And here a dreadful thought assails me.  What if I talk to myself, too?  What if, like this man, I get so absorbed in the drama of my own mind that I cannot hear my own tongue going nineteen to the dozen?  It is a disquieting idea.  A strong conviction to the contrary, I see, amounts to nothing.  This man, doubtless, had a strong conviction 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 a secret or conduct a bargain if your tongue is uncontrollable?  What is the use of Jones explaining to his wife that he has been kept late at the office if his tongue goes on to say, entirely without his knowledge or consent, that had he declared “no trumps” in that last hand he would have been in pocket by his evening at the club?  I see horrible visions of domestic complications and public disaster arising from this not uncommon habit.