number of others to do so, without telling them of the illusion, but each heard

the same thing in spite of the distinct difference between "frozen," and "oh, my."

I made a similar observation at a bicycle school. As is known, beginners are able frequently to ride by themselves but need help in mounting and dismounting their machines. To do so they call a teacher by crying out: "Herr Maier." At a certain place this sound would seem distinctly to be "mamma." I was at first much surprised to hear people of advanced age cry cheerfully, "mamma." Later I discovered what the word really was and acquaintances whose attention I called to the matter confirmed my observation. Such things are not indifferent, they show that really very different sounds may be mistaken for one another, that the test of misunderstandings may often lead to false results, since only during the test of an illusion are both auditor and speaker accurately in the same position as before. Finally, these things show that the whole business of correcting some false auditions is very difficult. Yet this work of correction may be assumed to be much more easy with respect to hearing than with respect to seeing. If, e. g., it is asserted that the revolver has been seen somewhere, and if it has been known that the sight was impossible, it becomes just as impossible, almost, to determine what the object seen really was. In the rarest cases only will it be something altogether similar, e. g., a pistol; most of the time it will be an object which could not be inferred from no matter what combinations. In hearing, on the contrary, if once it is determined that there has been a false audition, the work of placing it, though difficult, need not be unprofitable. This work is often compulsory upon the criminalist who receives protocols which have not been read aloud, and in which mistakes of hearing and dictation have been made. Such mistakes are considerably disturbing, and if the case is important their source and status must be inferred. This may almost always be done. Of course, strange, badly heard proper names can not be corrected, but other things can.

As regards the general treatment of auditory illusions, it is necessary, first of all, to consider their many and significant differences. In the first place, there are the varieties of good hearing. That normal and abnormal hearers vary in degree of power is well known. There are also several special conditions, causing, e. g., the so called hyper-auditive who hear more acutely than normal people. Of course, such assertions as those which cite people who can hear the noise of sulphur rubbed on the poles of quartz crystals and so on are incorrect, but it is certain that a little attention will reveal a

surprising number of people whose hearing is far acuter than that of normal individuals. Apart from children, the class is made up of musicians, of young girls, and of very nervous, excitable, and sickly persons. The musicians in fact have become so because of their ears; the young girls hear well largely because of their delicate organization and the very fine construction of their ears; and the nervous people because of their sensibility to the pain involved in loud noises. Many differences of perception among witnesses are to be explained by differences of audition, and the reality of apparent impossibilities in hearing must not be denied but must be tested under proper conditions. One of these conditions is location. The difference between hearing things in the noisy day and in the quiet night, in the roar of the city, or in the quiet of the mountains, is familiar. The influence of resonance and pitch, echo and absorption of tones, i. e., the location of the sound, is of great importance. Finally, it must not be forgotten that people's ability to hear varies with the weather. Colds reduce the power, and not a few people are influenced by temperature, atmospheric pressure, etc. These considerations show the degree in which auditory illusions can be of importance even in tests of their nature and existence. They show above all that the same object of comparison under the same circumstances must be used in every test. Otherwise much confusion inevitably results.

The presence of auditory illusions in diseases, fever, hysteria, nervousness, alcoholism and its associates, mental disturbances, hyperæmia, diseases of the ear, etc., is well known, but concerns us only as pointing to the necessity of calling in the physician immediately. They have their definite characteristics and rarely leave the layman in doubt of his duty in that direction. The great difficulty comes in dealing with diseases or apparent diseases while it is still impossible to know of their existence, or where the pain is of such character that the layman does not know of its presence and thus has no ground for consulting the doctor. For example, it is well known that a large amount of ear wax in the aural passage may cause all sorts of ringing and sighing in the ear, and may even produce real hallucinations. Yet a person having an abnormal amount of ear wax may be otherwise absolutely sound. How is the need of a physician to be guessed in such a case? Again, the perforation of the drum, especially when it follows a catarrh, may cause a definite auditory illusion with regard to the sound of voices, or the illusion may be effected by the irritation of the skin in the ear passage, or

by anemia, or by a strong carotid pulse and a distention of the bloodvessels, as happens in alcoholism. Many people become abnormally sensitive to sound at the beginning of fevers. Women at the time of their climacterium hear all kinds of voices. Inasmuch as this soon stops, the abnormality and incorrectness of their audition is hard to establish. Childbirth, too, makes a difference. Old, otherwise conscientious midwives claim to have heard unborn children breathe and cry.

Examples of this sort of thing are innumerable and they teach that whenever any questionable assertion is made about a thing heard the doctor must be called in to determine whether the witness heard it under abnormal, though not diseased conditions. Again, merely accidental or habitual general excitability tends to intensify all sounds, and whether the witness under consideration was in such condition can be determined only by the expert physician.

The illusions of hearing which completely normal people are subject to are the most difficult of all. Their number and frequency is variously estimated. The physician has nothing to do with them. The physicist, the acoustician and physiologist do not care about the criminalist's needs in this matter, and we ourselves rarely have time and opportunity to deal with it. As a result our information is very small, and no one can say how much is still undiscovered. One of my friends has called my attention to the fact that when the beats of the clock are counted during sleepiness, one too many is regularly counted. I tested this observation and my experience confirmed it. If, now, we consider how frequently the determination of time makes the whole difference in a criminal case and how easily it is possible to mistake a whole hour, we can get some notion of the importance of this illusion. Its explanation is difficult and it may be merely a single instance of a whole series of unknown auditory illusions resting on the same basis. Another and similar phenomenon is the "double beat of the hammer." If you have an assistant strike the table with a hammer while you hold both ears with your fingers and then open them half a second or a second after the blow, you hear the blow again. And if you open and shut your ears quickly you can hear the blow several times. This is explained through the fact that a number of reflections of the sound occur in the room, and that these are perceivable only by the unfatigued ear. The explanation is unsatisfactory because the experiment is sometimes successful in the open. Taken in itself, this matter seems very theoretical and without practical value. But this kind of action may occur

automatically. It is well known that swallowing closes the Eustachian tubes for a moment, especially if done when lying down. Now, if this occurs during a blow, a shot, etc., the sound must be heard twice. Again, it may easily happen that because of the noise a man wakes up half asleep and, frightened, swallows the collected saliva; then this accident, which in itself seems unimportant, may lead to very significant testimony. Such occurrences are not infrequent.

The intensity of a sound already heard may be of considerable influence. Certain experimenters have indicated the remarkable character of slightly intensive effects of sound. If you hold a watch so far from the ear as to hear it clearly but weakly, the sound decreases until finally it is not heard at all, and after awhile it is again heard, etc. This may lead to hearing distinct sounds made up of many tones, and need not evince any great illusion with regard to the ticking of a watch. But the thing may occur also in connection with more powerful and more distant sounds, e. g., the murmur of a brook, the rush of a train, the pounding in a distant factory. Noises far removed are influenced by reflections of sound, waves of air, etc., and it is possible that all kinds of things may be heard in a completely monotonous noise. This can be easily learned by listening to the soft murmur of a distant brook at night. Given the disposition and supposing the existence of the brook unknown, it is easy to hear in its monotonous murmur, human voices, sighs, shrieks, etc.

Another remarkable observation shows that in the dark very distinct things are heard during the playing of delicate instruments, such as mouth-organs. The humming approaches and withdraws, then it comes on various sides, and finally one has the feeling that the whole room is full of humming and winging insects. And this may go on indefinitely. There is a large collection of reasons for this reduplication of monotonous sounds. Everybody knows the accord of the æolian harp which consists of identical notes, and the melodies which seem to lie in the pounding of the train on the rails. This can become especially clear when one is half asleep. If ever thinking begins to be ousted by slumber, the rhythmic pound begins to dominate consciousness. Then the rhythm gets its appropriate melody which becomes progressively more intense, and if one grows suddenly wide awake one wonders why the clearly-heard music is missing. Similarly, it is often asserted that a row of travelling wild swans make pleasant chords, although each swan is able to utter

only one cry. Difference in distance and alterations in the air cause the chords.

The difficulties in distinguishing the intensity or weakness of a sound are of importance. Fechner learned from the violinist Wasilewski that he observed that a male choir of four hundred voices did not sound essentially louder than one of two hundred. At the same time one clock is not heard at a great distance, a hundred clocks are heard. One locust can not be heard eating; when 1000 eat they are heard; hence each one must make a definite noise.[1] Early authorities have already indicated how difficult it is to distinguish the number of bells ringing together. Even musicians will often take two or three to be five or six.

Certain dispositions make some difference in this respect. The operating physician hears the low groaning of the patient after the operation without having heard his loud cries during the operation. During the operation the physician must not hear anything that is likely to disturb his work, but the low groan has simply borne in upon him. The sleeping mother often is deaf to considerable noise, but wakes up immediately when her child draws a deeper breath than usual. Millers and factory hands, travellers, etc., do not hear the pounding of their various habitual environmental noises, but they perceive the slightest call, and everybody observes the considerable murmur of the world, the sum of all distant noises, only in the silence of the night that misses it.

Illusions of direction of sound are very common. It is said that even animals are subject to them; and everybody knows how few human beings can distinguish the source and direction of street music, a rolling wagon, or a ringing bell. Even when long practice enables one to determine direction with correctness, an accidental event, perhaps the weather, especial sounds, a different grouping of individuals on the street, may result in serious mistakes. I tried to learn to judge from my office-desk whether the ring of the horse-car came from above or below. I succeeded so well that I could not understand how it was difficult not to learn the difference, and yet I failed many a time altogether in judgment. The reason for it I do not know.

All these enumerated circumstances must show how very uncertain all acoustic perceptions are, and how little they may be trusted if they are not carefully tested under similar conditions, and if—what is most important—they are not isolated. We are here led back

to the old principle that every observation is not proof but means of proof, and that it may be trusted only when it is confirmed by many parallel actions which are really consistent. That even after that mistakes are possible, is true, but "after that" is when we have done all that lies within human power.

Section 101. (4) Illusions of Touch.

The high standing of the sense of touch which make it in certain directions even the organ of control of the sense of sight, is well known, and Condillac's historic attempt to derive all the senses from this one is still plausible. If what is seen is to be seen accurately there is automatic resort to the confirmatory aid of the sense of touch, which apprehends what the eye has missed. Hence we find many people touching things, whose vision is not altogether reliable— i. e., people of considerable age, children unpracticed in seeing, an uneducated people who have never learned to see quickly and comprehensively. Moreover, certain things can be determined only by touching, i. e., the fineness of papers, cloth, etc., the sharpness or pointedness of instruments, or the rawness of objects. Even when we pat a dog kindly we do so partly because we want to see whether his skin is as smooth and fine as the eye sees it; moreover, we want to test the visual impression by that of touch.

But important and reliable as the sense of touch is, it is nevertheless not to be trusted when it is the sole instrument of perception. We must never depend on the testimony of a witness based entirely on perceptions by touch, and the statements of a wounded person concerning the time, manner, etc., of his wound are unreliable unless he has also seen what he has felt. We know that most knife and bullet wounds, i. e., the most dangerous ones, are felt, in the first instance, as not very powerful blows. Blows on the extremities are not felt as such, but rather as pain, and blows on the head are regularly estimated in terms of pain, and falsely with regard to their strength. If they were powerful enough to cause unconsciousness they are said to have been very massive, but if they have not had that effect, they will be described by the most honest of witnesses as much more powerful than they actually were. Concerning the location of a wound in the back, in the side, even in the upper arm, the wounded person can give only general indications, and if he correctly indicates the seat of the wound, he has learned it later but did not know it when it occurred. According to Helmholtz,

practically all abdominal sensations are attributed to the anterior abdominal wall. Now such matters become of importance when an individual has suffered several wounds in a brawl or an assault and wants to say certainly that he got wound A when X appeared, wound B when Y struck at him, etc. These assertions are almost all false because the victim is likely to identify the pain of the moment of receiving the wound with its later painfulness. If, for example, an individual has received a rather long but shallow knife wound and a deep stab in the back, the first will cause him very considerable burning sensation, the latter only the feeling of a heavy blow. Later on, at the examination, the cut has healed and is no longer painful; the dangerous stab which may have reached the lung, causes pain and great difficulty in breathing, so that the wounded man assigns the incidence of the stab to the painful sensation of the cut, and conversely.

Various perceptions of victims on receiving a wound are remarkable, and I have persuaded a police surgeon of considerable learning and originality to collect and interpret his great mass of material. It is best done by means of tabulation, accurate description of wounds according to their place, size, form, and significance, the statement of the victim concerning his feeling at the moment of receiving the wound, the consequences of healing, and at the end explanatory observations concerning the reasons for true or incorrect sensations of the victim. As this work is to have only psychological value it is indifferent whether the victim is veracious or not. What we want to know is what people say about their perception. The true and the false will distinguish themselves automatically, the material being so rich, and the object will be to compare true subjective feelings with true subjective deeds. Perhaps it may even be possible to draw generalizations and to abstract certain rules.

There are many examples of the fact that uncontrolled touch leads to false perceptions. Modern psychophysics has pointed to a large group of false perceptions due to illusions of pressure, stabs, or other contact with the skin. The best known, and criminalistically most important experiments, are those with open compasses. Pressed on the less sensitive parts of the body, the back, the thigh, etc., they are always felt as one, although they are quite far apart. The experiments of Flournoy, again, show how difficult it is to judge weights which are not helped by the eye's appreciation of their form and appearance. Ten objects of various forms were judged by fifty

people for their weight; only one discovered that they all had the same weight.

Similarly, mere touch can not give us proper control over the organs of the body. Sully says that in bed we may voluntarily imagine that a leg has a position quite different from that it really has. Let me cite some similar examples from my "Manual for Investigating Judges." If we take a pea between the thumb and the index finger, we feel the pea simply, although its tactile image comes to us through two fingers, i. e., double. If now we cross the third finger over the fourth and hold the pea between the ends of these two fingers, we feel it to be double because the fingers are not in their customary positions and hence give double results. From one point of view this double feeling is correct, but when we touch the pea naturally, experience helps us to feel only one pea. Another example consists in crossing the hands and turning them inward and upward, so that the left fingers turn to the left and the right fingers to the right. Here the localization of the fingers is totally lost, and if a second person points to one of the fingers without touching it, asking you to lift it, you regularly lift the analogous finger of the other hand. This shows that the tactile sense is not in a very high stage of development, since it needs, when unhelped by long experience, the assistance of the sense of sight. Perceptions through touch alone, therefore, are of small importance; inferences are made on the basis of few and more coarse characteristic impressions.

This is shown by a youthful game we used to play. It consisted of stretching certain harmless things under the table—a soft piece of dough, a peeled, damp potato stuck on a bit of wood, a wet glove filled with sand, the spirally cut rind of a beet, etc. Whoever got one of these objects without seeing it thought he was holding some disgusting thing and threw it away. His sense of touch could present only the dampness, the coldness, and the motion, i. e., the coarsest traits of reptilian life, and the imagination built these up into a reptile and caused the consequent action. Foolish as this game seems, it is criminalistically instructive. It indicates what unbelievable illusions the sense of touch is capable of causing. To this inadequacy of the tactile imagination may be added a sort of transferability of certain touch sensations. For example, if ants are busy near my seat I immediately feel that ants are running about under my clothes, and if I see a wound or hear it described, I often feel pain in the analogous place on my own body. That this may lead to considerable illusion in excitable witnesses is obvious.

Finally, this dependence of the sense of touch may be supplemented by the fact that it is counted only relatively, and its value varies with the individual. We find the cellar warm in winter and cold in summer, because we only feel the difference with the outer air, and when we put one hand in hot, and the other in cold water, and then put both in tepid water one finds the tepid water cold, the other warm. The record of tactile sensations is frequent in our protocols and requires constant consideration of the sense's unreliability.

Diseased conditions are of course to be referred to the physician. I need only mention that slight poisonings by means of chloroform, morphine, atropine, daturine, decrease, and that strychnine increases the sensitivity of the touch organ.

Section 102. (5) Illusions of the Sense of Taste.

Illusions of taste are of importance for us only in cases of poisoning in which we want the assistance of the victim, or desire to taste the poison in question in order to determine its nature. That taste and odor are particularly difficult to get any unanimity about is an old story, and it follows that it is still more difficult clearly to understand possible illusions of these senses. That disease can cause mistaken gustatory impressions is well known. But precedent poisoning may also create illusions. Thus, observation shows that poisoning by rose-santonin (that well-known worm remedy to which children are so abnormally sensitive) causes a long-enduring, bitter taste; sub-cutaneous morphine poisoning causes illusory bitter and sour tastes. Intermittent fevers tend to cause, when there is no attack and the patient feels comparatively well, a large number of metallic, particularly coppery tastes. If this is true it may lead to unjustified suspicions of poisoning, inasmuch as the phenomena of intermittent fever are so various that they can not all be identified.

Imagination makes considerable difference here. Taine tells somewhere of a novelist, who so graphically described the poisoning of his heroine that he felt the taste of arsenic and got indigestion. This may be possible, for perhaps everybody has already learned the great influence of the false idea of the nature of a food. If some salt meat is taken to be a sweet pastry, the taste becomes disgusting because the imaginary and the actual tastes seem to be mixed. The eye has especial influence, and the story cited and denied a hundred times, that in the dark, red wine and white wine, chicken and goose,

can not be distinguished, that the going out of a cigar is not noted, etc., is true. With your eyes closed it may be possible to eat an onion instead of an apple.

Prior tastes may cause significant gustatory illusions. Hence, when assertions are made about tastes, it is always necessary to inquire at the outset what had been eaten or drunk before. Experienced housewives take this fact into consideration in setting their tables and arranging their wines. The values of the wines are considerably raised by complete illusions of taste. All in all, it must not be forgotten that the reliability of the sense of taste can not be estimated too low. The illusions are greatest especially when a thing has been tasted with a preconceived notion of its taste.

Section 103. (6) The Illusions of the Olfactory Sense.

Olfactory illusions are very rare in healthy people and are hence of small importance. They are frequent among the mentally diseased, are connected in most cases with sexual conditions and then are so vivid that the judge can hardly doubt the need of calling in the physician. Certain poisons tend to debauch the olfactory sense. Strychnine, e. g., tends to make it finer, morphine duller. People with weak lungs try, in most cases, to set their difficulty of breathing outside themselves and believe that they are inhaling poisoned air, coal-gas, etc. If one considers in this connection the suspiciousness which many people suffering from lung trouble often exhibit, we may explain many groundless accusations of attempted murder by stifling with poisonous or unbreathable gas. If this typical illusion is unknown to the judge he may find no reason for calling in the physician and then—injustice.

The largest number of olfactory illusions are due to imagination. Carpenter's frequently cited case of the officials who smelled a corpse while a coffin was being dug up, until finally the coffin was found to be empty, has many fellows. I once was making an examination of a case of arson, and on approaching the village noted a characteristic odor which is spread by burned animals or men. When we learned: that the consumed farm lay still an hour's ride from the village, the odor immediately disappeared. Again, on returning home, I thought I heard the voice of a visitor and immediately smelled her characteristic perfume, but she had not been there that day.

Such illusions are to be explained by the fact that many odors are in the air, that they are not very powerfully differentiated and

may hence be turned by means of the imagination into that one which is likely to be most obvious.

The stories told of hyper-sensitives who think they are able to smell the pole of a magnet or the chemicals melted into a glass, belong to this class. That they do so in good faith may be assumed, but to smell through melted glass is impossible. Hence it must be believed that such people have really smelled something somewhere and have given this odor this or that particular location. Something like this occurs when an odor, otherwise found pleasant, suddenly becomes disgusting and unbearable when its source is unknown. However gladly a man may eat sardines in oil he is likely to turn aside when his eyes are closed and an open can of sardines is held under his nose. Many delicate forms of cheese emit disgusting odors so long as it is not known that cheese is the source. The odor that issues from the hands after crabs have been eaten is unbearable; if, however, one bears in mind that the odor is the odor of crabs, it becomes not at all so unpleasant.

Association has much influence. For a long time I disliked to go to a market where flowers, bouquets, wreaths, etc., were kept because I smelled dead human bodies. Finally, I discovered that the odor was due to the fact that I knew most of these flowers to be such as are laid on coffins—are smelled during interment. Again, many people find perfumes good or bad as they like or dislike the person who makes use of them, and the judgment concerning the pleasantness or unpleasantness of an odor is mainly dependent upon the pleasantness or unpleasantness of associative memories. When my son, who is naturally a vegetarian and who could never be moved to eat meat, became a doctor, I thought that he could never be brought to endure the odor of the dissecting room. It did not disturb him in the least, however, and he explained it by saying: "I do not eat what smells like that, and I can not conceive how you can eat anything from the butcher shops where the odor is exactly like that of the dissecting room." What odor is called good or bad, ecstatic or disgusting, is purely a subjective matter and never to be the basis of a universal judgment. Statements by witnesses concerning perceptions of odor are valueless unless otherwise confirmed.

Section 104. (b) Hallucinations and Illusions.

The limits between illusions of sense and hallucinations and illusions proper can in no sense be definitely determined inasmuch

as any phenomena of the one may be applied to the other, and vice versa.[1] Most safely it may be held that the cause of illusions of sense lies in the nature of sense-organs, while the hallucinations and illusions are due to the activity of the brain. The latter are much more likely to fall within the scope of the physician than sense-illusions, but at the same time many of them have to be determined upon by the lawyer, inasmuch as they really occur to normal people or to such whose disease is just beginning so that the physician can not yet reach it. Nevertheless, whenever the lawyer finds himself face to face with a supposed illusion or hallucination he must absolutely call in the physician. For, as rarely as an ordinary illusion of sense is explicable by the rules of logic or psychology, or even by means of other knowledge or experience at the command of any educated man, so, frequently, do processes occur in cases of hallucination and illusion which require, at the very least, the physiological knowledge of the physician. Our activity must hence be limited to the perception of the presence of hallucination or illusion; the rest is matter for the psychiatrist. Small as our concern is, it is important and difficult, for on the one hand we must not appeal to the physician about every stupid fancy or every lie a prisoner utters, and on the other hand we assume a heavy responsibility if we interpret a real hallucination or illusion as a true and real observation. To acquire knowledge of the nature of these things, therefore, can not be rigorously enough recommended.

Hallucination and illusion have been distinguished by the fact that hallucination implies no external object whatever, while in illusion objects are mistaken and misinterpreted. When one thing is taken for another, e. g., an oven for a man, the rustle of the wind for a human song, we have illusion. When no objective existence is perceived, e. g., when a man is seen to enter, a voice is heard, a touch is felt, although nothing whatever has happened, we have hallucination. Illusion is partial, hallucination complete, supplementation of an external object. There is not a correct and definite difference between illusion and hallucination inasmuch as what is present may be so remotely connected with what is perceived that it is no more than a stimulus, and thus illusion may be turned into real hallucination. One authority calls illusion the conception of an actually present external event which is perceived by the peripheral organs in the form of an idea that does not coincide with the

event. The mistake does not lie in the defective activity of the senses so much as in the fact that an apperceptive idea is substituted for the perceptive view. In hallucination every external event is absent, and hence, what is seen is due to a stimulation of the periphery. Some authorities believe hallucination to be caused by cramp of the sensory nerve. Others find illusions to be an externally stimulated sense-perception not corresponding to the stimulus, and still others believe it to be essentially normal. Most human beings are from time to time subject to illusions; indeed, nobody is always sober and intelligent in all his perceptions and convictions. The luminous center of our intelligent perceptions is wrapped in a cloudy half-shadow of illusion.

Sully[2] aims to distinguish the essential nature of illusion from that characterized by ordinary language. Illusion, according to him, is often used to denote mistakes which do not imply untrue perceptions. We say a man has an illusion who thinks too much of himself, or when he tells stories otherwise than as they happen because of a weakness of memory. Illusion is every form of mistake which substitutes any direct self-evident or intuitive knowledge, whether as sense-perception or as any other form.

Nowadays the cause of hallucination and illusion is sought in the over-excitement of the cerebro-spinal system. As this stimulation may be very various in its intensity and significance, from the momentary rush of blood to complete lunacy, so hallucinations and illusions may be insignificant or signs of very serious mental disturbances. When we seek the form of these phenomena, we find that all those psychical events belong to it which have not been purposely performed or lied about. When Brutus sees Cæsar's ghost; Macbeth, Banquo's ghost; Nicholas, his son; these are distinctly hallucinations or illusions of the same kind as those "really and truly" seen by our nurses. The stories of such people have no significance for the criminalist, but if a person has seen an entering thief, an escaping murderer, a bloody corpse, or some similar object of criminal law, and these are hallucinations like classical ghosts, then are we likely to be much deceived. Hoppe[3] enumerates hallucinations of apparently sound (?) people. 1. A priest tired by mental exertion, saw, while he was writing, a boy's head look over his shoulder. If he turned toward it it disappeared, if he resumed writing it reappeared. 2. "A thoroughly intelligent"

man always was seeing a skeleton. 3. Pascal, after a heavy blow, saw a fiery abyss into which he was afraid he would fall. 4. A man who had seen an enormous fire, for a long time afterward saw flames continually. 5. Numerous cases in which criminals, especially murderers, always had their victims before their eyes. 6. Justus Möser saw well-known flowers and geometrical figures very distinctly. 7. Bonnet knows a "healthy" man who saw people, birds, etc., with open eyes. 8. A man got a wound in his left ear and for weeks afterward saw a cat. 9. A woman eighty-eight years old often saw everything covered with flowers,—otherwise she was quite "well."

A part of these stories seems considerably fictitious, a part applies to indubitable pathological cases, and certain of them are confirmed elsewhere. That murderers, particularly women-murderers of children, often see their victims is well known to us criminalists. And for this reason the habit of confining prisoners in a dark cell for twenty-four hours on the anniversary of a crime must be pointed to as refined and thoroughly mediæval cruelty. I have repeatedly heard from people so tortured of the terror of their visions on such days of martyrdom. Cases are told of in which prisoners who were constipated had all kinds of visual and auditory hallucinations and appeared, e. g., to hear in the rustling of their straw, all sorts of words. That isolation predisposes people to such things is as well known as the fact that constipation causes a rush of blood to the head, and hence, nervous excitement. The well-known stories of robbers which are often told us by prisoners are not always the fruit of malicious invention. Probably a not insignificant portion are the result of hallucination.

Hoppe tells of a great group of hallucinations in conditions of waking and half-waking, and asserts that everybody has them and can note them if he gives his attention thereto. This may be an exaggeration, but it is true that a healthy person in any way excited or afraid may hear all kinds of things in the crackling of a fire, etc., and may see all kinds of things, in smoke, in clouds, etc. The movement of portraits and statues is particularly characteristic, especially in dim light, and under unstable emotional conditions. I own a relief by Ghiberti called the "Rise of the Flesh," in which seven femurs dance around a corpse and sing. If, at night, I put out the lamp in my study and the moon falls on the work, the seven femurs dance as lively as may be during the time it takes my eyes to adapt themselves from the lamplight to the moonlight. Something similar

I see on an old carved dresser. The carving is so delicate that in dim light it shows tiny heads and flames after the fashion of the Catholic church pictures of "poor souls," in purgatory. Under certain conditions of illumination the flames flicker, the heads move, and out of the fire the arms raise themselves to the clouds floating above. Now this requires no unusual excitement, simply the weary sensing of evening, when the eyes turn from prolonged uniform reading or writing to something else.[4] It has happened to me from my earliest childhood. High bodily temperature may easily cause hallucinations. Thus, marching soldiers are led to shoot at non-existing animals and apparently-approaching enemies. Uniform and fatiguing mental activity is also a source of hallucination. Fechner says that one day having performed a long experiment with the help of a stop-watch, he heard its beats through the whole evening after. So again when he was studying long series of figures he used to see them at night in the dark so distinctly that he could read them off.

Then there are illusions of touch which may be criminalistically important. A movement of air may be taken for an approaching man. A tight collar or cravat may excite the image of being stifled! Old people frequently have a sandy taste while eating,—when this is told the thought occurs that it may be due to coarsely powdered arsenic, yet it may be merely illusion.

The slightest abnormality makes hallucinations and illusions very easy. Persons who are in great danger have all kinds of hallucinations, particularly of people. In the court of law, when witnesses who have been assaulted testify to having seen people, hallucination may often be the basis of their evidence. Hunger again, or loss of blood, gives rise to the most various hallucinations. Menstruation and hæmorrhoids may be the occasions of definite periodic visions, and great pain may be accompanied by hallucinations which begin with the pain, become more distinct as it increases, and disappear when it ceases.

It might seem that in this matter, also, the results are destructive and that the statements of witnesses are untrue and unreliable. I do not assert that our valuation of these statements shall be checked from all possible directions, but I do say that much of what we have considered as true depends only on illusions in the broad sense of the word and that it is our duty before all things rigorously to test everything that underlies our researches.

Section 105. (C) Imaginative Ideas.

Illusions of sense, hallucinations, and illusions proper taken as a group, differ from imaginative representations because the individual who has them is more or less passive and subject to the thing from which they arise, while with the latter the individual is more active and creates new images by the combination of existing or only imagined conditions. It does not matter whether these consist of the idea only, or whether they are the product of word, manuscript, picture, sculpture, music, etc. We have to deal only with their occurrence and their results. Of course there is no sharp boundary between imaginative ideas and sense-perception, etc. Many phenomena are difficult to classify and even language is uncertain in its usage. The notion "illusion" has indicated many a false ideal, many a product of incoherent fancy.

The activity of the imagination, taken in the ordinary sense, requires analysis first of all. According to Meinong[1] there are two kinds of imaginative images—a generative, and a constructive kind. The first exhibits elements, the second unites them. Thus: I imagine some familiar house, then I reproduce the idea of fire (generative), now I unite these two elements, and imagine the house in question in flames (constructive). This involves several conditions.

The conditions of generation offer no difficulties. The difficulty lies in the constructive aspect of the activity, for we can imagine astonishingly little. We can not imagine ourselves in the fourth dimension, and although we have always had to make use of such quantities, we all have the idea that the quantity A represents, e. g,, a line, A2, a square, A3, a cube, but as soon as we have to say what image A5, A6, etc., represents, our mathematical language is at an end. Even twelve men or a green flame seen through red glass or two people speaking different things can barely be imagined with any clearness. We have the elements but we can not construct their compounds. This difficulty occurs also in the consideration of certain objects. Suppose we are looking at an artistically complete angel; we are always bothered by the idea that his wings are much too small to enable him to fly. If an angel constructed like a man is to be borne by his wings, they must be so gigantic as to be unreproducible by an artist. Indeed a person slightly more grubby,

and interested in anatomy, will bother, at the sight of the most beautiful statue of an angel, concerning the construction of the limbs, the wings, and their relation to the skeleton. In certain directions, therefore, the imagination is too weak to conceive an ethereal being in human form floating in the air. Further, one authority points out that we think more frequently of centaurs than of human beings with serpentine bodies, not because centaurs are more æsthetic but because horses are more massive than serpents. I do not believe this to be the true explanation, for otherwise we should have had to imagine people with canine bodies, inasmuch as we see as many dogs as horses, if not more. But the fact is correct and the explanation may be that we imagine a centaur because of the appropriate size, the implied power, and because it is not a wide leap from a horseman to a centaur. In short, here also we see that the imagination prefers to work where difficulties are fewer. Thus, with the ease of imagining an object there goes its definite possibility. I know an old gentleman in A and another one in B who have never seen each other, but I can easily imagine them together, speaking, playing cards, etc., and only with difficulty can I think of them as quarreling or betting. In the possibility there is always a certain ease, and this is appropriated by the imagination.

It is significant that when others help us and we happen to find pleasure therein, we answer to very difficult demands upon the imagination. In the opera the deviation from reality is so powerful that it seems silly to one unaccustomed to it. But we do not need the unaccustomed person. We need only to imagine the most ordinary scene in an opera, i. e., a declaration of love, sung; an aria declining it; an aria before committing suicide; a singing choir with a moral about this misfortune. Has anything even remotely like it ever been seen in real life? But we accept it quietly and find it beautiful and affecting simply because others perform it without difficulty before our eyes and we are willing to believe it possible.

The rule to be derived from all the foregoing is this. Whenever we believe a statement to be based on imagination, or to have been learned from some imaginative source, we must always connect it with its most proximate neighbors, and step by step seek out its elements and then compound them in the simplest possible form. We may, in this fashion, get perhaps at the proper content of the matter. Of course it need not yield another imaginary image. And its failure to do so would be an objection if the compound were the end of the work and were to be used in itself. But that is not the

case. All that is required is to derive a certain starting-point from the hodge-podge of uncertainties and unintelligibility. When the construction is made it must be compared with all the material at hand and tested by that material. If the two agree, and only when they agree, may it be assumed that the starting-point has been properly chosen. But not to make this construction means to feel around aimlessly, and to give up the job before it has been really begun.

Let us take the simplest possible instance of such a situation. In a bowling alley, two youths, A and B, had a lively quarrel, in which A held the ball in his hand and threatened to throw it at B's head. B, frightened, ran away, A pursued him, after a few steps threw the ball into the grass, caught B, and then gave him an easy blow with the fiat of his hand on the back of his head. B began to wabble, sank to the ground, became unconscious, and showed all the signs of a broken head (unconsciousness, vomiting, distention of the pupils, etc.). All the particular details of the event are unanimously testified to by many witnesses, non-partisan friends of A and B, and among them the parish priest. Simulation is completely excluded inasmuch as B, a simple peasant lad, certainly did not know the symptoms of brain-fever, and could not hope for any damages from the absolutely poor A. Let us now consider what the nearest facts are. The elements of the case are: B sees a heavy ball in A's hand; A threatens B with it and pursues him; B feels a blow on the head. The compounding of these elements results in the invincible assumption on B's part that A had struck him on the head with the ball. The consequence of this imaginative feeling was the development of all the phenomena that would naturally have followed if B had actually been struck on the head.

It would be wrong to say that these cases are so rare as to be useless in practice. We simply do not observe them for the reason that we take much to be real because it is confirmed reliably. More accurate examination would show that many things are merely imaginative. A large portion of the contradictions we meet in our cases is explicable by the fact that one man is the victim of his fancies and the other is not. The great number of such fancies is evinced by the circumstance that there can nowhere be found a chasm or boundary between the simplest fancies of the normal individual and the impossible imaginings of the lunatic. Every man imagines frequently the appearance of an absent friend, of a landscape he has once seen. The painter draws even the features of an absent

model; the practiced chess-master plays games without having the board before him; persons half asleep see the arrival of absentees; persons lost in the wood at night see spirits and ghosts; very nervous people see them at home, and the lunatic sees the most extraordinary and disgusting things—all these are imaginations beginning with the events of the daily life, ending with the visions of diseased humanity. Where is the boundary, where a lacuna?

Here, as in all events of the daily life, the natural development of the extremely abnormal from the ordinary is the incontrovertible evidence for the frequency of these events.

Of course one must not judge by one's self. Whoever does not believe in the devil, and never as a child had an idea of him in mind, will never see him as an illusion. And whoever from the beginning possesses a restricted, inaccessible imagination, can never understand the other fellow who is accompanied by the creatures of his imagination. We observe this hundreds of times. We know that everybody sees a different thing in clouds, smoke, mountain tops, ink blots, coffee stains, etc.; that everybody sees it according to the character and intensity of his imagination, and that whatever seems to be confused and unintelligible is to be explained as determined by the nature of the person who expresses or possesses it.

So in the study of any work of art. Each is the portrayal of some generality in concrete form. The concrete is understood by anybody who knows enough to recognize it. The generality can be discovered only by him who has a similar imagination, and hence each one draws a different generalization from the same work of art. This variety holds also in scientific questions. I remember how three scholars were trying to decipher hieroglyphs, when that branch of archæology was still very young. One read the inscription as a declaration of war by a nomadic tribe, another as the acquisition of a royal bride from a foreign king; and the third as an account of the onions consumed by Jews contributing forced labor. "Scientific" views could hardly of themselves have made such extraordinary differences; only imagination could have driven scholars in such diverse directions.

And how little we can apprehend the imaginations of others or judge them! This is shown by the fact that we can no longer tell whether children who vivify everything in their imagination see their fancies as really alive. It is indubitable that the savage who takes his fetish to be alive, the child that endows its doll with life, would wonder if fetish and doll of themselves showed signs of

vitality—but whether they really take them to be alive is unknown to the adult. And if we can not sympathetically apprehend the views and imaginings of our own youth, how much less possible is it so to apprehend those of other people. We have to add to this fact, moreover, the characteristic circumstance that less powerful effects must be taken into consideration. The power of imagination is much more stimulated by mild, peaceful impressions than by vigorous ones. The latter stun and disquiet the soul, while the former lead it to self-possession. The play of ideas is much more excited by mild tobacco smoke, than by the fiery column of smoking Vesuvius; the murmur of the brook is much more stimulating than the roar of the stormy sea. If the converse were true it would be far easier to observe the effects in others. We see that a great impression is at work, our attention is called to its presence, and we are then easily in the position of observing its effect in others. But the small, insignificant phenomena we observe the less, the less obvious their influence upon the imagination of others appears to be. Such small impressions pass hundreds of times without effect. For once, however, they find a congenial soul, their proper soil, and they begin to ferment. But how and when are we to observe this in others?

We rarely can tell whether a man's imagination is at work or not. Nevertheless, there are innumerable stories of what famous men did when their imagination was at work. Napoleon had to cut things to pieces. Lenau used to scrape holes in the ground. Mozart used to knot and tear table-cloth and napkins. Others used to run around; still others used to smoke, drink, whistle, etc. But not all people have these characteristics, and then we who are to judge the influence of the imagination on a witness or a criminal are certainly not present when the imagination is at work. To get some notion of the matter through witnesses is altogether too unsafe a task. Bain once justly proposed keeping the extremities quiet as a means of conquering anger. Thus it may be definitely discovered whether a man was quite angry at a given instant by finding out whether his hands and feet were quiet at the time, but such indices are not given for the activity of imagination.

Moreover, most people in whom the imagination is quite vigorously at work know nothing about it. Du Bois-Reymond says somewhere, "I've had a few good ideas in my life, and have observed myself when I had them. They came altogether involuntarily, without my ever having thought of them." This I do not believe. His imagination, which was so creative, worked so easily and without

effort that he was not aware of its activity, and moreover, his fundamental ideas were so clear that everything fell into lines spontaneously without his being conscious of it later. This "working" of the imagination is so effortless to fortunate natures that it becomes an ordinary movement. Thus Goethe tells of an imaginary flower which broke into its elements, united again, broke again, and united in another form, etc. His story reveals one of the reasons for the false descriptions of perception. The perception is correct when made, then the imagination causes movements of ideas and the question follows which of the two was more vigorous, the perceptive or the imaginal activity? If the one was intenser, memory was correct; if the other, the recollection was erroneous. It is hence important, from the point of view of the lawyer, to study the nature and intensity of witnesses' imagination.[2] We need only to observe the influence of imaginal movements on powerful minds in order to see clearly what influence even their weak reflection may have on ordinary people. Schopenhauer finds the chief pleasure of every work of art in imagination; and Goethe finds that no man experiences or enjoys anything without becoming productive.

Most instructive is the compilation of imaginative ideas given by Höfler[3] and put together from the experiences of scholars, investigators, artists, and other important persons. For our purposes it would be better to have a number of reliable statements from other people which would show how normal individuals were led astray by their imaginations. We might then learn approximately what imaginative notions might do, and how far their limits extend. Sully calls attention to the fact that Dickens's characters were real to him and that when the novel was completed, its dramatic personæ became personal memories. Perhaps all imaginative people are likely to take their imaginings as actual remembered events and persons. If this happens to a witness, what trouble he may cause us!

A physician, Dr. Hadekamp, said that he used to see the flow of blood before he cut the vein open. Another physician, Dr. Schmeisser, confirms this experience. Such cases are controlled physically, the flow of blood can not be seen before the knife is removed. Yet how often, at least chronologically, do similar mistakes occur when no such control is present? There is the story of a woman who could describe so accurately symptoms which resulted from a swallowed needle, that the physicians were deceived and undertook

operations which only served to show that the woman had merely imagined it all. A similar case is that of a man who believed himself to have swallowed his false teeth. He even had serious feelings of choking which immediately disappeared on the discovery of the teeth under his night-table. A prominent oculist told me that he had once treated for some time a famous scholar because the latter so accurately described a weakening of the retina that the physician, in spite of his objective discoveries, was deceived and learned his mistake only when it appeared that the great scholar fortunately had been made game of by his own imagination. Maudsley tells how Baron von Swieten once saw burst a rotten corpse of a dog, and, for years after, saw the same thing whenever he came to the same place. Many people, Goethe, Newton, Shelley, William Black, and others, were able completely to visualize past images. Fechner tells of a man who claimed voluntarily to excite anywhere on his skin the feeling of pressure, heat, and cold, but not of cut, prick or bruise, because such imaginations tended to endure a long time. There is the story of another man who had a three days' pain in his finger because he had seen his child crush an analogous finger.

Abercrombie tells of an otherwise very excitable person who believed in the reality of the luck that a fortune-teller had predicted for him, and some authorities hold that practically everybody who eagerly awaits a friend hears his step in every sound. Hoppe's observation that pruritus vulvæ excites in imaginative women the illusion of being raped is of considerable importance, and we criminalists must watch for it in certain cases. Lieber tells of a colored preacher who so vividly painted the tortures in hell that he himself could merely cry and grunt for minutes at a time. Müller cites a lady who was permitted to smell from an empty bottle and who regularly lost consciousness when she was told that the bottle contained laughing gas. Women often assert that when about to change their homes they often see the new residence in dreams just as it really appears later on. Then there is a story of a man blind for fourteen years who nevertheless saw the faces of acquaintances and was so troubled thereby that the famous Graefe severed his optic nerve and so released him from his imagination.

Taine describes the splendid scene in which Balzac once told Mad. de Girardin that he intended to give Sandeau a horse. He did not do so, but talked so much about it that he used to ask Sandeau how the horse was. Taine comments that it is clear that the starting point of such an illusion is a voluntary fiction. The person

in question knows it as such in the beginning but forgets it at the end. Such false memories are numerous among barbarous peoples and among raw, untrained, and childish minds. They see a simple fact; the more they think of it the more they see in it; they magnify and decorate it with environing circumstances, and finally, unite all the details into a whole in memory. Then they are unable to distinguish what is true from what is not. Most legends develop in this way. A peasant assured Taine that he saw his sister's soul on the day she died,—though it was really the light of a brandy bottle in the sunset.

In conclusion, I want to cite a case I have already mentioned, which seems to me significant. As student I visited during vacation a village, one of whose young peasant inhabitants had gone to town for the first time in his life. He was my vacation play-mate from earliest childhood, and known to me as absolutely devoted to the truth. When he returned from his visit, he told me of the wonders of the city, the climax of which was the menagerie he had visited. He described what he saw very well, but also said that he had seen a battle between an anaconda and a lion. The serpent swallowed the lion and then many Moors came and killed the serpent. As was immediately to be inferred and as I verified on my return, this battle was to be seen only on the advertising posters which are hung in front of every menagerie. The lad's imagination had been so excited by what he had seen that day that the real and the imagined were thoroughly interfused. How often may this happen to our witnesses!

If the notion of imagination is to be limited to the activity of representation, we must class under it the premonitions and forewarnings which are of influence not only among the uneducated. Inasmuch as reliable observations, not put together a posteriori, are lacking, nothing exact can be said about them. That innumerable assertions and a semi-scientific literature about the matter exists, is generally familiar. And it is undeniable that predictions, premonitions, etc., may be very vivid, and have considerable somatic influence. Thus, prophecy of approaching death, certain threats or knowledge of the fact that an individual's death is being prayed for, etc., may have deadly effect on excited people. The latter superstition especially, has considerable influence. Praying for death, etc., is aboriginal. It has been traced historically into the twelfth century and is made use of today. Twelve years ago I was told of a case in which an old lady was killed because an enemy of hers had the

death-mass read for her. The old lady simply died of fright. In some degree we must pay attention to even such apparently remote questions.

(d) Misunderstandings.
Section 106. (I) Verbal Misunderstandings.[1]

Here too it is not possible to draw an absolutely definite boundary between acoustic illusions and misunderstandings. Verbally we may say that the former occur when the mistake, at least in its main characteristic, is due to the aural mechanism. The latter is intended when there is a mistake in the comprehension of a word or of a sentence. In this case the ear has acted efficiently, but the mind did not know how to handle what had been heard and so supplements it by something else in connection with matter more or less senseless. Hence, misunderstandings are so frequent with foreign words. Compare the singing of immigrant school children, "My can't three teas of tea" for "My country 'tis of thee," or "Pas de lieu Rhone que nous" with "Paddle your own canoe."[3]

The question of misunderstandings, their development and solution, is of great importance legally, since not only witnesses but clerks and secretaries are subject to them. If they are undiscovered they lead to dangerous mistakes, and their discovery causes great trouble in getting at the correct solution.[2] The determination of texts requires not only effort but also psychological knowledge and the capacity of putting one's self in the place of him who has committed the error. To question him may often be impossible because of the distance, and may be useless because he no longer knows what he said or wanted to say. When we consider what a tremendous amount of work classical philologists, etc., have to put into the determination of the proper form of some misspelled word, we can guess how needful it is to have the textual form of a protocol absolutely correct. The innocence or guilt of a human being may depend upon a misspelled syllable. Now, to determine the proper and correct character of the text is as a rule difficult, and in most cases impossible. Whether a witness or the secretary has misunderstood, makes no difference in the nature of the work. Its importance remains unaffected, but in the latter case the examining justice, in so far as he correctly

remembers what he has heard, may avoid error. The mistakes of the secretaries may in any event be reduced to a minimum if all protocols are read immediately, and not by the secretary but by the examining judge himself. If the writer reads them he makes the same mistakes, and only a very intelligent witness will perceive them and call attention to them. Unless it so happens the mistake remains.

I cite a few of the errors that I have observed. From a protocol with the suspect: "On the twelfth of the month I left Marie Tomizil" (instead of, "my domicile"). Instead of "irrelevant,"—"her elephant." Very often words are written in, which the dictator only says by the way; e. g., "come in," "go on," "hurry up," "look out," etc. If such words get into the text at all it is difficult to puzzle out how they got in. How easily and frequently people misunderstand is shown by the oath they take. Hardly a day passes on which at least one witness does not say some absolute nonsense while repeating it.

The discovery of such errors and the substitution of what is correct brings us back to the old rule that the mere study of our own cases can not teach us anything, since the field of view is too narrow, the material too uniform, and the stimulation too light. Other disciplines must be studied and examples from the daily life must be sought. Goethe, in particular, can teach us here. In his little monograph, "Hör-, Schreib-and Druckfehler," he first tells that he had discovered the most curious mistakes in hearing when he reread dictated letters, mistakes which would have caused great difficulty if not immediately looked after. The only means for the solution of these errors is, he says, "to read the matter aloud, get thoroughly into its meaning and repeat the unintelligible word so long that the right one occurs in the flow of speech. Nobody hears all that he knows, nobody is conscious of all that he senses, is able to imagine, or to think. Persons who have never been to school tend to turn into German all Latin and Greek expressions. The same thing happens just as much with words from foreign languages whose pronunciation is unknown to the writer . . . and in dictation it occurs that a hearer sets his inner inclination, passion, and need in the place of the word he has heard, and substitutes for it the name of some loved person, or some much desired good morsel." A better device for the detection of errors than that suggested by Goethe cannot be found, but the protocol or whatever else it may be must be read; otherwise nothing helps. Many mistakes are due, as

Münsterberg points out, to the fact that the word is seen for just an instant, and it is easy to misread a word so seen if some similar word had been heard or seen just before. The most senseless corruptions of text occur often, and it seems extraordinary how they may be overlooked. Andresen points out that the reason for all popular explanations is the consciousness of language which struggles against allowing any name to be an empty sound, and still more, strives to give each term a separate meaning and an indubitable intelligibility. The human mind acts here instinctively and naïvely without any reflection, and is determined by feeling or accident. Then it makes all kinds of transformations of foreign words.

This fits with the analogous observation that a group of Catholic patron saints depend for their character on their names. Santa Clara makes clear vision, St. Lucy sounds like lucida, and is the saint of the blind; St. Mamertus is analogous to mamma, the feminine breast, and is the patron saint of nurses and nursing women. Instructive substitutions are Jack Spear, for Shakespeare, Apolda for Apollo; Great victory at le Mans, for Great victory at Lehmanns; "plaster depot," for "place de Repos."

Andresen warns us against going too far in analysis. Exaggerations are easy, particularly when we want to get at the source of a misunderstanding because of the illegibility of the style. Our task consists, first of all, in getting at the correctness of what has been said or written, otherwise we have nothing whatever to go by. Only when that is quite impossible may we assume misunderstandings and seek them out. The procedure then must be necessarily linguistic and psychological and requires the consultation of experts in both fields. Certain instructive misunderstandings of the most obvious sort occur when the half-educated drop their dialect, or thoroughly educated people alter the dialectical expressions and try to translate them into high German.

It is frequently important to understand the curious transposition in meaning which foreign words get, e. g., commode, fidel, and famos. A commode gentleman means in German, a pliable person; and a fidel lad is not a loyal soul, but a merry, pleasure-seeking one; famos—originally "famous,"—means expensive or pleasant.

It may be not unimportant to understand how names are altered. Thus, I know a man who curiously enough was called Kammerdiener, whose father was an immigrant Italian called Comadina, and I know two old men, brothers, who lived in different parts of the

country, one of whom was called Joseph Waldhauser, the other Leopold Balthasar. In the course of the generation the name had so completely changed that it is impossible to say which is correct. Again, a family bearing the name Theobald is of French origin and used really to be called Du Val. In Steiermark, which had been over-run with Turks two hundred years ago, there are many family names of Turkish origin. Thus Hasenöhrl may come from Hassan Öri; Salata from Saladin; Mullenbock, from Mullei Beg; Sullman from Soliman.

Section 107. (2) Other Misunderstandings.

The quantitative method of modern psychophysics may lead to an exact experimental determination of such false conceptions and misunderstandings as those indicated above, but it is still too young to have any practical value. It is vitiated by the fact that it requires artificial conditions and that the results have reference to artificial conditions. Wundt has tried to simplify apparatus, and to bring experiment into connection with real life. But there is still a far cry from the psychological laboratory to the business of life. With regard to misunderstandings the case is certainly so. Most occur when we do not hear distinctly what another person is saying and supplement it with our own notions. Here the misunderstanding is in no sense linguistic, for words do not receive a false meaning. The misunderstanding lies in the failure to comprehend the sense of what we have heard, and the substitution of incorrect interpretations. Sometimes we may quite understand an orator without having heard every word by simply adding these interpretations, but the correctness of the additions is always questionable, and not only nature and training, but momentary conditions and personal attitude, make a considerable difference. The worst thing about the matter is the fact that nobody is likely to be aware that he has made any interpretations. Yet we do so not only in listening, but in looking. I see on a roof in the distance four white balls about the nature of which I am uncertain. While looking, I observe that one of the balls stretches out head and tail, flaps its wings, etc., and I immediately think, "Oh, those are four pigeons." Now it may be true that they are four pigeons, but what justification had I for such an interpretation and generalization from the action of one pigeon? In this instance, no doubt, it would have been difficult for me to make a mistake, but there are many cases which are not so obvious and where the interpretation is nevertheless made, and then the misunderstanding

is ready to hand. Once my wife and I saw from our seats in the car a chimney-sweep who stood in a railroad station. As he bent over, looking for a lost coin, my very myopic wife cried out, "Look at the beautiful Newfoundland dog." Now this is a conceivable illusion for a short-sighted individual, but on what basis could my good lady interpret what she saw into the judgment that it was a Newfoundland dog, and a beautiful one at that? Taine illustrates a similar process with the story of a child who asked why his mother had put on a white dress. He was told that his mother was going to a party and had to put on her holiday clothes for that purpose. After that, whenever the child saw anybody in holiday attire, green or red or any other color, it cried out,—"Oh, you have a white dress on!" We adults do exactly the same thing. As Meinong says so well, we confuse identity with agreement. This proposition would save us from a great many mistakes and misunderstandings if kept in mind.

How frequently and hastily we build things out is shown by a simple but psychologically important game. Ask anybody at hand how the four and the six look on his watch, and let him draw it. Everybody calmly draws, IV and VI, but if you look at your watch you will find that the four looks so, IIII, and that there is no six. This raises the involuntary question, "Now what do we see when we look at the watch if we do not see the figures?" and the further question, "Do we make such beautiful mistakes with all things?"

I assert that only that has been reliably seen which has been drawn. My father asked my drawing teacher to teach me not to draw but to observe. And my teacher, instead of giving me copies, followed the instruction by giving me first one domino, then two, then three, one upon the other, then a match box, a book, a candlestick, etc. And even today, I know accurately only those objects in the household which I had drawn. Yet frequently we demand of our witnesses minutely accurate descriptions of things they had seen only once, and hastily at that.

And even if the thing has been seen frequently, local and temporal problems may make great difficulties. With regard to the first class of problems, Exner[1] cites the example of his journey from Gmunden to Vienna in which, because of a sharp curve in the road, he saw everything at Lambach reversed, although the whole stretch of road was familiar to him. The railroad trains, the public buildings, the rivers, all the notable places seemed to lie on the wrong side. This

is particularly characteristic if a city is entered, especially at night, through a railroad terminal, and the locomotive is attached to the rear of the train. In the daily life the alteration of objects by locations is familiar. How different a landscape seems at night or in winter, although it has been observed hundreds of times during the day or in summer. It is good to look around frequently on the road, particularly at cross-roads, if the way back is to be kept in mind. Even the starting point may have a disturbing effect on the sense of place. For example, if you have traveled numerous times on the train from A to B, and for once you start your journey from C, which is beyond A, the familiar stretch from A to B looks quite different and may even become unrecognizable. The estimation of time may exercise considerable influence on such and similar local effects. Under most circumstances we tend, as is known, to reduce subjectively great time-spans, and hence, when more time than customary is required by an event, this becomes subjectively smaller, not only for the whole event but also for each of its parts. In this way what formerly seemed to extend through an apparently long period seems now to be compressed into a shorter one. Then everything appears too soon and adds to the foreign aspect of the matter.

The case is similar for time-differences. Uphues[2] cites an example: "If a person has not heard a bell or anything else for some time and then hears it again, the question whether the object existed in the interval does not arise. It is recognized again and that is enough." Certainly it is enough for us, but whether the thing is true, whether really the same phenomena or only similar ones have been noted, is another question rarely asked. If the man or the bell is the same that we now perceive anew, the inference is involuntarily drawn that they must have persisted, but we eliminate altogether the lapse of time and suppose unconsciously that the entity in question must have been on the spot through the whole period. One needs only to observe how quickly witnesses tend to identify objects presented for identification: e. g. knives, letters, purses, etc. To receive for identification and to say yes, is often the work of an instant. The witness argues, quite unconsciously, in this fashion: "I have given the judge only one clew (perhaps different from the one in question), now here again is a clew, hence, it must be the one I gave him." That the matter may have changed, that there has been some confusion, that perhaps

other witnesses have given similar things, is not at all considered. Here again we have to beware of confusing of identities with agreements.

Finally, we must consider fatigue and other conditions of excitation. Everybody knows how things read late at night seem absolute nonsense, and become simple and obvious the next morning. In the same way, we may take a thing to be thus and so while tired in the evening, and in the morning see our notion to be a coarse misunderstanding. Hoppe tells of a hospital interne who became so excited and tired through frequent calls that he heard the tick-tack of his watch as "Oh-doc-tor." A witness who has been subjected to a prolonged and fatiguing examination falls into a similar condition and knows at the end much less than at the beginning. Finally, he altogether misunderstands the questions put to him. The situation becomes still worse when the defendant has been so subjected to examination, and becomes involved, because of fatigue, etc., in the famous "contradictions." If "convincing contradictions" occur at the end of a long examination of a witness or a defendant, it is well to find out how long the examination took. If it took much time the contradictions mean little.

The same phenomena of fatigue may even lead to suspicion of negligence. Doctors, trained nurses, nursery maids, young mothers, etc., who became guilty of "negligence" of invalids and children have, in many instances, merely "misunderstood" because of great fatigue. It is for this reason that the numerous sad cases occur in which machine-tenders, switch-tenders, etc., are punished for negligence. If a man of this class, year after year, serves twenty-three hours, then rests seven hours, then serves twenty-three hours again, etc., he is inevitably overtaken by fatigue and nervous relaxation in which signals, warnings, calls, etc., are simply misunderstood. Statistics tend to show that the largest number of accidents occur at the end of a period of service, i. e., at the time of greatest fatigue. But even if this were not the case some reference must be made to chronic fatigue. If a man gets only seven hours' rest after intense labor, part of the fatigue-elements must have remained. They accumulate in time, finally they summate, and exercise their influence even at the beginning of the service. Socialists complain justly about this matter. The most responsible positions are occupied by chronically fatigued individuals, and when nature extorts her rights we punish the helpless men.

The case is the same with people who have much to do with

money—tax, post, bank, and treasury officials, who are obliged to attend rigorously to monotonous work—the reception and distribution of money, easily grow tired. Men of experience in this profession have assured me that they often, when fatigued, take money, count it, sign a receipt and then—return the money to the person who brought it. Fortunately they recognize their mistake in the astonishment of the receiver. If, however, they do not recognize it, or the receiver is sly enough calmly to walk off with the money, if the sum is great and restitution not easily possible, and if, moreover, the official happens to be in the bad graces of his superiors, he does not have much chance in the prosecution for embezzlement, which is more likely than not to be begun against him.[3] Any affection, any stimulus, any fatigue may tend to make people passive, and hence, less able to defend themselves.

A well known Berlin psychiatrist tells the following story: "When I was still an apprentice in an asylum, I always carried the keys of the cells with me. One day I went to the opera, and had a seat in the parquette. Between the acts I went into the corridor. On returning I made a mistake, and saw before me a door which had the same kind of lock as the cell-doors in the asylum, stuck my hand into my pocket, took out my key—which fitted, and found myself suddenly in a loge. Now would it not be possible in this way, purely by reflex action, to turn into a burglar?" Of course we should hardly believe a known burglar if he were to tell us such a story.

(e) The Lie.
Section 108. (I) I. General Considerations.

In a certain sense a large part of the criminalist's work is nothing more than a battle against lies. He has to discover the truth and must fight the opposite. He meets this opposite at every step. The accused, often one who has confessed completely, many of the witnesses, try to get advantage of him, and frequently he has to struggle with himself when he perceives that he is working in a direction which he can not completely justify. Utterly to vanquish the lie, particularly in our work, is of course, impossible, and to describe its nature exhaustively is to write a natural history of mankind. We must limit ourselves to the consideration of a definite number of means, great and small, which will make our work easier,

will warn us of the presence of deception, and will prevent its playing a part. I have attempted to compile forms of it according to intent, and will here add a few words.[1]

That by the lie is meant the intentional deliverance of a conscious untruth for the purpose of deception is as familiar as the variety of opinion concerning the permissibility of so-called necessary lies, of the pious, of the pedagogic, and the conventional. We have to assume here the standpoint of absolute rigorism, and to say with Kant,[2] "The lie in its mere form is man's crime against his own nature, and is a vice which must make a man disreputable in his own eyes." We can not actually think of a single case in which we find any ground for lying. For we lawyers need have no pedagogical duties, nor are we compelled to teach people manners, and a situation in which we may save ourselves by lying is unthinkable. Of course, we will not speak all we know; indeed, a proper silence is a sign of a good criminalist, but we need never lie. The beginner must especially learn that the "good intention" to serve the case and the so-called excusing "eagerness to do one's duty," by which little lies are sometimes justified, have absolutely no worth. An incidental word as if the accomplice had confessed; an expression intending to convey that you know more than you do; a perversion of some earlier statement of the witness, and similar "permissible tricks," can not be cheaper than the cheapest things. Their use results only in one's own shame, and if they fail, the defense has the advantage. The lost ground can never be regained.[3]

Nor is it permissible to lie by gestures and actions any more than by words. These, indeed, are dangerous, because a movement of the hand, a reaching for the bell, a sudden rising, may be very effective under circumstances. They easily indicate that the judge knows more about the matter than he really does, or suggest that his information is greater, etc. They make the witness or defendant think that the judge is already certain about the nature of the case; that he has resolved upon important measures, and other such things. Now movements of this kind are not recorded, and in case the denial of blame is not serious, a young criminalist allows himself easily to be misled by his desire for efficiency. Even accident may help. When I was examining justice I had to hear the testimony of a rather weak-minded lad, who was suspected of having stolen and hidden a large sum of money. The lad firmly and cleverly denied

his guilt. During the examination a comrade entered who had something official to tell me, and inasmuch as I was in the midst of dictation he wanted to wait until the end of the sentence. Happening to see two swords that had just been brought from a student duel, he took one in his hand and examined the hilt, the point and the blade. The defendant hardly saw this action before he got frightened, raised his hands, ran to the sword-examiner, crying "I confess, I confess! I took the money and hid it in the hollow hickory tree."

This event was rather funny. Another, however, led, I will not say to self-reproach, but to considerable disquiet on my part. A man was suspected of having killed his two small children. As the bodies were not found I undertook a careful search of his home, of the oven, of the cellar, the drains, etc. In the latter we found a great deal of animal entrails, apparently rabbits. As at the time of this discovery I had no notion of where they belonged, I took them, and in the meantime had them preserved in alcohol. The great glass receptacle which contained them stood on my writing table when I had the accused brought in to answer certain questions about one or two suspicious matters we had discovered. He looked anxiously at the glass, and said suddenly, "Since you have got it all, I must confess." Almost reflexly I asked, "Where are the corpses?" and he immediately answered that he had hidden them in the environs of the city, where they were found. Clearly, the glass containing the intestines had led him to the notion that the bodies were found and in part preserved here, and when I asked him where they were he did not observe how illogical the question would be if the bodies had really been found. The whole thing was a matter of accident, but I still have the feeling that the confession was not properly obtained; that I should have thought of the effect of the glass and should have provided against it before the accused was brought before me.

In the daily life such an open procedure is, of course, impossible, and if the circumstances were to be taken for what they seem we should frequently make mistakes. Everybody knows, e. g., how very few happy marriages there are. But how do we know it? Only because the fortune of close observation always indicates that the relation is in no way so happy as one would like it to be. And externally? Has anybody ever seen in even half-educated circles a street quarrel between husband and wife? How well-mannered they are in society, and how little they show their disinclination for

each other. And all this is a lie in word and deed, and when we have to deal with it in a criminal case we judge according to the purely external things that we and others have observed. Social reasons, deference for public opinion which must often be deceived, the feeling of duty toward children, not infrequently compel deception of the world. The number of fortunate marriages is mainly overestimated.[4]

We see the same thing with regard to property, the attitude of parents and children, the relation between superiors and inferiors, even in the condition of health,—conduct in all these cases does not reveal the true state of affairs. One after another, people are fooled, until finally the world believes what it is told and the court hears the belief sworn to as absolute truth. It is, perhaps, not too much to say that we are far more deceived by appearances than by words. Public opinion should least of all impose on us. And yet it is through public opinion that we learn the external relations of the people who come before us. It is called vox populi and is really rot. The phrases, "they say," "everybody knows," "nobody doubts," "as most neighbors agree," and however else these seeds of dishonesty and slander may be designated—all these phrases must disappear from our papers and procedure. They indicate only appearances—only what people wanted to have seen. They do not reveal the real and the hidden. Law too frequently makes normative use of the maxim that the bad world says it and the good one believes it. It even constructs its judgments thereby.

Not infrequently the uttered lies must be supported by actions. It is well-known that we seem merry, angry, or friendly only when we excite these feelings by certain gestures, imitations and physical attitudes. Anger is not easily simulated with an unclenched fist, immovable feet, and uncontracted brow. These gestures are required for the appearance of real anger. And how very real it becomes, and how very real all other emotions become because of the appropriate gestures and actions, is familiar. We learn, hence, that the earnest assertor of his innocence finally begins to believe in it a little, or altogether. And lying witnesses still more frequently begin to hold their assertions to be true. As these people do not show the common marks of the lie their treatment is extraordinarily difficult.

It is, perhaps, right to accuse our age of especial inclination for that far-reaching lie which makes its perpetrator believe in his own

creation. Kiefer[5] cites examples of such "self-deceiving liars." What drives one to despair is the fact that these people are such clever liars that they make a game of the business. It is a piece of luck that these lies, like every lie, betray themselves by the characteristic intensity with which they seek to assume the appearance of truth. This important mark of the lie can not be too clearly indicated. The number and vigor of lies must show that we more frequently fail to think of their possibility than if they did not exist at all. A long time ago I read an apparently simple story which has helped me frequently in my criminalistic work. Karl was dining with his parents and two cousins, and after dinner said at school, "There were fourteen of us at table to-day." "How is it possible?" "Karl has lied again." How frequently does an event seem inexplicable, mysterious, puzzling. But if you think that here perhaps, "Karl has lied again," you may be led to more accurate observation and hence, to the discovery of some hiatus by means of which the whole affair may be cleared up.

But frequently contradictions are still more simply explained by the fact that they are not contradictions, and by the fact that we see them as such through inadequate comprehension of what has been said, and ignorance of the conditions. We often pay too much attention to lies and contradictions. There is the prejudice that the accused is really the criminal, and that moves us to give unjustified reasons for little accidental facts, which lead afterwards to apparent contradictions. This habit is very old.

If we inquire when the lie has least influence on mankind we find it to be under emotional stress, especially during anger, joy, fear, and on the death-bed.[6] We all know of various cases in which a man, angry at the betrayal of an accomplice, happy over approaching release, or terrified by the likelihood of arrest, etc., suddenly declares, "Now I am going to tell the truth." And this is a typical form which introduces the subsequent confession. As a rule the resolution to tell the truth does not last long. If the emotion passes, the confession is regretted, and much thought is given to the withdrawal of a part of the confession. If the protocols concerning the matter are very long this regret is easily observable toward the end.

That it is not easy to lie during intoxication is well known.[7] What

is said on the death-bed may always, especially if the confessor is positively religious, be taken to be true. It is known that under such circumstances the consciousness of even mentally disturbed people and idiots becomes remarkably clear, and very often astonishing illuminations result. If the mind of the dying be already clouded it is never difficult to determine the fact, inasmuch as particularly such confessions are distinguished by the great simplicity and clearness of the very few words used.

Section 109.(2) The Pathoformic lie.

As in many other forms of human expression, there is a stage in the telling of lies where the normal condition has passed and the diseased one has not yet begun. The extreme limit on the one side is the harmless story-teller, the hunter, the tourist, the student, the lieutenant,—all of whom boast a little; on the other side there is the completely insane paralytic who tells about his millions and his monstrous achievements. The characteristic pseudologia phantastica, the lie of advanced hysteria, in which people write anonymous letters and send messages to themselves, to their servants, to high officials and to clergy, in order to cast suspicion on them, are all diseased. The characteristic lie of the epileptics, and perhaps also, the lies of people who are close to the idiocy of old age, mixes up what has been experienced, read and told, and represents it as the experience of the speaker.[1]

Still there is a class of people who can not be shown to be in any sense diseased, and who still lie in such a fashion that they can not be well. The development of such lies may probably be best assigned to progressive habituation. People who commit these falsehoods may be people of talent, and, as Goethe says of himself, may have "desire to fabulate." Most of them are people, I will not say who are desirous of honor, but who are still so endowed that they would be glad to play some grand part and are eager to push their own personality into the foreground. If they do not succeed in the daily life, they try to convince themselves and others by progressively broader stories that they really hold a prominent position. I had and still have opportunity to study accurately several well-developed types of these people. They not only have in common the fact that they lie, they also have common themes. They tell how important

personages asked their advice, sought their company and honored them. They suggest their great influence, are eager to grant their patronage and protection, suggest their great intimacy with persons of high position, exaggerate when they speak of their property, their achievements, and their work, and broadly deny all events in which they are set at a disadvantage. The thing by which they are to be distinguished from ordinary "story-tellers," and which defines what is essentially pathoformic in them, is the fact that they lie without considering that the untrue is discovered immediately, or very soon. Thus they will tell somebody that he has to thank their patronage for this or that, although the person in question knows the case to be absolutely different. Or again, they tell somebody of an achievement of theirs and the man happens to have been closely concerned with that particular work and is able to estimate properly their relation to it. Again they promise things which the auditor knows they can not perform, and they boast of their wealth although at least one auditor knows its amount accurately. If their stories are objected to they have some extraordinarily unskilful explanation, which again indicates the pathoformic character of their minds. Their lies most resemble those of pregnant women, or women lying-in, also that particular form of lie which prostitutes seem typically addicted to, and which are cited by Carlier, Lombroso, Ferrero, as representative of them, and as a professional mark of identification. I also suspect that the essentially pathoformic lie has some relation to sex, perhaps to perversity or impotence, or exaggerated sexual impulse. And I believe that it occurs more frequently than is supposed, although it is easily known in even its slightly developed stages. I once believed that the pathoformic lie was not of great importance in our work, because on the one hand, it is most complete and distinct when it deals with the person of the speaker, and on the other it is so characteristic that it must be recognized without fail by anybody who has had the slightest experience with it. But since, I have noticed that the pathoformic lie plays an enormous part in the work of the criminalist and deserves full consideration.