which Bergson brings forward, we are led to conclude that Memory is
indeed something other than a function of the brain. Criticizing Wundt's
view,[Footnote: As expressed in his Grundzuge der physiologische
psychologie, vol. I., pp. 320-327. See Matter and Memory, p. 164 (Fr. p.
137).]Bergson contends that no trace of an image can remain in the
substance of the brain and no centre of apperception can exist. "There
is not in the brain a region in which memories congeal and accumulate.
The alleged destruction of memories by an injury to the brain is but a
break in the continuous progress by which they actualize
themselves."[Footnote: Matter and Memory, p. 160 (Fr. p. 134).] It is
then futile to ask in what spot past memories are stored. To look for
them in any place would be as meaningless as asking to see traces of the
telephonic message upon the telephone wire.

"Memory," it has been said, "is a faculty which loses nothing and
records everything."[Footnote: Ball, quoted by Rouillard, Les Amnesies,
Paris, 1885, p. 25; Matter and Memory, p. 201 (Fr. p. 168).] This is
only too true, although normally we do not recognize it. But we can
never be sure that we have absolutely forgotten anything. Illness,
producing delirium, may provoke us to speak of things we had thought
were gone beyond recall and which perhaps we even wish were beyond
recall. A somnambulistic state or even a dream may show us memory
extending far further back than we could ordinarily imagine. The facing
of death in battle, we know, recalls to many, with extreme vividness,
scenes of early childhood which they had deemed long since forgotten.
"There is nothing," says Bergson, "more instructive in this regard than
what happens in cases of sudden suffocation--in men drowned or hanged.
The man, when brought to life again, states that he saw in a very short
time all the forgotten events of his life, passing before him with great
rapidity, with their smallest circumstances, and in the very order in