The Law of Psychic Phenomena / A working hypothesis for the systematic study of hypnotism, spiritism, mental therapeutics, etc.

by Thomson Jay Hudson

There is one peculiarity, however, pertaining to subjective activity when the life of the individual is in danger, or that of offspring is imperilled, that is not so generally appreciated. In such cases the subjective mind takes prompt possession of the individual, and every act is subjective as long as active exertion is required to preserve the imperilled life. That this is true is shown, first, by the preternatural strength with which the person is endowed under such circumstances; second, by the total absence of fear; and third, by the wonderful presence of mind displayed in the instantaneous adaptation of every means to its proper end, and in doing exactly the right thing at the right time. Comment is often made on the wonderful "presence of mind" displayed by persons in great peril when instantaneous action is required, and there is no time for reflection or reasoning out a plan of action or defence. This presence of mind, so called, is nothing more or less than subjective activity, or, in other words, instinctive action, the objective faculties being in almost complete abeyance for the time being. That this is true is further shown by the fact that a person in imminent and deadly peril will often emerge from the very jaws of death with nerves unshaken, the coolest and most collected person present. This is often mistaken for courage. It has, however, nothing whatever to do with the question of personal bravery. The veriest coward will, under circumstances of unavoidable danger, act with the same coolness, and evince the same presence of mind, as the bravest man. The most timid woman will fight like a demon, and display preternatural strength and courage, for the preservation of her own life or that of her offspring. The action is instinctive. In other words, it is the normal function of the subjective entity.

The condition of the person at such times is akin to, if not identical with, the state of hypnotism or partial hypnotism. It may be that the objective and subjective faculties act at such times in perfect synchronism; but certain it is that every evidence of subjective activity is present, even the phenomenon of anesthesia. This is shown by the fact that at such times the body feels no pain, no matter how severe the injury. The universal testimony of soldiers who have been in battle is to the effect that the time when fear is experienced is just before the action commences. When the first gun is fired, all fear vanishes, and the soldier often performs feats of the most desperate valor and evinces the most reckless courage. If wounded, he feels nothing until the battle is over and all excitement is gone. It is a merciful provision of nature that the nearer we approach death, the less we fear it. This law is universal. It is only in the vigor of youth and manhood that death is looked upon with horror. The aged view its near approach with calm serenity. The convicted murderer, as long as there is hope of pardon, reprieve, escape, or commutation of the death-penalty, evinces the utmost dread of the scaffold; but when the death-penalty is pronounced, and all hope has fled, he often evinces the utmost indifference, welcomes the day of his execution, and marches to the scaffold without a tremor. The newspapers speak with wonder and admiration of his courage, and the universal verdict is that he was a brave man, and "died game." The truth is that the universal law of which we speak, that merciful provision of nature which nerves alike the brave man and the coward, steps in to his defence, his objective senses are benumbed, and he submits to the inevitable change without fear and without pain.

The testimony of Dr. Livingstone is to the same effect. He was once seized by a lion when hunting in the jungles of Africa, and carried some distance, his body between the lion's jaws. When death seemed inevitable, he testifies that all fear left him, and a delicious languor stole over his senses. The grasp of the lion's jaws caused no pain, and he felt fully resigned to his fate. A fortunate shot from the gun of one of his companions released him, and he was rescued.

This, however, is a digression. The main point which it is desired to enforce is, first, that the strongest instinct in mankind is that of self-preservation; and second, that this instinct, this strong desire to preserve the life of the body, constitutes a subjective, or an instinctive, auto-suggestion of such supreme potency that no suggestion from another, nor any objective auto-suggestion, could possibly overcome it. The inevitable conclusion is that suicide is certainly not a crime which can be successfully instigated by means of hypnotism.

Criminal abortion is another of the crimes which, the people are told, can be performed by means of hypnotic suggestion. The inherent absurdity of this statement is almost as great as that suicide can be successfully instigated by such means. It is here that another strong instinct prevails against a suggestion of that character, namely, the desire inherent in the soul of the mother to preserve her offspring. It is possibly true that conception could be prevented by hypnotic suggestion, and it may be true that barrenness is sometimes caused by unconscious auto-suggestion; but a very different state of affairs exists after the fœtus is once formed. The instinctive desire to preserve the life that exists, constitutes an instinctive auto-suggestion which no suggestion from another, nor even the objective auto-suggestion of the mother, could prevail against.

It may be safely set down, therefore, as a fundamental truth of hypnotic science that the auto-suggestion most difficult to overcome is that which originates in the normal action of the subjective mind,—otherwise, instinctive auto-suggestion.

The same line of reasoning applies, though with somewhat diminished force, to the commission of other crimes. We will suppose the most favorable condition possible for procuring the commission of a capital crime; namely, a criminal hypnotist in control of a criminal subject. The disposition of the subject might not stand in the way; there might be no auto-suggestion against the commission of crime in the habits and principles of the life of the subject; and yet the instinct of self-preservation would have its weight and influence in suggesting to him that the commission of a murder would imperil his own life. Such a consideration would operate as potently in the hypnotic condition as it would in the normal state. It would be an instinctive auto-suggestion, just the same as in the case of suicide, although it would operate indirectly in one case, and directly in the other. The deductive reasoning of the subjective mind, as we have seen in preceding chapters, is perfect; and in the case supposed, the subject would instantaneously reason from the proposed crime to its consequences to himself. The same law would operate in preventing the commission of crimes of less magnitude, with a resistance decreased in proportion to the nature of the offence. But it would, in all cases, be a factor of great importance in the prevention of crime; for the subjective mind is ever alert where the safety and well-being of the individual are concerned. This law is universal, and has often been manifested in the most striking manner. Premonitions of impending danger, so often felt and recorded, are manifestations of the constant solicitude of the subjective entity for the welfare of the individual. It is comparatively rare that these subjective impressions are brought above the threshold of consciousness; but this is largely due to the habits of thought of mankind at the present day. Generally such impressions are disregarded, and in this sceptical and materialistic age are often relegated to the domain of superstition. When they are felt and acted upon, they are generally attributed to a supernatural source. The dæmon of Socrates is a strong case in point. He believed himself to have been constantly attended by a familiar spirit, whose voice he could hear, and whose admonitions were always wise. That he did hear voices there can, in the light of modern science, be little doubt. It is noteworthy, however, that the voice was generally one of warning, and that its strongest manifestations were made when his personal safety or his personal well-being was involved. The explanation, in pursuance of the hypothesis under discussion in this book, is not difficult. He was endowed with that rare faculty which, in one way or another, belongs to all men of true genius, and which enabled him to draw from the storehouse of subjective knowledge. In his case the threshold of consciousness was so easily displaced that his subjective mind was able at will to communicate with his objective mind in words audible to his senses. This phenomenon is known to spiritists as clairaudience. As before remarked, this voice was generally one of warning, and was the direct manifestation of that strongest instinct of the human soul,—the instinct of self-preservation.

To this the classical student will doubtless interpose the objection that the dæmon failed to warn the philosopher in the hour of his direst need; it failed to admonish him against that course of conduct which led to inevitable death. Socrates was accustomed to construe the silence of the dæmon as an approval of his conduct; and when the decisive moment arrived when he could have saved himself had he chosen to do so, the divine voice was silent. Only once did it interpose its warning, and that was to prevent him from preparing a speech which might have saved him from the hemlock.

The explanation of this failure may be found in the experience of all mankind. This instinctive clinging to life weakens with advancing years, and appears to cease altogether the moment a man's career of usefulness in life has ended. This is the experience of every-day life. Men grow rich, and in the full vigor of a green old age retire from business, hoping to enjoy many years of rest. The result is, generally, death in a very short time. An old man thrown out of employment, with nothing to hope for in the future, lies down and dies. Another, losing his aged companion, follows within a few days or weeks. Another lives only to see his children married and settled, and when that is accomplished, cheerfully lets go his hold on life. In fact, it seems to be as much an instinct to die, when one's usefulness is ended, as to cling to life as long as there is something to do to contribute to the general welfare.

Socrates was an old man. He had lived a long and useful life, but his career of usefulness was ended; for the authorities of the State had decided that his teachings were impious, and corrupting to youth. Had he lived, it would have been at the price of dishonor, his compensation a miserable old age. Besides, his doctrine that death is not an evil, together with his lofty sentiments regarding the duty of the citizen to the commonwealth,—a duty which he maintained could be performed in his case only by submitting to its decrees and carrying into execution its judgments,—constituted a potential element of auto-suggestion which must be considered in estimating the psychological features of his case. He felt that the principles of his whole life would be violated by any attempt to escape or evade the penalty which had been decreed against him; and he spent his last hours in an effort to convince his friends that the death of the body is not an evil, when life is purchased at the price of dishonor. He felt that the philosophy which it had been the business of his life to teach, could only be vindicated by his death, at the time and in the manner decreed by the State. The supreme moment had arrived; the instinct of death was upon him; and, in philosophical communion with his followers, he calmly drank the hemlock, and died the death of a philosopher.