ion to the contrary--probably expressed
an amused interest in any one talking to himself as he passed him in the
street. And the fact that my friends have never told me of the failing goes
for nothing also. They may think I like to talk to myself. More probably,
they may know that I do not like to hear of my failings. I must watch
myself. But, no, that won't do. I might as well say I would watch my dreams
and keep them in check. How can the conscious state keep an eye on the
unconscious? If I do not know that I am talking how can I stop myself
talking?

Ah, happy thought. I recall occasions when I have talked to myself, and
have been quite conscious of the sound of my voice. They have been remarks
I have made on the golf links, brief, emphatic remarks dealing with the
perversity of golf clubs and the sullen intractability of golf balls. Those
remarks I have heard distinctly, and at the sound of them I have come to
myself with a shock, and have even looked round to see whether the lady in
the red jacket playing at the next hole was likely to have heard me or
(still worse) to have seen me.

I think this is evidence conclusive, for the man who talks to himself
habitually never hears himself. His words are only the echo of his
thoughts, and they correspond so perfectly that, like a chord in music,
there is no dissonance. It was thus with the art student I saw copying a
picture at the Tate Gallery. "Ah, a little more blue," he said, as he
turned from the original to his own canvas, and a little later: "Yes, that
line wants better drawing." Several people stood by watching his work and
smiling at his uttered thoughts. He alone was unconscious that he had
spoken.

There are, it is true, cases in which the conscious and unconscious states
seem to mingle--in which the intentional word and the unintentional come
out almost in the same breath. It was so with Thomas Landseer, the father
of Sir Edwin. He was one day visiting an artist, and inspecting his work.
"Ah, very nice, indeed!" he said to his friend. "Excellent colour;
excellent!" Then, as if all around him had vanished, and he was alone with
himself, he added: "Poor chap, he thinks he can paint!"

And this instance shows that whether the habit is a mental weakness or only
a physical defect it is capable of extremely awkward consequences, as in
the case of the banker who was ruined by unwittingly revealing his secrets
while walking in the street. How is it possible to keep