Lectures XI, XII, and XIII

 

Saintliness

 

THE last lecture left us in a state of expectancy.  What may the practical fruits for life have been, of such movingly happy conversions as those we heard of?  With this question the really important part of our task opens, for you remember that we began all this empirical inquiry not merely to open a curious chapter in the natural history of human consciousness, but rather to attain a spiritual judgment as to the total value and positive meaning of all the religious trouble and happiness which we have seen.  We must, therefore, first describe the fruits of the religious life, and then we must judge them.  This divides our inquiry into two distinct parts.  Let us without further preamble proceed to the descriptive task.

 

It ought to be the pleasantest portion of our business in these lectures.  Some small pieces of it, it is true, may be painful, or may show human nature in a pathetic light, but it will be mainly pleasant, because the best fruits of religious experience are the best things that history has to show.  They have always been esteemed so; here if anywhere is the genuinely strenuous life; and to call to mind a succession of such examples as I have lately had to wander through, though it has been only in the reading of them, is to feel encouraged and uplifted and washed in better moral air.

 

The highest flights of charity, devotion, trust, patience, bravery to which the wings of human nature have spread themselves have been flown for religious ideals.  I can do no better than quote, as to this, some remarks which Sainte-Beuve in his History of Port-Royal makes on the results of conversion or the state of grace.

 

"Even from the purely human point of view," Sainte-Beuve says, "the phenomenon of grace must still appear sufficiently extraordinary, eminent, and rare, both in its nature and in its effects, to deserve a closer study.  For the soul arrives thereby at a certain fixed and invincible state, a state which is genuinely heroic, and from out of which the greatest deeds which it ever performs are executed.  Through all the different forms of communion, and all the diversity of the means which help to produce this state, whether it be reached by a jubilee, by a general confession, by a solitary prayer and effusion, whatever in short to be the place and the occasion, it is easy to recognize that it is fundamentally one state in spirit and fruits.  Penetrate a little beneath the diversity of circumstances, and it becomes evident that in Christians of different epochs it is always one and the same modification by which they are affected:  there is veritably a single fundamental and identical spirit of piety and charity, common to those who have received grace; an inner state which before all things is one of love and humility, of infinite confidence in God, and of severity for one's self, accompanied with tenderness for others.  The fruits peculiar to this condition of the soul have the same savor in all, under distant suns and in different surroundings, in Saint Teresa of Avila just as in any Moravian brother of Herrnhut."[143]

 

[143] Sainte-Beuve:  Port-Royal, vol. i. pp. 95 and 106, abridged.

 

 

 

Sainte-Beuve has here only the more eminent instances of regeneration in mind, and these are of course the instructive ones for us also to consider.  These devotees have often laid their course so differently from other men that, judging them by worldly law, we might be tempted to call them monstrous aberrations from the path of nature.  I begin therefore by asking a general psychological question as to what the inner conditions are which may make one human character differ so extremely from another.

 

 I reply at once that where the character, as something distinguished from the intellect, is concerned, the causes of human diversity lie chiefly in our differing susceptibilities of emotional excitement, and in the different impulses and inhibitions which these bring in their train.  Let me make this more clear.

 

Speaking generally, our moral and practical attitude, at any given time, is always a resultant of two sets of forces within us, impulses pushing us one way and obstructions and inhibitions holding us back.  "Yes! yes!" say the impulses; "No! no!" say the inhibitions.  Few people who have not expressly reflected on the matter realize how constantly this factor of inhibition is upon us, how it contains and moulds us by its restrictive pressure almost as if we were fluids pent within the cavity of a jar.  The influence is so incessant that it becomes subconscious.  All of you, for example, sit here with a certain constraint at this moment, and entirely without express consciousness of the fact, because of the influence of the occasion.  If left alone in the room, each of you would probably involuntarily rearrange himself, and make his attitude more "free and easy."  But proprieties and their inhibitions snap like cobwebs if any great emotional excitement supervenes.  I have seen a dandy appear in the street with his face covered with shaving-lather because a house across the way was on fire; and a woman will run among strangers in her nightgown if it be a question of saving her baby's life or her own.  Take a self-indulgent woman's life in general.  She will yield to every inhibition set by her disagreeable sensations, lie late in bed, live upon tea or bromides, keep indoors from the cold.  Every difficulty finds her obedient to its "no."  But make a mother of her, and what have you?  Possessed by maternal excitement, she now confronts wakefulness, weariness, and toil  without an instant of hesitation or a word of complaint. The inhibitive power of pain over her is extinguished wherever the baby's interests are at stake.  The inconveniences which this creature occasions have become, as James Hinton says, the glowing heart of a great joy, and indeed are now the very conditions whereby the joy becomes most deep.

 

This is an example of what you have already heard of as the "expulsive power of a higher affection."  But be the affection high or low, it makes no difference, so long as the excitement it brings be strong enough.  In one of Henry Drummond's discourses he tells of an inundation in India where an eminence with a bungalow upon it remained unsubmerged, and became the refuge of a number of wild animals and reptiles in addition to the human beings who were there.  At a certain moment a royal Bengal tiger appeared swimming towards it, reached it, and lay panting like a dog upon the ground in the midst of the people, still possessed by such an agony of terror that one of the Englishmen could calmly step up with a rifle and blow out its brains.  The tiger's habitual ferocity was temporarily quelled by the emotion of fear, which became sovereign, and formed a new centre for his character.

 

Sometimes no emotional state is sovereign, but many contrary ones are mixed together.  In that case one hears both "yeses" and "noes," and the "will" is called on then to solve the conflict.  Take a soldier, for example, with his dread of cowardice impelling him to advance, his fears impelling him to run, and his propensities to imitation pushing him towards various courses if his comrades offer various examples.  His person becomes the seat of a mass of interferences; and he may for a time simply waver, because no one emotion prevails.  There is a pitch of intensity, though, which, if any emotion reach it, enthrones that one as alone effective and sweeps its antagonists and all their inhibitions away.  The fury of his comrades' charge, once entered on, will give this pitch of courage to the soldier; the panic of their rout will give this pitch of fear.  In these sovereign excitements, things ordinarily impossible grow natural because the inhibitions are annulled.  Their "no! no!" not only is not heard, it does not exist.  Obstacles are then like tissue-paper hoops to the circus rider--no impediment; the flood is higher than the dam they make.

 

"Lass sie betteln gehn wenn sie hungrig sind!" cries the grenadier, frantic over his Emperor's capture, when his wife and babes are suggested; and men pent into a burning theatre have been known to cut their way through the crowd with knives.[144]

 

[144] "'Love would not be love,' says Bourget, 'unless it could carry one to crime.'  And so one may say that no passion would be a veritable passion unless it could carry one to crime."    (Sighele:  Psychollogie des sectes, p. 136.) In other words, great passions annul the ordinary inhibitions set by "conscience."  And conversely, of all the criminal human beings, the false, cowardly, sensual, or cruel persons who actually live, there is perhaps not one whose criminal impulse may not be at some moment overpowered by the presence of some other emotion to which his character is also potentially liable, provided that other emotion be only made intense enough.  Fear is usually the most available emotion for this result in this particular class of persons.  It stands for conscience, and may here be classed appropriately as a "higher affection."  If we are soon to die, or if we believe a day of judgment to be near at hand, how quickly do we put our moral house in order--we do not see how sin can evermore exert temptation over us! Old-fashioned hell-fire Christianity well knew how to extract from fear its full equivalent in the way of fruits for repentance, and its full conversion value.

 

 

 

One mode of emotional excitability is exceedingly important in the composition of the energetic character, from its peculiarly destructive power over inhibitions.  I mean what in its lower form is mere irascibility, susceptibility to wrath, the fighting temper; and what in subtler ways manifests itself as impatience, grimness, earnestness, severity of character. Earnestness means willingness to live with energy, though energy bring pain.  The pain may be pain to other people or pain to one's self--it makes little difference; for when the strenuous mood is on one, the aim is to break something, no matter whose or what.  Nothing annihilates an inhibition as irresistibly as anger does it; for, as Moltke says of war, destruction pure and simple is its essence.  This is what makes it so invaluable an ally of every other passion.  The sweetest delights are trampled on with a ferocious pleasure the moment they offer themselves as checks to a cause by which our higher indignations are elicited.  It costs then nothing to drop friendships, to renounce long-rooted privileges and possessions, to break with social ties.  Rather do we take a stern joy in the astringency and desolation; and what is called weakness of character seems in most cases to consist in the inaptitude for these sacrificial moods, of which one's own inferior self and its pet softnesses must often be the targets and the victims.[145]

 

[145] Example:  Benjamin Constant was often marveled at as an extraordinary instance of superior intelligence with inferior character.  He writes (Journal, Paris, 1895, p. 56), "I am tossed and dragged about by my miserable weakness.  Never was anything so ridiculous as my indecision.  Now marriage, now solitude; now Germany, now France hesitation upon hesitation, and all because at bottom I am UNABLE TO GIVE UP ANYTHING."  He can't "get mad" at any of his alternatives; and the career of a man beset by such an all-round amiability is hopeless.

 

 

 

So far I have spoken of temporary alterations produced by shifting excitements in the same person.  But the relatively fixed differences of character of different persons are explained in a precisely similar way.  In a man with a liability to a special sort of emotion, whole ranges of inhibition habitually vanish, which in other men remain effective, and other sorts of inhibition take their place.  When a person has an inborn genius for certain emotions, his life differs strangely from that of ordinary people, for none of their usual deterrents check him.  Your mere aspirant to a type of character, on the contrary, only shows, when your natural lover, fighter, or reformer, with whom the passion is a gift of nature, comes along, the hopeless inferiority of voluntary to instinctive action.  He has deliberately to overcome his inhibitions; the genius with the inborn passion seems not to feel them at all; he is free of all that inner friction and nervous waste.  To a Fox, a Garibaldi, a General Booth, a John Brown, a Louise Michel, a Bradlaugh, the obstacles omnipotent over those around them are as if non-existent.  Should the rest of us so disregard them, there might be many such heroes, for many have the wish to live for similar ideals, and only the adequate degree of inhibition-quenching fury is lacking.[146]

 

[146] The great thing which the higher excitabilities give is COURAGE; and the addition or subtraction of a certain amount of this quality makes a different man, a different life.  Various excitements let the courage loose.  Trustful hope will do it; inspiring example will do it; love will do it, wrath will do it.  In some people it is natively so high that the mere touch of danger does it, though danger is for most men the great inhibitor of action.  "Love of adventure" becomes in such persons a ruling passion.  "I believe," says General Skobeleff, "that my bravery is simply the passion and at the same time the contempt of danger.  The risk of life fills me with an exaggerated rapture. The fewer there are to share it, the more I like it.  The participation of my body in the event is required to furnish me an adequate excitement.  Everything intellectual appears to me to be reflex; but a meeting of man to man, a duel, a danger into which I can throw myself headforemost, attracts me, moves me, intoxicates me.  I am crazy for it, I love it, I adore it.  I run after danger as one runs after women; I wish it never to stop. Were it always the same, it would always bring me a new pleasure.

 

When I throw myself into an adventure in which I hope to find it, my heart palpitates with the uncertainty; I could wish at once to have it appear and yet to delay.  A sort of painful and delicious shiver shakes me; my entire nature runs to meet the peril with an impetus that my will would in vain try to resist. (Juliette Adam:  Le General Skobeleff, Nouvelle Revue, 1886, abridged.) Skobeleff seems to have been a cruel egoist; but the disinterested Garibaldi, if one may judge by his "Memorie," lived in an unflagging emotion of similar danger-seeking excitement.

 

 

 

The difference between willing and merely wishing, between having ideals that are creative and ideals that are but pinings and regrets, thus depends solely either on the amount of steam-pressure chronically driving the character in the ideal direction, or on the amount of ideal excitement transiently acquired.  Given a certain amount of love, indignation, generosity, magnanimity, admiration, loyalty, or enthusiasm of self-surrender, the result is always the same.  That whole raft of cowardly obstructions, which in tame persons and dull moods are sovereign impediments to action, sinks away at once.  Our conventionality,[147] our shyness, laziness, and stinginess, our demands for precedent and permission, for guarantee and surety, our small suspicions, timidities, despairs, where are they now?  Severed like cobwebs, broken like bubbles in the sun--

 

     "Wo sind die Sorge nun und Noth       Die mich noch gestern wollt' erschlaffen?       Ich scham' mich dess' im Morgenroth."

 

The flood we are borne on rolls them so lightly under that their very contact is unfelt.  Set free of them, we float and soar and sing.  This auroral openness and uplift gives to all creative ideal levels a bright and caroling quality, which is nowhere more marked than where the controlling emotion is religious.  "The true monk," writes an Italian mystic, "takes nothing with him but his lyre."

 

[147] See the case on p. 69, above, where the writer describes his experiences of communion with the Divine as consisting "merely in the TEMPORARY OBLITERATION OF THE CONVENTIONALITIES which usually cover my life."

 

 

 

We may now turn from these psychological generalities to those fruits of the religious state which form the special subject of our present lecture.  The man who lives in his religious centre of personal energy, and is actuated by spiritual enthusiasms, differs from his previous carnal self in perfectly definite ways.

 

The new ardor which burns in his breast consumes in its glow the lower "noes" which formerly beset him, and keeps him immune against infection from the entire groveling portion of his nature.  Magnanimities once impossible are now easy; paltry conventionalities and mean incentives once tyrannical hold no sway.  The stone wall inside of him has fallen, the hardness in his heart has broken down.  The rest of us can, I think, imagine this by recalling our state of feeling in those temporary "melting moods" into which either the trials of real life, or the theatre, or a novel sometimes throws us.  Especially if we weep!  For it is then as if our tears broke through an inveterate inner dam, and let all sorts of ancient peccancies and moral stagnancies drain away, leaving us now washed and soft of heart and open to every nobler leading.  With most of us the customary hardness quickly returns, but not so with saintly persons.  Many saints, even as energetic ones as Teresa and Loyola, have possessed what the church traditionally reveres as a special grace, the so-called gift of tears.  In these persons the melting mood seems to have held almost uninterrupted control.  And as it is with tears and melting moods, so it is with other exalted affections.  Their reign may come by gradual growth or by a crisis; but in either case it may have "come to stay."

 

At the end of the last lecture we saw this permanence to be true of the general paramountcy of the higher insight, even though in the ebbs of emotional excitement meaner motives might temporarily prevail and backsliding might occur.  But that lower temptations may remain completely annulled, apart from transient emotion and as if by alteration of the man's habitual nature, is also proved by documentary evidence in certain cases.  Before embarking on the general natural history of the regenerate character, let me convince you of this curious fact by one or two examples. The most numerous are those of reformed drunkards.  You recollect the case of Mr. Hadley in the last lecture; the Jerry McAuley Water Street Mission abounds in similar instances.[148]  You also remember the graduate of Oxford, converted at three in the afternoon, and getting drunk in the hay-field the next day, but after that permanently cured of his appetite.  "From that hour drink has had no terrors for me:  I never touch it, never want it.  The same thing occurred with my pipe. . . . the desire for it went at once and has never returned.  So with every known sin, the deliverance in each case being permanent and complete.  I have had no temptations since conversion."

 

[148] Above, p. 200.  "The only radical remedy I know for dipsomania is religiomania," is a saying I have heard quoted from some medical man.

 

 

 

Here is an analogous case from Starbuck's manuscript collection:--

 

"I went into the old Adelphi Theatre, where there was a Holiness meeting, . . . and I began saying, 'Lord, Lord, I must have this blessing.'  Then what was to me an audible voice said:  'Are you willing to give up everything to the Lord?' and question after question kept coming up, to all of which I said:  'Yes, Lord; yes, Lord!' until this came:  'Why do you not accept it NOW?' and I said:  'I do, Lord.'--I felt no particular joy, only a trust.  Just then the meeting closed, and, as I went out on the street, I met a gentleman smoking a fine cigar, and a cloud of smoke came into my face, and I took a long, deep breath of it, and praise the Lord, all my appetite for it was gone.  Then as I walked along the street, passing saloons where the fumes of liquor came out, I found that all my taste and longing for that accursed stuff was gone.  Glory to God! . . . [But] for ten or eleven long years [after that] I was in the wilderness with its ups and downs.  My appetite for liquor never came back."

 

The classic case of Colonel Gardiner is that of a man cured of sexual temptation in a single hour.  To Mr. Spears the colonel said, "I was effectually cured of all inclination to that sin I was so strongly addicted to that I thought nothing but shooting me through the head could have cured me of it; and all desire and inclination to it was removed, as entirely as if I had been a sucking child; nor did the temptation return to this day."  Mr. Webster's words on the same subject are these:  "One thing I have heard the colonel frequently say, that he was much addicted to impurity before his acquaintance with religion; but that, so soon as he was enlightened from above, he felt the power of the Holy Ghost changing his nature so wonderfully that his sanctification in this respect seemed more remarkable than in any other."[149]

 

[149] Doddridge's Life of Colonel James Gardiner, London Religious Tract Society, pp. 23-32.

 

 

 

Such rapid abolition of ancient impulses and propensities reminds us so strongly of what has been observed as the result of hypnotic suggestion that it is difficult not to believe that subliminal influences play the decisive part in these abrupt changes of heart, just as they do in hypnotism.[150] Suggestive therapeutics abound in records of cure, after a few sittings, of inveterate bad habits with which the patient, left to ordinary moral and physical influences, had struggled in vain.  Both drunkenness and sexual vice have been cured in this way, action through the subliminal seeming thus in many individuals to have the prerogative of inducing relatively stable change.  If the grace of God miraculously operates, it probably operates through the subliminal door, then.  But just HOW anything operates in this region is still unexplained, and we shall do well now to say good-by to the PROCESS of transformation altogether--leaving it, if you like, a good deal of a psychological or theological mystery--and to turn our attention to the fruits of the religious condition, no matter in what way they may have been produced.[151]

 

[150] Here, for example, is a case, from Starbuck's book, in which a "sensory automatism" brought about quickly what prayers and resolves had been unable to effect.  The subject is a woman.  She writes:--

 

"When I was about forty I tried to quit smoking, but the desire was on me, and had me in its power.  I cried and prayed and promised God to quit, but could not.  I had smoked for fifteen years.  When I was fifty-three, as I sat by the fire one day smoking, a voice came to me.  I did not hear it with my ears, but more as a dream or sort of double think.  It said, 'Louisa, lay down smoking.'  At once I replied. 'Will you take the desire away?' But it only kept saying:  'Louisa, lay down smoking.'  Then I got up, laid my pipe on the mantel-shelf, and never smoked again or had any desire to.  The desire was gone as though I had never known it or touched tobacco.  The sight of others smoking and the smell of smoke never gave me the least wish to touch it again."    The Psychology of Religion, p. 142.

 

[151] Professor Starbuck expresses the radical destruction of old influences physiologically, as a cutting off of the connection between higher and lower cerebral centres.  "This condition," he says, "in which the association-centres connected with the spiritual life are cut off from the lower, is often reflected in the way correspondents describe their experiences. . . .  For example:  'Temptations from without still assail me, but there is nothing WITHIN to respond to them.' The ego [here] is wholly identified with the higher centres whose quality of feeling is that of withinness.  Another of the respondents says:  'Since then, although Satan tempts me, there is as it were a wall of brass around me, so that his darts cannot touch me.'" --Unquestionably, functional exclusions of this sort must occur in the cerebral organ.  But on the side accessible to introspection, their causal condition is nothing but the degree of spiritual excitement, getting at last so high and strong as to be sovereign, and it must be frankly confessed that we do not know just why or how such sovereignty comes about in one person and not in another.  We can only give our imagination a certain delusive help by mechanical analogies.

 

 

 

If we should conceive, for example, that the human mind, with its different possibilities of equilibrium, might be like a many-sided solid with different surfaces on which it could lie flat, we might liken mental revolutions to the spatial revolutions of such a body.  As it is pried up, say by a lever, from a position in which it lies on surface A, for instance, it will linger for a time unstably halfway up, and if the lever cease to urge it, it will tumble back or "relapse" under the continued pull of gravity.  But if at last it rotate far enough for its centre of gravity to pass beyond surface A altogether, the body will fall over, on surface B, say, and abide there permanently.  The pulls of gravity towards A have vanished, and may now be disregarded. The polyhedron has become immune against farther attraction from their direction.

 

In this figure of speech the lever may correspond to the emotional influences making for a new life, and the initial pull of gravity to the ancient drawbacks and inhibitions.  So long as the emotional influence fails to reach a certain pitch of efficacy, the changes it produces are unstable, and the man relapses into his original attitude. But when a certain intensity is attained by the new emotion, a critical point is passed, and there then ensues an irreversible revolution, equivalent to the production of a new nature.

 

The collective name for the ripe fruits of religion in a character is Saintliness.[152] The saintly character is the character for which spiritual emotions are the habitual centre of the personal energy; and there is a certain composite photograph of universal saintliness, the same in all religions, of which the features can easily be traced.[153]

 

[152] I use this word in spite of a certain flavor of "sanctimoniousness" which sometimes clings to it, because no other word suggests as well the exact combination of affections which the text goes on to describe.

 

[153] "It will be found," says Dr. W. R. Inge (in his lectures on Christian Mysticism, London, 1899, p. 326), "that men of preeminent saintliness agree very closely in what they tell us.  They tell us that they have arrived at an unshakable conviction, not based on inference but on immediate experience, that God is a spirit with whom the human spirit can hold intercourse; that in him meet all that they can imagine of goodness, truth, and beauty; that they can see his footprints everywhere in nature, and feel his presence within them as the very life of their life, so that in proportion as they come to themselves they come to him.  They tell us what separates us from him and from happiness is, first, self-seeking in all its forms; and secondly, sensuality in all its forms; that these are the ways of darkness and death, which hide from us the face of God; while the path of the just is like a shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day."

 

 

 

They are these:--

 

1.  A feeling of being in a wider life than that of this world's selfish little interests; and a conviction, not merely intellectual, but as it were sensible, of the existence of an Ideal Power.  In Christian saintliness this power is always personified as God; but abstract moral ideals, civic or patriotic utopias, or inner versions of holiness or right may also be felt as the true lords and enlargers of our life, in ways which I described in the lecture on the Reality of the Unseen.[154]

 

[154] The "enthusiasm of humanity" may lead to a life which coalesces in many respects with that of Christian saintliness.  Take the following rules proposed to members of the Union pour l'Action morale, in the Bulletin de l'Union, April 1-15, 1894.  See, also, Revue Bleue, August 13, 1892.

 

"We would make known in our own persons the usefulness of rule, of discipline, of resignation and renunciation; we would teach the necessary perpetuity of suffering, and explain the creative part which it plays.  We would wage war upon false optimism; on the base hope of happiness coming to us ready made; on the notion of a salvation by knowledge alone, or by material civilization alone, vain symbol as this is of civilization, precarious external arrangement ill-fitted to replace the intimate union and consent of souls.  We would wage war also on bad morals, whether in public or in private life; on luxury, fastidiousness, and over-refinement, on all that tends to increase the painful, immoral, and anti-social multiplications of our wants; on all that excites envy and dislike in the soul of the common people, and confirms the notion that the chief end of life is freedom to enjoy.  We would preach by our example the respect of superiors and equals, the respect of all men; affectionate simplicity in our relations with inferiors and insignificant persons; indulgence where our own claims only are concerned, but firmness in our demands where they relate to duties towards others or towards the public.

 

 

 

"For the common people are what we help them to become; their vices are our vices, gazed upon, envied, and imitated; and if they come back with all their weight upon us, it is but just.

 

2.  A sense of the friendly continuity of the ideal power with our own life, and a willing self-surrender to its control.

 

3.  An immense elation and freedom, as the outlines of the confining selfhood melt down.

 

4.  A shifting of the emotional centre towards loving and harmonious affections, towards "yes, yes," and away from "no," where the claims of the non-ego are concerned. These fundamental inner conditions have characteristic practical consequences, as follows:--

 

a.  Asceticism.--The self-surrender may become so passionate as to turn into self-immolation.  It may then so over-rule the ordinary inhibitions of the flesh that the saint finds positive pleasure in sacrifice and asceticism, measuring and expressing as they do the degree of his loyalty to the higher power.

 

b.  Strength of Soul.--The sense of enlargement of life may be so uplifting that personal motives and inhibitions, commonly omnipotent, become too insignificant for notice, and new reaches of patience and fortitude open out.  Fears and anxieties go, and blissful equanimity takes their place. Come heaven, come hell, it makes no difference now!

 

"We forbid ourselves all seeking after popularity, all ambition to appear important.  We pledge ourselves to abstain from falsehood, in all its degrees.  We promise not to create or encourage illusions as to what is possible, by what we say or write. We promise to one another active sincerity, which strives to see truth clearly, and which never fears to declare what it sees.

 

"We promise deliberate resistance to the tidal waves of fashion, to the 'booms' and panics of the public mind, to all the forms of weakness and of fear.

 

"We forbid ourselves the use of sarcasm.  Of serious things we will speak seriously and unsmilingly, without banter and without the appearance of banter;--and even so of all things, for there are serious ways of being light of heart.

 

"We will put ourselves forward always for what we are, simply and without false humility, as well as without pedantry, affectation, or pride."

 

c.  Purity.--The shifting of the emotional centre brings with it, first, increase of purity.  The sensitiveness to spiritual discords is enhanced, and the cleansing of existence from brutal and sensual elements becomes imperative.  Occasions of contact with such elements are avoided:  the saintly life must deepen its spiritual consistency and keep unspotted from the world.  In some temperaments this need of purity of spirit takes an ascetic turn, and weaknesses of the flesh are treated with relentless severity.

 

d.  Charity.--The shifting of the emotional centre brings, secondly, increase of charity, tenderness for fellow-creatures. The ordinary motives to antipathy, which usually set such close bounds to tenderness among human beings, are inhibited. The saint loves his enemies, and treats loathsome beggars as his brothers.

 

I now have to give some concrete illustrations of these fruits of the spiritual tree.  The only difficulty is to choose, for they are so abundant.

 

Since the sense of Presence of a higher and friendly power seems to be the fundamental feature in the spiritual life, I will begin with that.

 

In our narratives of conversion we saw how the world might look shining and transfigured to the convert,[155] and, apart from anything acutely religious, we all have moments when the universal life seems to wrap us round with friendliness. In youth and health, in summer, in the woods or on the mountains, there come days when the weather seems all whispering with peace, hours when the goodness and beauty of existence enfold us like a dry warm climate, or chime through us as if our inner ears were subtly ringing with the world's security.  Thoreau writes:--

 

[155] Above, pp. 243 ff.

 

 

 

"Once, a few weeks after I came to the woods, for an hour I doubted whether the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life.  To be alone was somewhat unpleasant. But, in the midst of a gentle rain, while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in <270> every sight and sound around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once, like an atmosphere, sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since.  Every little pine-needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me.  I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again."[156]

 

[156] H. Thoreau:  Walden, Riverside edition, p. 206, abridged.

 

 

 

In the Christian consciousness this sense of the enveloping friendliness becomes most personal and definite.  "The compensation," writes a German author,--"for the loss of that sense of personal independence which man so unwillingly gives up, is the disappearance of all FEAR from one's life, the quite indescribable and inexplicable feeling of an inner SECURITY, which one can only experience, but which, once it has been experienced, one can never forget."[157]

 

[157] C. H. Hilty:  Gluck, vol. i. p. 85.

 

 

 

I find an excellent description of this state of mind in a sermon by Mr. Voysey:--

 

"It is the experience of myriads of trustful souls, that this sense of God's unfailing presence with them in their going out and in their coming in, and by night and day, is a source of absolute repose and confident calmness.  It drives away all fear of what may befall them.  That nearness of God is a constant security against terror and anxiety.  It is not that they are at all assured of physical safety, or deem themselves protected by a love which is denied to others, but that they are in a state of mind equally ready to be safe or to meet with injury.  If injury befall them, they will be content to bear it because the Lord is their keeper, and nothing can befall them without his will.  If it be his will, then injury is for them a blessing and no calamity at all.  Thus and thus only is the trustful man protected and shielded from harm.  And I for one--by no means a thick-skinned or hard-nerved man-am absolutely satisfied with this arrangement, and do not wish for any other kind of immunity from danger and catastrophe.  Quite as sensitive to pain as the most highly strung organism, I yet feel that the worst of it is conquered, and the sting taken out of it altogether, by the thought that God is our loving and sleepless keeper, and that nothing can hurt us without his will."[158]

 

[158] The Mystery of Pain and Death, London, 1892, p. 258.