Handicaps of Childhood

V
SELFISHNESS

"JEALOUSY," I stated a few pages back, "has its roots in selfishness, in an over-development of what may be called the ego-centric instinct." Aside from its role as a developer of jealousy, selfishness is indeed one of the major handicaps of childhood. Moralists have long urged on parents the importance of early training to prevent their children from becoming selfish. They have rightly pictured selfishness as among the greatest of human blemishes, giving character an ugly twist and making impossible that harmonious adjustment with other people which is indispensable to individual happiness and social progress. But it is not merely to be condemned from the moralist's point of view: it also is to be condemned from the physician's. Selfishness does much more than injure character: it may even ruin the health of those afflicted with it. To put the matter briefly, training against selfishness is imperative in early life, if only as a safeguard against the functional nervous and mental maladies so common to-day.

When parents fail to teach their children to control their emotions; when they foster in them exaggerated notions of their importance by giving way to the children in everything, being over-solicitous about them, performing duties for them which the children should early be taught to perform for themselves, selfishness is an almost inevitable outgrowth. The children, in addition, may become quite unfitted to cope with the stresses of existence. And they may further become so psychically disorganised that, if after a time they no longer find themselves always having their own way, there may develop nervous symptoms which not merely are the product of an inner emotional storm, but are strangely designed to fulfil the nervous one's latent wish to remain the centre of interest and influence. Or, more bluntly stated, nervous attacks frequently are sheer manifestations of selfishness. It is selfishness that gives rise to them, and, though the victim may not be at all conscious of the fact, they represent an abnormal effort of the personality to attain selfish ends.

This is not theory. It is an established truth, and is demonstrable from the case-histories of many nervous patients, adults and children alike. And, with increasing use of the most advanced methods of mental analysis, the influence of selfishness in causing nervous ailments is certain to become more widely appreciated than it is at present. Not that selfishness is the causal factor in all nervous cases. It would be absurdly false to assert anything of the kind, but the proportion of cases in which it does figure is astonishingly high. Parents need to know this; they need to recognise that failure to curb selfishness during the formative period of childhood may mean nervous wreckage, as well as the distorting of character. In the case of a child of so-called "nervous temperament"—a child, that is to say, who begins life with an unstable nervous organisation by reason of inherited weaknesses—nervous wreckage is almost certain to be the result of neglect to take precautions against the growth of selfishness. The full effects of parental neglect in this regard may not be visible for many years, but frequently they become disconcertingly evident while the child still is young. A case reported to me by a well-known American neurologist and psychopathologist is decidedly to the point in this connection, and may well be given in some detail.

It is the case of a girl of fourteen who was brought to the neurologist because of nervous symptoms which took the form of periods of anxiety and depression, alternating with outbreaks of great irritability. The girl, her mother stated, seemed to have lost interest in everything. At times she would sit mournfully weeping; at others, fall into a passion for no apparent reason. More than once she had declared that she wanted to die. She could not, or would not, give any explanation of this most singular behaviour.

Making a diagnosis of functional, rather than organic, disease, the neurologist resorted to dream-analysis to get at the hidden causes of trouble. At his request, the girl related several dreams, all of which had the noticeable peculiarity that in them the dreamer herself was, to an unusual extent, the dominant figure of the dream-action. Another striking feature of her dreams was that many of them had to do with imaginary experiences of a painful character befalling either the dreamer's father or her brother. Mindful of the theory that dreams are directly or indirectly representative of secret wishes, the neurologist questioned his little patient about her family life. She frankly admitted that she disliked her father, and was not overfond of her brother. She disliked the father—or, as she vehemently said, "hated" him—because he scolded her. Her coldness towards her brother arose from the fact that her mother had fallen into the habit of tactlessly holding him up as a model of good behaviour.

"I love my mother, though," she added, "because she is good to me, and generally lets me do what I want."

Summoning the mother to a private conference, the physician learned that, from early childhood, his patient had been very obstinate and self-willed. Her mother, through mistaken affection, had pampered her. She had literally made herself a slave to the daughter, even to the extent of giving up evening engagements that she might sit by her daughter's bed, gently stroking her head until she fell asleep.

"She cannot sleep unless I do this," said the mother, "and though I have lately tried to discontinue it, I cannot, because she cries and shrieks until I come to her."

To the neurologist the situation was now perfectly clear. The daughter's nervous symptoms were manifestly the not surprising reaction of a personality untrained in emotional control and unexpectedly confronted by a novel and painful state of affairs—the mother's half-hearted attempt to break away from her self-imposed slavery. However, it would hardly do to tell the mother that her early mismanagement of the child was responsible for the neurotic condition which had developed, and that this neurotic condition was, in reality, only a subconsciously originated device to reassert the daughter's waning authority over her mother. What the neurologist did say was:

"Madam, if you want your daughter to get well, you must at once stop this practice of stroking her to sleep. I must ask you to begin to-night. Send your daughter to her room, leave her in bed, shut and lock the door, and let her shriek. This may seem hard and cruel, but it is actually a greater kindness than a continuance of the stroking would be. It is, indeed, a first and necessary step in her cure."

The mother obeyed. For two nights the house resounded with the girl's cries. The third night she went to bed and to sleep without a protest. Then the physician once more sent for the mother.

"You are soon leaving town for the summer, I understand," he said. "What are you going to do with your daughter?"

"Why, take her with us, of course."

"You must do nothing of the sort. Instead, send her to a girls' camp. She needs contact with other girls; she needs the discipline such contact will give her. It is far and away the best medicine she can have. Her recovery depends solely on her developing a new point of view, a mental outlook that will extend beyond herself. This is what a good camp for girls can give her."

The outcome vindicated his words. That fall the nervously depressed girl came back from a summer in camp radiantly happy and with a vastly altered disposition. Since then her parents have had no trouble with her.

Please, however, understand clearly that she was really a sick girl when her mother took her to my neurological friend. It was not simply a question of dealing with a "naughty" girl. The depression, the tears, the attacks of irritability were not deliberately put on to excite sympathy and to play on the mother's affections. This assuredly was their basic purpose, but they were the product of subconscious, not conscious, mental action. They were the resultant of an emotional stress, the responsibility for which rested not with the girl herself but with her mother's unwise treatment of her. If she had become neurotic, it was because her mother had made her so. What she needed, and all she needed, was psychic re-education, and this she obtained through the neurologist's common-sense method of cure.

The fact that such cases are indicative, not of mere naughtiness, but of the action of an inner force operating independently of the victim's conscious volition, will become more apparent when I add that sometimes the symptoms causing medical aid to be invoked are physical instead of mental. In one typical case of this sort a neurologist was summoned to examine a small boy who had been attacked by a peculiar weakness of the legs. To all appearance, he was in perfect bodily health, but when he attempted to walk his legs gave way, and he would fall, unless quickly supported. The most careful testing failed to reveal any organic cause for this condition, and a diagnosis of juvenile hysteria was made. It was learned that the boy's trouble began soon after he had met in the street a badly crippled, semi-paralysed man, whose appearance had evidently made a deep impression on his mind, as he spoke of it, when he got home, in terms partly of astonishment and partly of fear. There could be no doubt that the sight of this man had acted as a "suggestion" to cause the development of a somewhat similar condition in the boy himself. The question remained, why should the mere seeing of a crippled man have sufficient suggestive force to bring on an hysterical crippling? For undoubtedly the boy must have had not a few equally distressing experiences long before this one.

On investigation it turned out that at the time he saw the cripple he was under considerable mental strain. A petted, spoiled child, he had rebelled against being sent to school. He would much rather stay home and play by himself or with his mother. His parents' desires in the matter were as nothing to him: it was what he wanted that was the important thing. For once, though, the parents insisted on being obeyed by their thoroughly selfish boy. He had to go to school, and go to school he did, until the hysterical paralysis set in. This paralysis, of course, was somewhat inconvenient, since it limited his opportunities for play, but it at least had the advantage of keeping him from attending the school that he detested. The boy himself was not in the slightest conscious of the part thus played by selfish wishing in the development of his diseased condition. He was really frightened at finding himself unable to stand and walk. Nevertheless, so strong was his antipathy against school that it was some time before the suggestion of paralysis was broken down by appropriate psychotherapeutic treatment.

Other cases even more extraordinary are recorded in medical annals. One "spoiled child," a little girl not five years old, had a series of convulsive attacks, following the unexpected refusal of her parents to grant a request that involved risk to her if they granted it. After the convulsions she was paralysed in her lower limbs, and the parents, terrified, called in an eminent specialist in nervous diseases. Fortunately, the specialist recognised almost at once that it was a case of hysterical paralysis, brought on by lack of discipline and lack of training in emotional control, and he obtained the parents' permission to isolate the little girl and treat her as he deemed best. His treatment was harsh, but exceedingly effective. For two days he starved the child, then put a bowl of bread and milk some distance from her bed. The suggestion of food was too strong for the suggestion of paralysis. Without further ado, she skipped nimbly out of bed and secured the bowl. But the specialist did not reproach her for being a naughty girl. His reproaches were for the parents, to whom he gave some greatly needed advice as to her future upbringing.

Hysterical pains, contractures, swellings, even hysterical blindness, have been observed in children who, after having been unduly indulged, feel that their father or mother, as the case may be, is no longer as attentive to and lenient with them as they would like. More frequently, under such conditions, the symptoms of nervousness are chiefly mental, or, if physical, are confined to muscular twitchings, slight involuntary movements of the face, head, hands, and similar manifestations. Unhappily, the true significance of these is often overlooked. They are thought to be defects which the child will "outgrow," and in many cases they certainly are outgrown, to all appearance. But, if the moral weaknesses underlying them—the self-centredness, the deficiency in emotional control—are not in the meantime corrected, at any crisis in adult life there is likely to result a nervous breakdown or a serious attack of hysteria. Indeed, in not a few cases of adult hysteria, the causal agency of selfishness is unmistakably in evidence to those accustomed to interpreting nervous symptoms. There are plenty of men and women whose chronic neuroticism is motivated by a subconscious craving to be the centre of attraction, or to be perpetually dominant in the family life. There are other unfortunates who, when their will is seriously crossed, take refuge, like the boys and girls just mentioned, in various forms of nervous disease. The curious experience of a New England physician, Doctor A. Myerson, for some time connected with the Boston Psychopathic Hospital, is by no means as unique as might be thought.

This physician was summoned to attend a woman suffering from what was supposed to be a cerebral hemorrhage. She no longer was able to move her right arm, right leg, or the right side of her face, and had entirely lost the power of speech. For many months previous to the onset of this deplorable condition she had been troubled at irregular intervals by headaches, nausea, and fainting spells. The patient herself and her friends had little doubt that she was in so serious a condition that recovery could not be expected. But Doctor Myerson, making use of the most up-to-date methods of neurological diagnosis, soon was able to reach a reassuring verdict. It was a case, he found, not of organic, but of functional paralysis—in fine, a case of hysteria. And, in the end, by employing what is technically known as the method of "indirect suggestion," he actually re-educated the paralyzed woman both to walk and to talk.

Meantime, he made a searching inquiry to ascertain just why she had been stricken by hysterical paralysis. He discovered, for one thing, that the patient's fainting and vomiting spells and her headaches had usually followed bitter quarrels with her husband—and usually had the effect of placing victory on her side. There was one point, nevertheless, on which the husband was immovable. He was a poor man and could not grant his wife's insistent demand to move to a more expensive neighbourhood. He would not have granted it if he could, for in the particular neighbourhood to which she wished to move she had friends whom he regarded as undesirable. It appeared that the attack of paralysis and speechlessness had been preceded by an exceptionally bitter quarrel over this question of moving—"a quarrel which," to quote from Doctor Myerson's report, "had lasted for a whole day and into the night of the attack."

Thus, the attack itself could be correctly interpreted as the supreme effort of a self-centred, neurotic personality to gain a desired end. But, while making this interpretation, Doctor Myerson was quick to add, in his report on the case, that the attack had not by any means been brought on through the patient's "conscious purpose or volition." It was all an affair of her subconsciousness, working in a blind, abnormal, irrational way to help attain the object of her conscious desire. That her subconsciousness should work so abnormally and so disastrously was chiefly due, beyond any doubt, to the absence of adequate training in self-control and emotional restraint.

But it is not only as a strange, irrational mode of fulfilling a wish that hysteria and other nervous disorders may become manifest in selfish people. Without this element of wishing entering in at all, nervousness is particularly likely to attack the selfish. Many nervous conditions are directly brought on by conscious or subconscious fixing of the thoughts on the bodily processes. We are so constituted that our internal organs work best when we pay no attention to them—or, more strictly, when we pay no attention to the physical sensations to which they give rise while working. If, for any reason, our attention is turned to and held on these sensations, they at once become exaggerated, and the organs giving rise to them tend to function badly. In this way any bodily organ may be disturbed in its action, and general symptoms of nervousness result through nothing but over-attention.

An eminent New York physician, Doctor J. J. Walsh, who has given special thought to this aspect of the problem of nervousness, states the case more fully, as follows:

"If something has particularly attracted a patient's attention to some part of his anatomy, and if his attention is concentrated on it and allowed to dwell long on it, his feelings may be so exaggerated as to tempt him to think that they are connected with some definite pathological condition, and he may even translate them into serious portents of organic disease. If a patient once begins to waste nervous energy on himself because of solicitude with regard to these symptoms, then it will not be long before feelings of tiredness, incapacity for work, at times insomnia and certain disturbances of memory, are likely to be noted. Then the neurasthenic picture seems to be complete.

"This is the process so picturesquely called 'short-circuiting,' by which nervous energy exhausts itself upon the individual himself instead of in the accomplishment of external work. Many of the worst cases of so-called neurasthenia have their origin in this process. It is true that this set of events is much more likely to occur among people of lowered nervous vitality, but, under certain conditions, it may develop in those who are otherwise in good health up to the moment when the attention happened to be particularly called to certain feelings. The physician can start these patients off anew, after improving their physical condition, if he can only bring them to see how much their concentration of mind upon themselves is the cause of their symptoms."[9]

Now, of all people likely to be thus afflicted, the selfish man or woman is by all means the likeliest, simply because his or her every mode of thinking revolves about self. It is the selfish man's wishes, his pleasures, his grievances, his reverses, that are of supreme importance to him. When, moreover, his early upbringing has been such as to leave him sadly short in emotional control, any passing disturbance in the workings of his internal organs may easily hold disastrous consequences for him. He worries over little ailments—as, for example, a slight attack of indigestion—to which people of less self-centred nature would give little or no thought. And, by his persistent worrying and his persistent over-attention to the way his stomach works, it may not be long before he has become a victim of chronic nervous dyspepsia.

Of course, unselfish people who are lacking in emotional control, or carry about with them the unassimilated memory of childhood emotional shocks, may likewise become nervous invalids of one sort or another. But they are much less likely to do this than selfish people are, if only because the unselfish are not so eternally occupied with themselves. They have externalised their thoughts; they have neither time nor inclination to think about trivial aches and pains. Unless overwhelmed by an unexpected emotional shock—for instance, by the sudden death of a beloved relative or by the shock of some great fright—they are likely to go through life comfortably and normally enough. On the other hand, the selfish person is always in danger of becoming morbidly introspective, with resultant damage to the functioning of his nervous system.

Besides all this, there is the important consideration that to be selfish means to be unhappy. Even if actual nervous ailments of a serious sort are escaped by the selfish, unhappiness in the social relations and in the family relations is certain to be experienced. It is my firm belief that, more than any other single cause, selfishness is responsible for misunderstandings and increasing bitterness between husband and wife, ending all too often in a breakdown of the sacred institution of marriage. To deal successfully with that dread problem of to-day—the divorce evil—we must, I submit, first appreciate how basic in marriage failure is the factor of selfishness. To this theme I now invite the attention of my parent-readers, for it is a theme of particular interest to them. If I am correct, it is through education for marriage and, most of all, through education against selfishness that the divorce problem can most surely he solved.

What a problem it is! And a problem that has been steadily growing in seriousness. In the twenty years from 1867 to 1886, according to figures compiled by the United States Census Bureau, 328,716 divorces were granted throughout the country. In the next twenty years—that is, from 1887 to 1906—divorces aggregated the enormous total of 945,625. In other words, in a period of only twenty years nearly two million men and women in the United States had their marriage ties legally severed, the break-up being at the rate of about one hundred and thirty divorces a day.

And this increase has been progressively growing year after year. In 1867 there were only 9,937 divorces for the entire country. In 1906 no fewer than 72,012 divorces were granted. Four years ago an unofficial estimate put the annual divorce crop at nearly one hundred thousand, or, roughly, one hundred divorces for every one hundred thousand of population. The same estimate indicated that one marriage in every twelve ends in divorce.

Nor do these figures afford a complete view of the extent to which marital infelicity obtains in the United States. Every year thousands of marriages virtually, or actually, terminate without recourse to the courts. Men and women who have entered into the marriage state really in love with each other, develop so-called "incompatibilities of temperament" which transform love into indifference, even hate. Reluctant to seek divorce—perhaps conscientiously opposed to it—they continue to live together, husband and wife in name only, or they arrange a voluntary separation. Many others escape from what they have come to regard as an intolerable yoke by the easy expedient of desertion, not necessarily followed by court proceedings. It is impossible to give exact figures, but unquestionably the number of marriages which collapse in divorce is a comparatively small proportion of all unhappy marriages.

Taking the increase in divorce, however, as a concrete, definite measure of marriage failure, the problem of explanation and remedy remains obviously and sufficiently urgent. And it must be said that as a rule the offered solutions are either evasive or superficial.

Some investigators, despairing of finding any solution, insist that the increase in divorce is an unavoidable product of the complex, strenuous life of modern civilisation. Others, much of the same mind, advocate "trial marriages" as a palliative. Still others, singularly lacking in courtesy, or of a myopic vision so far as women are concerned, throw the blame on the "feminist movement," on the increasing emancipation of woman from her old-time position of slavish inferiority. Finally, there are investigators who, noting that the increase in divorce has steadily been gaining momentum since the Civil War, attribute this to the difference in economic conditions before and after the war. In effect, they say that there are more divorces because the country is wealthier, the inference being that increased national prosperity has had an unsettling effect on the national life.

That this contention is sound cannot be gainsaid; but it does not go deep enough. Of itself, it no more explains the increase in divorce than it does the increase in crime and the increase in mental and nervous disease, equally in evidence since the Civil War. These, too, there is warrant for affirming, have increased because of changed economic conditions. It remains, however, to ascertain the precise factor or factors brought into operation by this economic change to account for the growth in crime, insanity, nervous troubles, and divorce. And, in this connection, it is most interesting and important to observe that, so far as concerns crime, insanity, and nervous troubles, recent research has made clear exactly why there has been an increase and how this may best be checked.

It is now recognised that, psychologically speaking, crime, insanity, and nervousness represent an imperfect adaptation to the environment in which the criminal, the lunatic, or the nervous person lives. This failure of adaptation may be due either to inborn lack of capacity to meet the requirements of the environment, or to lack of proper training.

Not so many years ago it was the consensus of scientific opinion that in most cases of crime, insanity and nervousness the victim was hopelessly handicapped from the start by the nature of his being. There was much talk of "inherited criminality," "congenital brain defects," and "neuropathic inheritance." But observation and experiment have compelled an almost complete abandonment of this doctrine of fatal degeneration. To-day scientists largely hold that not more than 1 or 2 per cent. of criminals can be stigmatised as criminals by birth; that insanity is not inheritable, like eye-colour or hair-colour; and that nervousness is, at bottom, an acquired, rather than inherited, disorder.

Accordingly, if crime, insanity, and nervousness are on the increase, it follows that faults of training, rather than innate and unescapable tendencies, are the responsible factors. More specifically, crime, insanity, and nervousness have increased because no adequate effort has been made, by appropriate training, to fit the individual to withstand the extra strain put upon him by the economic changes of the past half century.

Still further, modern scientific research has discovered the specific training fault which, more than anything else, accounts for the failure in adaptation. Stated briefly, this fault consists in neglect to develop moral and emotional control during the first years of life.

In the case of criminality it has been proved, by repeated experiment tried on a large scale,[10] that even the descendants of a long line of criminals, if carefully trained in early childhood, will lead upright lives. In the case of insanity, the discovery that the three principal causes of mental disease are excessive indulgence in alcohol, sexual indiscretions, and emotional stress, points directly to the importance of training, aimed at the development of moral control. But most impressive, as emphasising the need for beginning this training at an early age, is the evidence accumulated in the case of those functional maladies, hysteria, neurasthenia, and psychasthenia—evidence which we have already discussed in much detail in these pages.

Study the history of every case of "nervous breakdown," of psychasthenic fear, of hysterical anxiety and disabilities, of neurasthenic aches and pains, and there will always be found a background of emotional intensity and self-centredness, persisting from early childhood. Hence, the demand of the modern neurologist and medical psychologist for training in youth that will foster control of the emotions and that will habituate the individual to forget self in useful activities. "The mind occupied with external interests will have neither time nor inclination to feed upon itself."

If, therefore, the one sure check to the increase in crime, insanity, and nervous disorders is moral training in early life, can it be doubted that the same process offers the strongest means of checking the tendency to flood the divorce courts?

Ninety-nine divorces out of every hundred, it is safe to say, result from errors of thinking and living—errors directly traceable to shortcomings in early training. Selfishness and lack of control—these, I insist, are the usual elements out of which divorces grow. And what are these but bad habits, for which good habits might have been substituted had proper precautions been taken by the parents in the plastic, formative period of youth? Even in respect to the sexual phase of marriage—that phase in which so many marriages come to grief—the trouble, when trouble occurs, may, in most cases, be wholly attributed to parental thoughtlessness or ignorance. On the sexual side, as on all sides of married life, the great need is for education for marriage.

It is not my intention here to go into details. It must suffice to say that investigation has shown that the sexual impulse begins to manifest itself in sundry ways far earlier than most parents appreciate, and that unless care is taken to observe and offset eccentricities of behaviour possibly containing a sexual element, permanent harm may result.

For example, there often is a sexual element in the cruelty with which not a few children treat play-fellows or household pets. The exaggerated affection little boys sometimes display for their mothers, and little girls for their fathers, is to-day likewise regarded by many medical psychologists as a sexual signal calling for educational measures to insure a more even distribution of affection for both parents. These same psychologists insist that at the first obvious signs of interest in sexual matters—as when the child begins to ask questions about his origin—he should be given frank, if tactful, elementary instruction in the facts of sex. Recall the quotation previously made from Havelock Ellis in this connection. Evasive or untruthful answers will not do. They only fix the attention more strongly on the subject, and from this fixing of the attention a dangerously morbid interest in things sexual may develop.

Clearly, parents who would do their full duty by their children have no easy task before them. Yet everything combines to show that unless they make a business of parenthood—and, in especial, unless, by direct instruction and the force of good example, they develop in their children the virtues of self-control and self-forgetfulness—the after lives of those children, when themselves married, will be anything but happy, and may, in addition, be lives marred by some form of serious nervous or mental disturbance.

BASHFULNESS AND INDECISION

VI
BASHFULNESS AND INDECISION

"I have come," was the hesitating, almost stammering, reply, "in the hope that you can cure me of my bashfulness."

"Your bashfulness?" repeated the physician, with a quizzical, but kindly, smile. "Is that all that troubles you?"

"It is enough," answered the other, vehemently. "Doctor, it has made life a hell for me."

"And for how long have you been bashful?"

"Virtually since childhood. I can positively place its beginnings in my schooldays." His words now flowed swiftly, torrentially. "Long before I left school I noticed that I felt awkward and uneasy when anybody looked directly at me. I found myself blushing, stammering, turning away, unable to look people in the eye.

"After I left school and went to work, matters became much worse. In business I had to meet strangers all the time, and in the presence of strangers I felt absolutely helpless. My bashfulness increased to such an extent that I began to invent excuses to stay away from my work, and to remain at home in a miserable solitude. But this did not do; I had to earn my living. In desperation, I hit on the idea of wearing these black spectacles."

"So that people cannot see your eyes?"

"Exactly. They have helped me wonderfully; intrenched behind them, I feel comparatively safe. But I detest them, and I long to be like other men. Is there no cure for me?"

Bizarre, startlingly unique as this must seem, it, after all, differs only in the single detail of the spectacles from hundreds of other cases which might be cited. All over the world are men and women who suffer agonies from an oppressive, and to them inexplicable, sense of timidity when brought into contact with other people. Many, to be sure, make a brave effort to conceal the true state of affairs, compelling themselves to mingle more or less freely in society, despite the torturing apprehensions they then feel. Others of less stubborn mould either seclude themselves or deliberately choose careers that leave them much in solitude. Sometimes, for that matter, the choosing of such careers is an affair not of choice, but of necessity. A man of thirty-four confided to his physician, Doctor Paul Hartenberg:

"I began life as an assistant to my father in the wholesale liquor business, my work being such that I did not realise my extreme bashfulness. But it was made very clear to me when, owing to my father's failure, I was obliged to seek employment elsewhere.

"I applied for and was given the position of manager in a large café. It was part of my duty to keep order among the employees, and, to my dismay, I found that I was not equal to this. Whenever I had to exert my authority I was strangely embarrassed; I stammered, trembled, and, worst of all, blushed like a girl. The employees, as you may imagine, were not long in perceiving how timid and bashful I was, and affairs rapidly came to such a pass that the owner of the café angrily dismissed me.

"I then became a clerk in a department store. But, alas! my deplorable bashfulness was again my undoing. If a customer looked at me when asking a question or giving an order, I blushed, became so embarrassed that I had to turn away, and, in my confusion, paid no attention to what the customer was saying. If the latter repeated his words I became more disturbed than ever, trembled, perspired, and acted so queerly that people thought I was drunk.

"Again I was dismissed, and again I found employment, this time in a smaller store. The result was the same. Thus I passed from position to position, always descending in the social scale. What do you suppose I am doing at present? I am washing dishes in the cellar of a restaurant. It is not pleasant work, but it at least shelters me from the terrible gaze of strangers."

This, fortunately, is an exceptional case. Yet it is certain that many a man is to-day holding a position far below that for which he really has ability, simply because he is too bashful to assert himself, dreading not so much the increased responsibilities of more remunerative work as the fact that it will bring him more conspicuously and intimately into the view of other people. He feels in his soul, poor fellow, that the result will be to plunge him into unendurable confusion. It is an ordeal too great for him to face, and he clings desperately to the inferior position, which, from his distorted point of view, has the merit of allowing him to go through life unnoticed and, consequently, untroubled.

What, then, is this bashfulness which exerts so widespread and baneful an influence? Whence does it take its rise? And how is its victim to go about the task of overcoming it? These are questions of vital significance, particularly in this age of complex civilisation and strenuous competition, in which the bashful man is at a tremendous disadvantage. Happily, he appreciates this, and resorts with increasing frequency to the physician's office in quest of advice and aid. As a result, far more is known about bashfulness to-day than was ever the case before, albeit in its most important aspects as yet known only to a comparatively small number of psychologically trained physicians.

These physicians recognise that there are two distinct types of bashfulness, the one chronic, the other occasional, both of which represent an abnormal exaggeration of the shyness which is a normal characteristic of nearly every child, and which manifests itself in blushing, fidgeting, hiding the face, etc. Ordinarily, this organic shyness, as the psychologist Baldwin has termed it, disappears between the fifth and seventh year. But it may recur under special conditions, and it is specially likely to recur, as almost everybody knows from experience, under conditions focusing public attention on the person. Under such conditions—being called on unexpectedly to speak in public, taking part for the first time in theatrical performances, and so forth—bashfulness of the occasional type is very much in evidence, its symptoms ranging from tremor, palpitation, and vasomotor disturbances to the paralysis of "stage fright." Neither psychologically nor medically is this type of bashfulness of much importance. As the novelty of the conditions giving rise to it wears off—when, for example, one has become accustomed to public speaking—it usually disappears. Like the organic shyness of childhood, it is merely a product of inexperience, an expression of an instinctive reaction that is possibly "a far-off echo from the dim past, when fear of the unknown was a safeguard in the struggle for existence."

Altogether different is the case with those who are habitually bashful, of whom the world holds many thousands. Here, obviously, some factor or factors other than inexperience must enter to cause the chronic timidity which has the special quality of afflicting its victim only when in the presence of other human beings. This, indeed, is the distinguishing characteristic of bashfulness, as was pointed out long ago by Charles Darwin, in his statement that bashfulness seems to depend on "sensitiveness to the opinion, whether good or bad, of others." Darwin also held—and his view still is the prevailing one—that the sensitiveness of the habitually bashful man relates mostly to external appearances. That is to say, he is bashful because he knows he is awkward, because he is dressed out of style or not in keeping with the special occasion, or because he suffers from some real or fancied bodily defect. To the objection that there are plenty of awkward, badly dressed, and physically deformed men and women who are not at all bashful, the advocates of this theory fall back on heredity as the ultimate determining factor, insisting that it is an inborn weakness which makes the bashful man or woman supersensitive to the opinion of others regarding his or her personal appearance and demeanour.

Now, recent research seems to leave no doubt that heredity does operate to some extent in the causation of bashfulness, since most bashful persons—at any rate, among those who come under the care of physicians—have a strain of the neurotic in their family histories. On the other hand, it has been quite as positively established that the matter of external appearances has a causal relation to bashfulness in comparatively few cases, though it may act as an aggravating element. In case after case the first manifestations of true chronic bashfulness have been traced to a period in life far antedating any anxiety on the person's part respecting the way he walks or dresses or looks. More than this, when the bashful themselves are questioned as to the causes of their bashfulness, they usually either profess entire ignorance, or emphasise mental, rather than physical, factors.

"I attribute my bashfulness to no physical cause," is a characteristic response. "I attribute it to a certain weakness of mind, to my lack of self-confidence, to fear of ridicule, and especially to a nervous excitement which I feel whenever others look at me."

Of course, apart from the doubt which such a response casts on the external appearances theory of bashfulness, and its emphasis on the mental, as opposed to the physical, factor, it really throws scarcely any light on the question of causation. Just as there are many awkward, badly dressed, and deformed people who are not bashful, so there are many modest and sensitive ones who go through life in wholly normal fashion, perhaps untroubled even by bashfulness of the occasional type. Quite evidently there still is an underlying something which has to be taken into account before one can fully understand chronic bashfulness.

That something the modern medical psychologist is beginning to believe he has discovered through proceeding on the assumption that bashfulness is far more than a mere innate weakness or character defect; that it is, in reality, a functional nervous trouble, differing only in degree, not in kind, from hysteria and other psychoneuroses. That is to say, the medical psychologist assumes that, as is now believed to be the case in every psychoneurosis, the bashful man is the victim of subconscious memories of distressing incidents in his early life; incidents which, in his case, have had the effect of arousing in an exaggerated degree sentiments of shame or fear.

The supersensitive child, having seen or heard something that profoundly shocks him, or having committed some petty or really serious fault, feels, on the one hand, that he has a shameful secret he must guard carefully, and, on the other hand, fears that people can read his secret in his eyes. Hence, he develops feelings of awkwardness and embarrassment when others look at and speak to him. He fidgets, blushes, stammers, trembles; in a word, displays all the symptoms indicated by the term bashfulness. In the course of time one of two things will happen: either increased knowledge will reassure him, and he will, as the saying is, outgrow his bashfulness; or the hidden fear and shame—even though the original occasion for them may have completely lapsed from conscious remembrance—will fix themselves firmly in his mind, causing a habit of bashfulness which may torture him all his life.

Whether this new theory as to bashfulness of the chronic type holds good invariably, it is as yet impossible to say. Certainly, it has been verified in an astonishingly large number of cases. Time and again, applying some one of the delicate methods by which they tunnel into the most obscure recesses of the mind, medical psychologists have dragged into the full light of conscious recollection forgotten memories which the victims of bashfulness themselves recognise as connected with the onset of their abnormal timidity. Often their bashfulness completely disappears, or is markedly abated, as soon as the memories responsible for it are recovered. Or, when an immediate cure is not wrought, one is pretty sure to result after an explanation of the evolution of the trouble and the application of appropriate suggestions to develop self-confidence and will power.

To illustrate by citing a few instances from life, let me give first the case of a young New England man, who, as usually happens, did not resort to a physician until his bashfulness had begun to interfere with his earning a livelihood.

"I have not the slightest idea what is the matter with me," he told the neurologist whom he consulted, "but the fact is that for a good many years I have felt strangely timid when meeting people. I believe I am naturally of a courageous disposition—certainly I do not suffer from cowardice in the ordinary sense—but I actually blush and tremble if spoken to suddenly or looked at intently. Lately I notice this has been growing worse."

"Can you tell me," the physician asked, "just when you first noticed that you were bashful?"

"No, I am sorry to say I can't. I only know that it began while I was a boy."

Nevertheless, by the aid of a method of psychoanalysis, or psychological mind-tunnelling, it was ascertained that, subconsciously, he did know exactly when his bashfulness began, and also was well aware of its cause. From among the forgotten, or only vaguely remembered, episodes of his boyhood there emerged, with exceptional vividness, a memory-picture of the time when he first went to work. He recalled with painful intensity the figure of his employer, a stern, cold, hard man, with piercing eyes.

"Those eyes seemed to be on me everywhere I went. They seemed to be watching for the least mistake I might make. I began to wonder what would happen to me if I did make mistakes. Then I began to feel incompetent and to fear that he would notice my incompetency. I grew nervous, awkward, timid. Whenever he spoke to me, I jumped, I blushed, I trembled. After a time I did the same when anybody spoke to me."

"And sometimes you still think of that first employer who frightened you so much?"

"I try not to, but I know I do."

To the neurologist the cause of his patient's bashfulness was now evident. The fear, the anxiety, the over-conscientiousness engendered by the employer's attitude, working in the mind of an ultra-impressionable boy, were quite enough to initiate a habit of abnormal diffidence. Tactfully, the physician made this clear to the patient; earnestly he impressed on him the idea that the unpleasant experience of which he spoke was a thing of the past, and was nothing of which he now need stand in dread; and tirelessly he reiterated the suggestion that the patient had it in his own power to exorcise the demon of bashfulness created by the painful subconscious memory-image of those early days. In the end he had the satisfaction of sending him on his way rejoicing in a perfect cure.

Strikingly different in its inception is a case that came under the observation of Doctor Bechterew. In this instance the patient was a young woman of excellent family and most attractive appearance. The symptom of which she chiefly complained was an abnormal blushing. When with the members of her own family, no less than with strangers, she would, at the least provocation, feel the blood suffusing her face and would turn distressingly red. To avoid this, she kept much to herself, and led a lonely, miserable life.

Questioned by Doctor Bechterew as to the length of time she had been thus afflicted, and any prior occurrences which might have given her a real and urgent reason for embarrassment and blushing, her answers at first were wholly unenlightening. But little by little, probing with the skill of the trained psychological cross-examiner, he drew from her the details of a pathetic experience.

At the age of seventeen, it appeared, she had been thrown much into the company of a married man old enough to be her father. A friendship had sprung up between them, but, on her part, there had certainly been no thought of anything beyond friendship, until one evening at a garden party he asked her to walk with him in a secluded part of the grounds.

"While we were talking together," she confided to Doctor Bechterew, "he suddenly asked me if I cared for him—if I cared enough to leave home and spend the rest of my life with him. His avowal of love shocked and shamed me. I hastily left him and, with burning cheeks, rejoined the other guests.

"As soon as possible, I made my excuses and went home. It seemed to me that my face betrayed my secret. Afterwards I could not speak to or even think of that man without blushing. Now that you have made me recall the circumstance, I feel sure that out of that terrible experience has gradually been developed the habit of bashfulness and blushing which has made life almost unbearable to me."

Contrast with this a third case: the case of a young Jew, robust and alert-looking, a wagon driver by occupation, who applied to the Vanderbilt Clinic in New York City to be treated for what he vaguely termed a "nervous trouble." Referred to Doctor A. A. Brill, already mentioned as a specialist in nervous disorders, he confessed that the malady for which he sought relief was nothing more or less than bashfulness.

"It may seem strange to you," said he, "that a fellow like me should be bashful, but I am so timid when with strangers that I scarcely know what I am doing. I speak and act like a fool; my hands tremble; I trip over things."

"Can you give any reason why you should feel so awkward and embarrassed?"

"Not the slightest. I often have tried to explain it to myself, but all to no purpose. As far as I can tell, it is without a cause."

"Still, it must have a cause, and we will do our best to discover what that is."

Step by step, in the course of several days' investigation by psychoanalysis, Doctor Brill led the patient through the details of his past life. In this way it was definitely ascertained that the bashfulness of which he complained dated from his twelfth year. Delving among the forgotten memories of that early period, Doctor Brill presently unearthed one which the patient, the moment he recalled it, recognised as being coincidental with the beginning of the excessive timidity that had brought him such suffering.

It was the memory of a boyhood escapade that had at the time caused unusual remorse, shame, and fear of discovery. He had fancied that others could read in his eyes what he had done; he became afraid to look at people or to have them look at him. Awkwardness, embarrassment, bashfulness grew apace, and remained characteristic of him even after he had forgotten all about the affair from which they sprang.

Thanks, however, to the recovery of this lost memory-image, and of other subconscious reminiscences which had intensified the feeling of shame, it was now possible for Doctor Brill to institute psychotherapeutic treatment that eventually resulted in a cure. Incidentally, it also resulted in materially improving the young man's position in life. Freed from his bashfulness, he developed unexpected ambition, and eventually became the owner of a well-paying business.

Similarly, boyhood weaknesses and failings, carrying with them profound feelings of shame and apprehension, were found responsible for the bashfulness experienced by Doctor Hartenberg's dish-washing patient and Doctor Bechterew's visitor with the black spectacles.

Always, in truth, the story seems to be the same: there has been in the chronically bashful man's early life some specific shock, fright, or anxiety, which, provoking in a supersensitive mind feelings of extreme embarrassment, has established a bashfulness that may not fully yield to any method of treatment until the remote and usually forgotten cause is recalled to remembrance.

Happily, this requirement is not always necessary. As an eminent medical psychologist once said to me:

"It is my experience that, in many cases, a cure can be brought about simply by developing the patient's will power, either through suggestion in hypnosis, or through psychic re-education in the normal waking state. In such instances, it is enough to explain to the patient that his bashfulness undoubtedly had its origin in some shock which he has forgotten; that while, in the beginning, he may have had reason enough for feeling bashful, that reason has long since been outlived; and that his present bashfulness is actually nothing more than a bad habit, the result of self-suggestion.

"Attacking the problem this way and applying strong counter-suggestion, it frequently is possible to effect a cure without a tedious preliminary ransacking of subconscious memories. When, however, this method fails, psychoanalytic investigation becomes indispensable."

Manifestly of even greater importance than the cure of bashfulness is its prevention. This, on any theory of its causation, and especially on the view here advanced, is primarily a matter resting with parents. The appearance in a growing boy or girl of symptoms of habitual uneasiness and embarrassment when with other children or older persons should be regarded as a reason for real anxiety. Actually, however, as in the case of children who show extreme or persistent jealousy, most parents are inclined to dismiss such symptoms from their minds with the careless remark, "Yes, he's bashful; but that's nothing. He'll outgrow it." Unfortunately, he may not outgrow it without definite aid and guidance.

For one thing, the effort should immediately be made to develop in him interests, whether scholastic or athletic—preferably both—that will take him out of himself. Whatever else may be said of bashfulness, it is always, like selfishness, a sign of excessive preoccupation, conscious or unconscious, with thoughts of self. The bashful boy, no less than the bashful man, is abnormally self-centred. And, besides endeavouring to weaken his extreme egoism, there should be a systematic attempt to cultivate self-control and self-reliance; while, at the same time, his confidence should be tactfully sought, to draw from him a statement as to anything that is particularly perplexing or worrying him, and thereby to gain a vantage point for effectually banishing doubt and anxiety from his mind.

To banish doubt and anxiety from his mind! I am put in remembrance of another serious life handicap, allied to bashfulness in having as a basic element lack of self-reliance and self-confidence, and, like bashfulness, originating in childhood experiences. This handicap is the habit of futile doubting and reasoning, whether about matters of importance or matters of no importance. In some people the habit of futile doubting is so extreme as to amount to a veritable disease. Again, let me make use of an instance from real life to bring out concretely the condition I have in mind.

To a neurologist in the city of Washington there came a man thirty years of age. There was nothing in his appearance to set him apart from other people. He was intelligent-looking, well dressed, well mannered, and he did not seem at all out of health. But this, in effect, is what he said to the neurologist:

"Doctor, I have come to you as a last resort, and if you cannot help me I do not know what I shall do. I am mentally all in pieces. My mind is so weak that I cannot even decide what clothes I ought to put on.

"My indecision shows itself the moment I awake in the morning. I start to get up; then it occurs to me that perhaps I ought not to get up immediately. So I lie down again, wondering just what I ought to do. I am beset by doubts. Not until somebody enters my room and insists on my rising can I bring myself to do so.

"At once a terrible conflict begins within me as to the clothes I should wear. Every article of my clothing has to be carefully considered. It is as if a vital problem had to be solved. Sometimes, after I am dressed, the thought strikes me that my underwear may be too light, or too heavy, or that something else is the matter with it.

"Then I have to undress and put on fresh underwear, which I minutely inspect. Or, perhaps, it is my shirt that troubles me, or the pattern of my neck-tie, or the suit I have put on.

"Always I fear that I have made a mistake in some way. Dressing consequently becomes an endless process to me. Even with help—and I nearly always have to be helped—it is two or three hours before I am finally dressed."

Consider also the case of a morbid doubter who was successfully treated by that well-known New England medical psychologist, Doctor Boris Sidis. In this case, doubting was only one of several disease symptoms. Here, somewhat abridged, is Doctor Sidis's own account of his patient's indulgence in trivial doubts:

"The patient is troubled by a form of folie de doute. He is not sure that the addresses on his letters are correctly written; and, no matter how many times he may read them over, he cannot feel assured that the addresses are correct. Some one else must read them and assure him that they are addressed correctly.

"When he has to write many letters, sometimes a sudden fear gets possession of him that he has interchanged the letters and put them into the wrong envelopes. He has then to tear open the envelopes and look the letters over again and again, to assure himself that they have been put by him into the right envelopes.

"Similarly, in turning out the gas jet, he must needs try it over again and again, and is often forced to get up from bed to try again whether the gas is 'really' shut off. He lights the gas, then tests the gas jet with a lighted match, to see whether the gas leaks and is 'really' completely shut off.

"In closing the door of his room, he must try the lock over and over again. He locks the door, and then unlocks it again, then locks it once more. Still, he is not sure. He then must shake it violently, so as to get the full assurance that the door has been actually and 'really' locked."[11]

This second illustrative instance brings out vividly a fact that deserves to be emphasised—the fact, namely, that, at bottom, these doubting manias are only exaggerations of a phenomenon of common occurrence. There are times when virtually everybody is tormented by doubts regarding matters that ought not to cause any indecision or perplexity. Moreover, while comparatively few people feel the need of going to a physician to be cured of abnormal doubting, there are many others who might advantageously seek the specialist's aid. People are often blind to their great weakness in this respect, though their friends may see clearly that their vacillation with regard to things great or small constitutes a defect that of itself accounts amply for their inability to make headway in the world and rise above mediocrity.

Like the Washington neurologist's patient, if in less degree, there are people to whom the choice of clothing presents a prodigious problem. To others, the choice of foods is a never-ending puzzle. At every meal they find themselves sadly at a loss to decide what they shall eat. Others, again, acting in much the fashion of the young man treated by Doctor Sidis, conjure up visions of possible mistakes and mishaps in connection with the writing and mailing of letters, the opening or shutting of doors and windows, the carrying of umbrellas, etc. Also, there are doubters of a kind well described by an observant physician:

"There are people who doubt whether their friends really think anything of them. They think that, though they treat them courteously, this may be only common politeness, and that they may really resent their wasting their time when they call on them. They hesitate to ask these people to do things for them, though, over and over again, the friends may have shown their willingness, and, above all, by asking favours of them in turn, may have shown that they were quite willing to put themselves under obligations.

"They doubt about their charities. They wonder whether they may really not be doing more harm than good, though they have investigated the cases, or have had them investigated, and the objects of their charity may have been proved to be quite deserving. They hesitate about the acquisition of new friends, and doubt whether they should give them any confidence, and whether the confidences they have received from them are not really baits."[12]

Here, decidedly, we have a state of affairs not only breeding unhappiness, but involving a vast waste of nervous energy. This it is that chiefly makes the yielding to trivial doubts a menace to human welfare. To conserve energy for useful purposes, we are so constituted that ordinarily the little acts of everyday life—our rising, dressing, eating, attending to household or business details of a routine character—are done by us automatically. We take it for granted that we do them correctly, and, usually, we so do them. If now and then we make a mistake, we think little about it. Rightly, we regard it as of no account, compared with matters of more importance. Thus we conserve our energy for our life work. Whereas the doubter about trivialities fritters his energy away.

And, now, taking up the question of the causation of this costly habit of doubting about trivialities, let us turn once more to the cases of the two morbid doubters who consulted the Washington and Boston specialists.

In both of these cases, psychological analysis was undertaken to ascertain the causes of the exaggerated tendency to doubt. In both it was found that the patients had been subjected in childhood to conditions almost inevitably productive of a profound distrust of self. This was particularly true in the Washington case. The patient in this case was the only son of parents whose love had led them to be over-solicitous about him. When he was a little fellow they could not bear to have him out of their sight, lest something should happen to him. They had anticipated his wishes, done for him things that he might very well have done for himself; and, when he did attempt to do things for himself, they intervened to help him.

The result was an enfeebling of his consciousness and of his will. The man grew up without initiative. People had always done things for him, had always decided things for him. How could any one expect him to decide anything for himself? It was not that he was naturally weak-minded, weak-willed; it was that his training had engendered in him conditions making for mental confusion and instability of purpose.

Such was the outcome of the neurologist's psychological study of his case. It held the possibilities of a cure, through psychic re-education, having as its starting point the emancipation of this child of thirty from slavish dependence on his parents. And, in the end, after nearly two years of patient effort, a cure was actually effected.

In the second case, distrust of self had been produced in quite another way. This patient's parents had not spoiled him by over-attention. On the opposite, they had not given enough thought to the importance of developing in him emotional control, the need for which was particularly indicated in his early childhood by great dreaminess and sensitiveness of disposition. His special need for training in the control of his emotions was further evinced by the violence of his reactions to happenings of a disturbing nature. Once, for instance, when he unexpectedly met a deformed, paralysed man, he fell to the ground in a faint.

This should have been sufficient warning to his parents that they must make every effort to stiffen his character and to protect him from needless shocks. As a matter of fact, they exposed him to conditions that would have been harmful to any child. During his early years he was thrown much into the company of an old grandfather afflicted with sundry physical and mental ailments, among them the doubting mania in an extreme form. Also, he was allowed to witness the death agonies of several relatives.

All this was bound to leave a lasting imprint on his mind and his nervous system, filling him with vague fears, both as to life in general and, in particular, as to his own ability to live successfully. It was impossible for him to escape the knowledge that he did not endure the difficult and the unpleasant as well as other children did. And, with this knowledge, distrust of self, a sense of inferiority, took firm hold of him.

Nevertheless, he contrived to get along passably until he entered college. He was nervous and a little "queer," but not markedly so. When, however, ever, he found it necessary to study unusually hard for some examinations, a breakdown came. Various disease symptoms, physical and mental, developed in him, including the habit of perpetually fretting and doubting about things of small significance. In his case, that is to say, faulty training in childhood had laid the foundation for a serious psychic weakness, to the full development of which a physical condition—fatigue—had acted as the immediate cause.

In most cases of morbid doubting that have been psychologically analysed, parental mistakes have similarly become apparent. There may be—there usually is—a constitutional tendency to nervous troubles. But the parents have not appreciated this. Or, if they have appreciated it, they have failed to offset it by education especially designed to strengthen the will and inspire self-confidence, and by measures having as their end a sound physical upbuilding. Also, they have failed—and this is of the utmost importance—to externalise the personal interests, so that self-consciousness shall be at a minimum.

This does not mean, however, that the unfavourable results of the parental mistakes cannot be remedied later in life. There is reason to believe that, even in most extreme cases of morbid doubting—except the comparatively few cases where organic brain disease is responsible for the doubting—it is possible to effect a cure. As has been said, both of these patients were cured, and their cases may be regarded as fairly typical of this variety of mental affliction at its worst. Accordingly, when the tendency to trivial doubts is less marked, there is the possibility not only of cure, but of self-cure, provided that the doubter recognises exactly wherein he is deficient.

Self-consciousness, timidity, distrust of self, a conscious or subconscious feeling of inferiority, and often a lack of physical vigour—these are the elements that chiefly contribute to the growth of a tendency to anxiety and indecision about trivial things; these are the weaknesses that specially need to be overcome. As a preliminary measure, the doubter should make it a rule to take exercise daily in the open air, and to see to it that his living and sleeping quarters are kept well ventilated.

Indecision, even in the most energetic of men, is frequently a resultant of deprivation of fresh air. To reach decisions, to settle doubts quickly, a well-nourished brain is indispensable. And no brain can be well nourished unless the blood flowing to it is amply supplied with oxygen. Of all persons, therefore, the habitual doubter is in need of plenty of fresh air and of physical exercise to build up his organism as a whole and increase his powers of resistance to fatigue. For the same reason, he needs an abundance of good food.

Physical upbuilding, moreover, will have the desirable effect of increasing his power of concentrating attention on some serious life interest. This, above everything else, is what the doubter needs to do. He must develop an ardent interest in something worth while—his work, a useful hobby, occupation of some sort. The trivial doubter—the doubter of any kind—is pre-eminently a man or woman devoid of a keen life interest. If a life interest were present, there would be neither time nor inclination to dissipate energy in useless doubting. If you, my reader, recognise in yourself one of the doubting kind, you will appreciate the truth of this. You will admit that you have little enthusiasm for your work, little interest in anything that would keep you from being too occupied with thoughts of self.