which almost drove me mad. I had fallen violently in love with a
girl who, young as she was, had a spirit of coquetry like a cat. As
I look back on her now, I hate her, and wonder how I could ever have
fallen so low as to be worked upon to such an extent by her
attractions. Nevertheless, I fell into a regular fever, could think
of nothing else; whenever I was alone, I pictured her attractions,
and spent most of the time when I should have been working, in
recalling our previous interviews, and imagining future
conversations. She was very pretty, good humored, and jolly to the
last degree, and intensely pleased with my admiration. Would give me
no decided answer yes or no, and the queer thing about it was that
whilst pursuing her for her hand, I secretly knew all along that she
was unfit to be a wife for me, and that she never would say yes.
Although for a year we took our meals at the same boarding‐house, so
that I saw her continually and familiarly, our closer relations had
to be largely on the sly, and this fact, together with my jealousy
of another one of her male admirers, and my own conscience despising
me for my uncontrollable weakness, made me so nervous and sleepless
that I really thought I should become insane. I understand well
those young men murdering their sweethearts, which appear so often
in the papers. Nevertheless I did love her passionately, and in some
ways she did deserve it.
“The queer thing was the sudden and unexpected way in which it all
stopped. I was going to my work after breakfast one morning,
thinking as usual of her and of my misery, when, just as if some
outside power laid hold of me, I found myself turning round and
almost running to my room, where I immediately got out all the
relics of her which I possessed, including some hair, all her notes
and letters, and ambrotypes on glass. The former I made a fire of,
the latter I actually crushed beneath my heel, in a sort of fierce
joy of revenge and punishment. I now loathed and despised her
altogether, and as for myself I felt as if a load of disease had
suddenly been removed from me. That was the end. I never spoke to
her or wrote to her again in all the subsequent years, and I have
never had a single moment of loving thought towards one who for so
many months entirely filled my heart. In fact, I have always rather
hated her memory, though now I can see that I had gone unnecessarily
far in that direction. At any rate, from that happy morning onward I
regained possession of my own proper soul, and have never since
fallen into any similar trap.”
This seems to me an unusually clear example of two different levels
of personality, inconsistent in their dictates, yet so well balanced
against each other as for a long time to fill the life with discord
and dissatisfaction. At last, not gradually, but in a sudden crisis,
the unstable equilibrium is resolved, and this happens so
unexpectedly that it is as if, to use the writer’s words, “some
outside power laid hold.”
Professor Starbuck gives an analogous case, and a converse case of
hatred suddenly turning into love, in his Psychology of Religion, p.
141. Compare the other highly curious instances which he gives on
pp. 137‐144, of sudden non‐religious alterations of habit or
character. He seems right in conceiving all such sudden changes as
results of special cerebral functions unconsciously developing until
they are ready to play a controlling part, when they make irruption
into the conscious life. When we treat of sudden “conversion,” I
shall make as much use as I can of this hypothesis of subconscious
incubation.
95 H. FLETCHER: Menticulture, or the A‐B‐C of True Living, New York and
Chicago, 1899, pp. 26‐36, abridged.
96 I have considerably abridged Tolstoy’s words in my translation.
97 In my quotations from Bunyan I have omitted certain intervening
portions of the text.
98 A sketch of the life of Stephen H. Bradley, from the age of five to
twenty‐four years, including his remarkable experience of the power
of the Holy Spirit on the second evening of November, 1829. Madison,
Connecticut, 1830.
99 Jouffroy is an example: “Down this slope it was that my intelligence
had glided, and little by little it had got far from its first
faith. But this melancholy revolution had not taken place in the
broad daylight of my consciousness; too many scruples, too many
guides and sacred affections had made it dreadful to me, so that I
was far from avowing to myself the progress it had made. It had gone
on in silence, by an involuntary elaboration of which I was not the
accomplice; and although I had in reality long ceased to be a
Christian, yet, in the innocence of my intention, I should have
shuddered to suspect it, and thought it calumny had I been accused
of such a falling away.” Then follows Jouffroy’s account of his
counter‐conversion, quoted above on p. 176.
100 One hardly needs examples; but for love, see p. 179, note; for fear,
p. 162; for remorse, see Othello after the murder; for anger, see
Lear after Cordelia’s first speech to him; for resolve, see p. 178
(J. Foster case). Here is a pathological case in which _guilt_ was
the feeling that suddenly exploded: “One night I was seized on
entering bed with a rigor, such as Swedenborg describes as coming
over him with a sense of holiness, but over me with a sense of
_guilt_. During that whole night I lay under the influence of the
rigor, and from its inception I felt that I was under the curse of
God. I have never done one act of duty in my life—sins against God
and man, beginning as far as my memory goes back—a wildcat in human
shape.”
101 E. D. STARBUCK: The Psychology of Religion, pp. 224, 262.
102 No one understands this better than Jonathan Edwards understood it
already. Conversion narratives of the more commonplace sort must
always be taken with the allowances which he suggests: “A rule
received and established by common consent has a very great, though
to many persons an insensible influence in forming their notions of
the process of their own experience. I know very well how they
proceed as to this matter, for I have had frequent opportunities of
observing their conduct. Very often their experience at first
appears like a confused chaos, but then those parts are selected
which bear the nearest resemblance to such particular steps as are
insisted on; and these are dwelt upon in their thoughts, and spoken
of from time to time, till they grow more and more conspicuous in
their view, and other parts which are neglected grow more and more
obscure. Thus what they have experienced is insensibly strained, so
as to bring it to an exact conformity to the scheme already
established in their minds. And it becomes natural also for
ministers, who have to deal with those who insist upon distinctness
and clearness of method, to do so too.” Treatise on Religious
Affections.
103 Studies in the Psychology of Religious Phenomena, American Journal
of Psychology, vii. 309 (1896).
104 I have abridged Mr. Hadley’s account. For other conversions of
drunkards, see his pamphlet, Rescue Mission Work, published at the
Old Jerry M’Auley Water Street Mission, New York city. A striking
collection of cases also appears in the appendix to Professor
Leuba’s article.
105 A restaurant waiter served provisionally as Gough’s “Saviour.”
General Booth, the founder of the Salvation Army, considers that the
first vital step in saving outcasts consists in making them feel
that some decent human being cares enough for them to take an
interest in the question whether they are to rise or sink.
106 The crisis of apathetic melancholy—no use in life—into which J. S.
Mill records that he fell, and from which he emerged by the reading
of Marmontel’s Memoirs (Heaven save the mark!) and Wordsworth’s
poetry, is another intellectual and general metaphysical case. See
Mill’s Autobiography, New York, 1873, pp. 141, 148.
107 Starbuck, in addition to “escape from sin,” discriminates “spiritual
illumination” as a distinct type of conversion experience.
Psychology of Religion, p. 85.
108 Psychology of Religion, p. 117.
109 Psychology of Religion, p. 385. Compare, also, pp. 137‐144 and 262.
110 For instance, C. G. Finney italicizes the volitional element: “Just
at this point the whole question of Gospel salvation opened to my
mind in a manner most marvelous to me at the time. I think I then
saw, as clearly as I ever have in my life, the reality and fullness
of the atonement of Christ. Gospel salvation seemed to me to be an
offer of something to be accepted, and all that was necessary on my
part was to get my own consent to give up my sins and accept Christ.
After this distinct revelation had stood for some little time before
my mind, the question seemed to be put, ‘Will you accept it now, to‐
day?’ I replied, ‘Yes; _I will accept it to‐day, or I will die in
the attempt!_’ ” He then went into the woods, where he describes his
struggles. He could not pray, his heart was hardened in its pride.
“I then reproached myself for having promised to give my heart to
God before I left the woods. When I came to try, I found I could
not.... My inward soul hung back, and there was no going out of my
heart to God. The thought was pressing me, of the rashness of my
promise that I would give my heart to God that day, or die in the
attempt. It seemed to me as if that was binding on my soul; and yet
I was going to break my vow. A great sinking and discouragement came
over me, and I felt almost too weak to stand upon my knees. Just at
this moment I again thought I heard some one approach me, and I
opened my eyes to see whether it were so. But right there the
revelation of my pride of heart, as the great difficulty that stood
in the way, was distinctly shown to me. An overwhelming sense of my
wickedness in being ashamed to have a human being see me on my knees
before God took such powerful possession of me, that I _cried at the
top of my voice, and exclaimed that I would not leave that place if
all the men on earth and all the devils in hell surrounded me_.
‘What!’ I said, ‘such a degraded sinner as I am, on my knees
confessing my sins to the great and holy God; and ashamed to have
any human being, and a sinner like myself, find me on my knees
endeavoring to make my peace with my offended God!’ The sin appeared
awful, infinite. It broke me down before the Lord.” Memoirs, pp.
14‐16, abridged.
111 STARBUCK: Op. cit., pp. 91, 114.
112 Extracts from the Journal of Mr. John Nelson, London, no date, p.
24.
113 STARBUCK, p. 64.
114 STARBUCK, p. 115.
115 STARBUCK, p. 113.
116 EDWARD’S and DWIGHT’S Life of Brainerd, New Haven, 1822, pp. 45‐47,
abridged.
117 Describing the whole phenomenon as a change of equilibrium, we might
say that the movement of new psychic energies towards the personal
centre and the recession of old ones towards the margin (or the
rising of some objects above, and the sinking of others below the
conscious threshold) were only two ways of describing an indivisible
event. Doubtless this is often absolutely true, and Starbuck is
right when he says that “self‐surrender” and “new determination,”
though seeming at first sight to be such different experiences, are
“really the same thing. Self‐surrender sees the change in terms of
the old self; determination sees it in terms of the new.” Op. cit.,
p. 160.
118 A. A. BONAR: Nettleton and his Labors, Edinburgh, 1854, p. 261.
119 CHARLES G. FINNEY: Memoirs written by Himself, 1876, pp. 17, 18.
120 Life and Journals, Boston, 1806, pp. 31‐40, abridged.
121 My quotations are made from an Italian translation of this letter in
the Biografia del Sig. M. A. Ratisbonne, Ferrara, 1843, which I have
to thank Monsignore D. O’Connell of Rome for bringing to my notice.
I abridge the original.
122 Published in the International Scientific Series.
123 The reader will here please notice that in my exclusive reliance in
the last lecture on the subconscious “incubation” of motives
deposited by a growing experience, I followed the method of
employing accepted principles of explanation as far as one can. The
subliminal region, whatever else it may be, is at any rate a place
now admitted by psychologists to exist for the accumulation of
vestiges of sensible experience (whether inattentively or
attentively registered), and for their elaboration according to
ordinary psychological or logical laws into results that end by
attaining such a “tension” that they may at times enter
consciousness with something like a burst. It thus is “scientific”
to interpret all otherwise unaccountable invasive alterations of
consciousness as results of the tension of subliminal memories
reaching the bursting‐point. But candor obliges me to confess that
there are occasional bursts into consciousness of results of which
it is not easy to demonstrate any prolonged subconscious incubation.
Some of the cases I used to illustrate the sense of presence of the
unseen in Lecture III were of this order (compare pages 59, 61, 62,
67); and we shall see other experiences of the kind when we come to
the subject of mysticism. The case of Mr. Bradley, that of M.
Ratisbonne, possibly that of Colonel Gardiner, possibly that of
Saint Paul, might not be so easily explained in this simple way. The
result, then, would have to be ascribed either to a merely
physiological nerve storm, a “discharging lesion” like that of
epilepsy; or, in case it were useful and rational, as in the two
latter cases named, to some more mystical or theological hypothesis.
I make this remark in order that the reader may realize that the
subject is really complex. But I shall keep myself as far as
possible at present to the more “scientific” view; and only as the
plot thickens in subsequent lectures shall I consider the question
of its absolute sufficiency as an explanation of all the facts. That
subconscious incubation explains a great number of them, there can
be no doubt.
124 Edwards says elsewhere: “I am bold to say that the work of God in
the conversion of one soul, considered together with the source,
foundation, and purchase of it, and also the benefit, end, and
eternal issue of it, is a more glorious work of God than the
creation of the whole material universe.”
125 Emerson writes: “When we see a soul whose acts are regal, graceful,
and pleasant as roses, we must thank God that such things can be and
are, and not turn sourly on the angel and say: Crump is a better
man, with his grunting resistance to all his native devils.” True
enough. Yet Crump may really be the better _Crump_, for his inner
discords and second birth; and your once‐born “regal” character,
though indeed always better than poor Crump, may fall far short of
what he individually might be had he only some Crump‐like capacity
for compunction over his own peculiar diabolisms, graceful and
pleasant and invariably gentlemanly as these may be.
126 In his book, The Spiritual Life, New York, 1900.
127 Op. cit., p. 112.
128 Op. cit., p. 144.
129 I piece together a quotation made by W. Monod, in his book La Vie,
and a letter printed in the work: Adolphe Monod: I., Souvenirs de sa
Vie, 1885, p. 433.
130 Commentary on Galatians, ch. iii. verse 19, and ch. ii. verse 20,
abridged.
131 In some conversions, both steps are distinct; in this one, for
example:—
“Whilst I was reading the evangelical treatise, I was soon struck by
an expression: ‘the finished work of Christ.’ ‘Why,’ I asked of
myself, ‘does the author use these terms? Why does he not say “the
atoning work”?’ Then these words, ‘It is finished,’ presented
themselves to my mind. ‘What is it that is finished?’ I asked, and
in an instant my mind replied: ‘A perfect expiation for sin; entire
satisfaction has been given; the debt has been paid by the
Substitute. Christ has died for our sins; not for ours only, but for
those of all men. If, then, the entire work is finished, all the
debt paid, what remains for me to do?’ In another instant the light
was shed through my mind by the Holy Ghost, and the joyous
conviction was given me that nothing more was to be done, save to
fall on my knees, to accept this Saviour and his love, to praise God
forever.” Autobiography of Hudson Taylor. I translate back into
English from the French translation of Challand (Geneva, no date),
the original not being accessible.
132 Tolstoy’s case was a good comment on those words. There was almost
no theology in his conversion. His faith‐state was the sense come
back that life was infinite in its moral significance.
133 American Journal of Psychology, vii. 345‐347, abridged.
134 Above, p. 152.
135 DWIGHT: Life of Edwards, New York, 1830, p. 61, abridged.
136 W. F. BOURNE: The King’s Son, a Memoir of Billy Bray, London,
Hamilton, Adams & Co., 1887, p. 9.
137 Consult WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE: Lectures on Revivals of Religion, New
York, 1832, in the long Appendix to which the opinions of a large
number of ministers are given.
138 Memoirs, p. 34.
139 These reports of sensorial photism shade off into what are evidently
only metaphorical accounts of the sense of new spiritual
illumination, as, for instance, in Brainerd’s statement: “As I was
walking in a thick grove, unspeakable glory seemed to open to the
apprehension of my soul. I do not mean any external brightness, for
I saw no such thing, nor any imagination of a body of light in the
third heavens, or anything of that nature, but it was a new inward
apprehension or view that I had of God.”
In a case like this next one from Starbuck’s manuscript collection,
the lighting up of the darkness is probably also metaphorical:—
“One Sunday night, I resolved that when I got home to the ranch
where I was working, I would offer myself with my faculties and all
to God to be used only by and for him.... It was raining and the
roads were muddy; but this desire grew so strong that I kneeled down
by the side of the road and told God all about it, intending then to
get up and go on. Such a thing as any special answer to my prayer
never entered my mind, having been converted by faith, but still
being most undoubtedly saved. Well, while I was praying, I remember
holding out my hands to God and telling him they should work for
him, my feet walk for him, my tongue speak for him, etc., etc., if
he would only use me as his instrument and give me a satisfying
experience—when suddenly the darkness of the night seemed lit up—I
felt, realized, knew, that God heard and answered my prayer. Deep
happiness came over me; I felt I was accepted into the inner circle
of God’s loved ones.”
In the following case also the flash of light is metaphorical:—
“A prayer meeting had been called for at close of evening service.
The minister supposed me impressed by his discourse (a mistake—he
was dull). He came and, placing his hand upon my shoulder, said: ‘Do
you not want to give your heart to God?’ I replied in the
affirmative. Then said he, ‘Come to the front seat.’ They sang and
prayed and talked with me. I experienced nothing but unaccountable
wretchedness. They declared that the reason why I did not ‘obtain
peace’ was because I was not willing to give up all to God. After
about two hours the minister said we would go home. As usual, on
retiring, I prayed. In great distress, I at this time simply said,
‘Lord, I have done all I can, I leave the whole matter with thee.’
Immediately, like a flash of light, there came to me a great peace,
and I arose and went into my parents’ bedroom and said, ‘I do feel
so wonderfully happy.’ This I regard as the hour of conversion. It
was the hour in which I became assured of divine acceptance and
favor. So far as my life was concerned, it made little immediate
change.”
140 I add in a note a few more records:—
“One morning, being in deep distress, fearing every moment I should
drop into hell, I was constrained to cry in earnest for mercy, and
the Lord came to my relief, and delivered my soul from the burden
and guilt of sin. My whole frame was in a tremor from head to foot,
and my soul enjoyed sweet peace. The pleasure I then felt was
indescribable. The happiness lasted about three days, during which
time I never spoke to any person about my feelings.” Autobiography
of DAN YOUNG, edited by W. P. STRICKLAND, New York, 1860.
“In an instant there rose up in me such a sense of God’s taking care
of those who put their trust in him that for an hour all the world
was crystalline, the heavens were lucid, and I sprang to my feet and
began to cry and laugh.” H. W. BEECHER, quoted by LEUBA.
“My tears of sorrow changed to joy, and I lay there praising God in
such ecstasy of joy as only the soul who experiences it can
realize.”—“I cannot express how I felt. It was as if I had been in a
dark dungeon and lifted into the light of the sun. I shouted and I
sang praise unto him who loved me and washed me from my sins. I was
forced to retire into a secret place, for the tears did flow, and I
did not wish my shopmates to see me, and yet I could not keep it a
secret.”—“I experienced joy almost to weeping.”—“I felt my face must
have shone like that of Moses. I had a general feeling of buoyancy.
It was the greatest joy it was ever my lot to experience.”—“I wept
and laughed alternately. I was as light as if walking on air. I felt
as if I had gained greater peace and happiness than I had ever
expected to experience.” STARBUCK’S correspondents.
141 Psychology of Religion, pp. 360, 357.
142 SAINTE‐BEUVE: Port‐Royal, vol. i. pp. 95 and 106, abridged.
143 “ ‘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: Psychologie
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.
144 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.