[WilliamJames] Rest of Lectures 6-7

Eric Purdy epurdy at uchicago.edu
Tue Mar 11 01:07:54 CDT 2014

With this, we're caught up! How many people are still reading?

To a mind attentive to this state of things and rightly subject to the
joy-destroying chill which such a contemplation engenders, the only relief
that healthy-mindedness can give is by saying: 'Stuff and nonsense, get out
into the open air!' or 'Cheer up, old fellow, you'll be all right erelong,
if you will only drop your morbidness!' But in all seriousness, can such
bald animal talk as that be treated as a rational answer? To ascribe
religious value to mere happy-go-lucky contentment with one's brief chance
at natural good is but the very consecration of forgetfulness and
superficiality. Our troubles lie indeed too deep for *that* cure. The fact
that we *can* die, that we *can* be ill at all, is what perplexes us; the
fact that we now for a moment live and are well is irrelevant to that
perplexity. We need a life not correlated with death, a health not liable
to illness, a kind of good that will not perish, a good in fact that flies
beyond the Goods of nature.

It all depends on how sensitive the soul may become to discords. "The
trouble with me is that I believe too much in common happiness and
goodness," said a friend of mine whose consciousness was of this sort, "and
nothing can console me for their transiency. I am appalled and disconcerted
at its being possible." And so with most of us: a little cooling down of
animal excitability and instinct, a little loss of animal toughness, a
little irritable weakness and descent of the pain-threshold, will bring the
worm at the core of all our usual springs of delight into full view, and
turn us into melancholy metaphysicians. The pride of life and glory of the
world will shrivel. It is after all but the standing quarrel of hot youth
and hoary eld. Old age has the last word: the purely naturalistic look at
life, however enthusiastically it may begin, is sure to end in sadness.

This sadness lies at the heart of every merely positivistic, agnostic, or
naturalistic scheme of philosophy. Let sanguine healthy-mindedness do its
best with its strange power of living in the moment and ignoring and
forgetting, still the evil background is really there to be thought of, and
the skull will grin in at the banquet. In the practical life of the
individual, we know how his whole gloom or glee about any present fact
depends on the remoter schemes and hopes with which it stands related. Its
significance and framing give it the chief part of its value. Let it be
known to lead nowhere, and however agreeable it may be in its immediacy,
its glow and gilding vanish. The old man, sick with an insidious internal
disease, may laugh and quaff his wine at first as well as ever, but he
knows his fate now, for the doctors have revealed it; and the knowledge
knocks the satisfaction out of all these functions. They are partners of
death and the worm is their brother, and they turn to a mere flatness.

The lustre of the present hour is always borrowed from the background of
possibilities it goes with. Let our common experiences be enveloped in an
eternal moral order; let our suffering have an immortal significance; let
Heaven smile upon the earth, and deities pay their visits; let faith and
hope be the atmosphere which man breathes in;--and his days pass by with
zest; they stir with prospects, they thrill with remoter values. Place
around them on the contrary the curdling cold and gloom and absence of all
permanent meaning which for pure naturalism and the popular science
evolutionism of our time are all that is visible ultimately, and the thrill
stops short, or turns rather to an anxious trembling.

For naturalism, fed on recent cosmological speculations, mankind is in a
position similar to that of a set of people living on a frozen lake,
surrounded by cliffs over which there is no escape, yet knowing that little
by little the ice is melting, and the inevitable day drawing near when the
last film of it will disappear, and to be drowned ignominiously will be the
human creature's portion. The merrier the skating, the warmer and more
sparkling the sun by day, and the ruddier the bonfires at night, the more
poignant the sadness with which one must take in the meaning of the total

The early Greeks are continually held up to us in literary works as models
of the healthy-minded joyousness which the religion of nature may engender.
There was indeed much joyousness among the Greeks--Homer's flow of
enthusiasm for most things that the sun shines upon is steady. But even in
Homer the reflective passages are
the moment the Greeks grew systematically pensive and thought of
ultimates, they became unmitigated
jealousy of the gods, the nemesis that follows too much happiness, the
all-encompassing death, fate's dark opacity, the ultimate and
unintelligible cruelty, were the fixed background of their imagination. The
beautiful joyousness of their polytheism is only a poetic modern fiction.
They knew no joys comparable in quality of preciousness to those which we
shall erelong see that Brahmans, Buddhists, Christians, Mohammedans,
twice-born people whose religion is non-naturalistic, get from their
several creeds of mysticism and renunciation.

Stoic insensibility and Epicurean resignation were the farthest advance
which the Greek mind made in that direction. The Epicurean said: "Seek not
to be happy, but rather to escape unhappiness; strong happiness is always
linked with pain; therefore hug the safe shore, and do not tempt the deeper
raptures. Avoid disappointment by expecting little, and by aiming low; and
above all do not fret." The Stoic said: "The only genuine good that life
can yield a man is the free possession of his own soul; all other goods are
lies." Each of these philosophies is in its degree a philosophy of despair
in nature's boons. Trustful self-abandonment to the joys that freely offer
has entirely departed from both Epicurean and Stoic; and what each proposes
is a way of rescue from the resultant dust-and-ashes state of mind. The
Epicurean still awaits results from economy of indulgence and damping of
desire. The Stoic hopes for no results, and gives up natural good
altogether. There is dignity in both these forms of resignation. They
represent distinct stages in the sobering process which man's primitive
intoxication with sense-happiness is sure to undergo. In the one the hot
blood has grown cool, in the other it has become quite cold; and although I
have spoken of them in the past tense, as if they were merely historic, yet
Stoicism and Epicureanism will probably be to all time typical attitudes,
marking a certain definite stage accomplished in the evolution of the
mark the conclusion of what we call the once-born period, and
represent the highest flights of what twice-born religion would call the
purely natural man--Epicureanism, which can only by great courtesy be called
a religion, showing his refinement, and Stoicism exhibiting his moral will.
They leave the world in the shape of an unreconciled contradiction, and
seek no higher unity. Compared with the complex ecstasies which the
supernaturally regenerated Christian may enjoy, or the oriental pantheist
indulge in, their receipts for equanimity are expedients which seem almost
crude in their simplicity.

Please observe, however, that I am not yet pretending finally to
*judge*any of these attitudes. I am only describing their variety.

The securest way to the rapturous sorts of happiness of which the
twice-born make report has as an historic matter of fact been through a
more radical pessimism than anything that we have yet considered. We have
seen how the lustre and enchantment may be rubbed off from the goods of
nature. But there is a pitch of unhappiness so great that the goods of
nature may be entirely forgotten, and all sentiment of their existence
vanish from the mental field. For this extremity of pessimism to be
reached, something more is needed than observation of life and reflection
upon death. The individual must in his own person become the prey of a
pathological melancholy. As the healthy-minded enthusiast succeeds in
ignoring evil's very existence, so the subject of melancholy is forced in
spite of himself to ignore that of all good whatever: for him it may no
longer have the least reality. Such sensitiveness and susceptibility to
mental pain is a rare occurrence where the nervous constitution is entirely
normal; one seldom finds it in a healthy subject even where he is the
victim of the most atrocious cruelties of outward fortune. So we note here
the neurotic constitution, of which I said so much in my first lecture,
making its active entrance on our scene, and destined to play a part in
much that follows. Since these experiences of melancholy are in the first
instance absolutely private and individual, I can now help myself out with
personal documents. Painful indeed they will be to listen to, and there is
almost an indecency in handling them in public. Yet they lie right in the
middle of our path; and if we are to touch the psychology of religion at
all seriously, we must be willing to forget conventionalities, and dive
below the smooth and lying official conversational surface.

One can distinguish many kinds of pathological depression. Sometimes it is
mere passive joylessness and dreariness, discouragement, dejection, lack of
taste and zest and spring. Professor Ribot has proposed the name
*anhedonia*to designate this condition.

"The state of *anhedonia*, if I may coin a new word to pair off with
*analgesia*," he writes, "has been very little studied, but it exists. A
young girl was smitten with a liver disease which for some time altered her
constitution. She felt no longer any affection for her father and mother.
She would have played with her doll, but it was impossible to find the
least pleasure in the act. The same things which formerly convulsed her
with laughter entirely failed to interest her now. Esquirol observed the
case of a very intelligent magistrate who was also a prey to hepatic
disease. Every emotion appeared dead within him. He manifested neither
perversion nor violence, but complete absence of emotional reaction. If he
went to the theatre, which he did out of habit, he could find no pleasure
there. The thought of his house, of his home, of his wife, and of his
absent children moved him as little, he said, as a theorem of

Prolonged seasickness will in most persons produce a temporary condition of
anhedonia. Every good, terrestial or celestial, is imagined only to be
turned from with disgust. A temporary condition of this sort, connected
with the religious evolution of a singularly lofty character, both
intellectual and moral, is well described by the Catholic philosopher,
Father Gratry, in his autobiographical recollections. In consequence of
mental isolation and excessive study at the Polytechnic school, young
Gratry fell into a state of nervous exhaustion with symptoms which he thus

"I had such a universal terror that I woke at night with a start, thinking
that the Pantheon was tumbling on the Polytechnic school, or that the
school was in flames, or that the Seine was pouring into the Catacombs, and
that Paris was being swallowed up. And when these impressions were past,
all day long without respite I suffered an incurable and intolerable
desolation, verging on despair. I thought myself, in fact, rejected by God,
lost, damned! I felt something like the suffering of hell. Before that I
had never even thought of hell. My mind had never turned in that direction.
Neither discourses nor reflections had impressed me in that way. I took no
account of hell. Now, and all at once, I suffered in a measure what is
suffered there.

"But what was perhaps still more dreadful is that every idea of heaven was
taken away from me: I could no longer conceive of anything of the sort.
Heaven did not seem to me worth going to. It was like a vacuum; a
mythological elysium, an abode of shadows less real than the earth. I could
conceive no joy, no pleasure in inhabiting it. Happiness, joy, light,
affection, love--all these words were now devoid of sense. Without doubt I
could still have talked of all these things, but I had become incapable of
feeling anything in them, of understanding anything about them, of hoping
anything from them, or of believing them to exist. There was my great and
inconsolable grief! I neither perceived nor conceived any longer the
existence of happiness or perfection. An abstract heaven over a naked rock.
Such was my present abode for

So much for melancholy in the sense of incapacity for joyous feeling. A
much worse form of it is positive and active anguish, a sort of psychical
neuralgia wholly unknown to healthy life. Such anguish may partake of
various characters, having sometimes more the quality of loathing;
sometimes that of irritation and exasperation; or again of self-mistrust
and self-despair; or of suspicion, anxiety, trepidation, fear. The patient
may rebel or submit; may accuse himself, or accuse outside powers; and he
may or he may not be tormented by the theoretical mystery of why he should
so have to suffer. Most cases are mixed cases, and we should not treat our
classifications with too much respect. Moreover, it is only a relatively
small proportion of cases that connect themselves with the religious sphere
of experience at all. Exasperated cases, for instance, as a rule do not. I
quote now literally from the first case of melancholy on which I lay my
hand. It is a letter from a patient in a French asylum.

"I suffer too much in this hospital, both physically and morally. Besides
the burnings and the sleeplessness (for I no longer sleep since I am shut
up here, and the little rest I get is broken by bad dreams, and I am waked
with a jump by nightmares, dreadful visions, lightning, thunder, and the
rest), fear, atrocious fear, presses me down, holds me without respite,
never lets me go. Where is the justice in it all! What have I done to
deserve this excess of severity? Under what form will this fear crush me?
What would I not owe to any one who would rid me of my life! Eat, drink,
lie awake all night, suffer without interruption--such is the fine legacy I
have received from my mother! What I fail to understand is this abuse of
power. There are limits to everything, there is a middle way. But God knows
neither middle way nor limits. I say God, but why? All I have known so far
has been the devil. After all, I am afraid of God as much as of the devil,
so I drift along, thinking of nothing but suicide, but with neither courage
nor means here to execute the act. As you read this, it will easily prove
to you my insanity. The style and the ideas are incoherent enough--I can see
that myself. But I cannot keep myself from being either crazy or an idiot;
and, as things are, from whom should I ask pity? I am defenseless against
the invisible enemy who is tightening his coils around me. I should be no
better armed against him even if I saw him, or had seen him. Oh, if he
would but kill me, devil take him! Death, death, once for all! But I stop.
I have raved to you long enough. I say raved, for I can write no otherwise,
having neither brain nor thoughts left. O God! what a misfortune to be
born! Born like a mushroom, doubtless between an evening and a morning; and
how true and right I was when in our philosophy-year in college I chewed
the cud of bitterness with the pessimists. Yes, indeed, there is more pain
in life than gladness--it is one long agony until the grave. Think how gay
it makes me to remember that this horrible misery of mine, coupled with
this unspeakable fear, may last fifty, one hundred, who knows how many more

This letter shows two things. First, you see how the entire consciousness
of the poor man is so choked with the feeling of evil that the sense of
there being any good in the world is lost for him altogether. His attention
excludes it, cannot admit it: the sun has left his heaven. And secondly you
see how the querulous temper of his misery keeps his mind from taking a
religious direction. Querulousness of mind tends in fact rather towards
irreligion; and it has played, so far as I know, no part whatever in the
construction of religious systems.

Religious melancholy must be cast in a more melting mood.
left us, in his book called My Confession, a wonderful account of the
attack of melancholy which led him to his own religious conclusions. The
latter in some respects are peculiar; but the melancholy presents two
characters which make it a typical document for our present purpose. First
it is a well-marked case of anhedonia, of passive loss of appetite for all
life's values; and second, it shows how the altered and estranged aspect
which the world assumed in consequence of this stimulated Tolstoy's
intellect to a gnawing, carking questioning and effort for philosophic
relief. I mean to quote Tolstoy at some length; but before doing so, I will
make a general remark on each of these two points.

First on our spiritual judgments and the sense of value in general.

It is notorious that facts are compatible with opposite emotional comments,
since the same fact will inspire entirely different feelings in different
persons, and at different times in the same person; and there is no
rationally deducible connection between any outer fact and the sentiments
it may happen to provoke. These have their source in another sphere of
existence altogether, in the animal and spiritual region of the subject's
being. Conceive yourself, if possible, suddenly stripped of all the emotion
with which your world now inspires you, and try to imagine it *as it exists*,
purely by itself, without your favorable or unfavorable, hopeful or
apprehensive comment. It will be almost impossible for you to realize such
a condition of negativity and deadness. No one portion of the universe
would then have importance beyond another; and the whole collection of its
things and series of its events would be without significance, character,
expression, or perspective. Whatever of value, interest, or meaning our
respective worlds may appear endued with are thus pure gifts of the
spectator's mind. The passion of love is the most familiar and extreme
example of this fact. If it comes, it comes; if it does not come, no
process of reasoning can force it. Yet it transforms the value of the
creature loved as utterly as the sunrise transforms Mont Blanc from a
corpse-like gray to a rosy enchantment; and it sets the whole world to a
new tune for the lover and gives a new issue to his life. So with fear,
with indignation, jealousy, ambition, worship. If they are there, life
changes. And whether they shall be there or not depends almost always
upon non-logical,
often on organic conditions. And as the excited interest which these
passions put into the world is our gift to the world, just so are the
passions themselves *gifts*,--gifts to us, from sources sometimes low and
sometimes high; but almost always non-logical and beyond our control. How
can the moribund old man reason back to himself the romance, the mystery,
the imminence of great things with which our old earth tingled for him in
the days when he was young and well? Gifts, either of the flesh or of the
spirit; and the spirit bloweth where it listeth; and the world's materials
lend their surface passively to all the gifts alike, as the stage-setting
receives indifferently whatever alternating colored lights may be shed upon
it from the optical apparatus in the gallery.

Meanwhile the practically real world for each one of us, the effective
world of the individual, is the compound world, the physical facts and
emotional values in indistinguishable combination. Withdraw or pervert
either factor of this complex resultant, and the kind of experience we call
pathological ensues.

In Tolstoy's case the sense that life had any meaning whatever was for a
time wholly withdrawn. The result was a transformation in the whole
expression of reality. When we come to study the phenomenon of conversion
or religious regeneration, we shall see that a not infrequent consequence
of the change operated in the subject is a transfiguration of the face of
nature in his eyes. A new heaven seems to shine upon a new earth. In
melancholiacs there is usually a similar change, only it is in the reverse
direction. The world now looks remote, strange, sinister, uncanny. Its
color is gone, its breath is cold, there is no speculation in the eyes it
glares with. "It is as if I lived in another century," says one asylum
see everything through a cloud," says another, "things are not as they
were, and I am changed."--"I see," says a third, "I touch, but the things do
not come near me, a thick veil alters the hue and look of
everything."--"Persons move like shadows, and sounds seem to come from a
distant world."--"There is no longer any past for me; people appear so
strange; it is as if I could not see any reality, as if I were in a
theatre; as if people were actors, and everything were scenery; I can no
longer find myself; I walk, but why? Everything floats before my eyes, but
leaves no impression."--"I weep false tears, I have unreal hands: the things
I see are not real things."--Such are expressions that naturally rise to the
lips of melancholy subjects describing their changed

Now there are some subjects whom all this leaves a prey to the profoundest
astonishment. The strangeness is wrong. The unreality cannot be. A mystery
is concealed, and a metaphysical solution must exist. If the natural world
is so double-faced and unhomelike, what world, what thing is real? An
urgent wondering and questioning is set up, a poring theoretic activity,
and in the desperate effort to get into right relations with the matter,
the sufferer is often led to what becomes for him a satisfying religious

At about the age of fifty, Tolstoy relates that he began to have moments of
perplexity, of what he calls arrest, as if he knew not 'how to live,' or
what to do. It is obvious that these were moments in which the excitement
and interest which our functions naturally bring had ceased. Life had been
enchanting, it was now flat sober, more than sober, dead. Things were
meaningless whose meaning had always been self-evident. The questions
'Why?' and 'What next?' began to beset him more and more frequently. At
first it seemed as if such questions must be answerable, and as if he could
easily find the answers if he would take the time; but as they ever became
more urgent, he perceived that it was like those first discomforts of a
sick man, to which he pays but little attention till they run into one
continuous suffering, and then he realizes that what he took for a passing
disorder means the most momentous thing in the world for him, means his

These questions 'Why?' 'Wherefore?' 'What for?' found no response.

"I felt," says Tolstoy, "that something had broken within me on which my
life had always rested, that I had nothing left to hold on to, and that
morally my life had stopped. An invincible force impelled me to get rid of
my existence, in one way or another. It cannot be said exactly that I
wished to kill myself, for the force which drew me away from life was
fuller, more powerful, more general than any mere desire. It was a force
like my old aspiration to live, only it impelled me in the opposite
direction. It was an aspiration of my whole being to get out of life.

"Behold me then, a man happy and in good health, hiding the rope in order
not to hang myself to the rafters of the room where every night I went to
sleep alone; behold me no longer going shooting, lest I should yield to the
too easy temptation of putting an end to myself with my gun.

"I did not know what I wanted. I was afraid of life; I was driven to leave
it; and in spite of that I still hoped something from it.

"All this took place at a time when so far as all my outer circumstances
went, I ought to have been completely happy. I had a good wife who loved me
and whom I loved; good children and a large property which was increasing
with no pains taken on my part. I was more respected by my kinsfolk
and acquaintance
than I had ever been; I was loaded with praise by strangers; and without
exaggeration I could believe my name already famous. Moreover I was neither
insane nor ill. On the contrary, I possessed a physical and mental strength
which I have rarely met in persons of my age. I could mow as well as the
peasants, I could work with my brain eight hours uninterruptedly and feel
no bad effects.

"And yet I could give no reasonable meaning to any actions of my life. And
I was surprised that I had not understood this from the very beginning. My
state of mind was as if some wicked and stupid jest was being played upon
me by some one. One can live only so long as one is intoxicated, drunk with
life; but when one grows sober one cannot fail to see that it is all a
stupid cheat. What is truest about it is that there is nothing even funny
or silly in it; it is cruel and stupid, purely and simply.

"The oriental fable of the traveler surprised in the desert by a wild beast
is very old.

"Seeking to save himself from the fierce animal, the traveler jumps into a
well with no water in it; but at the bottom of this well he sees a dragon
waiting with open mouth to devour him. And the unhappy man, not daring to
go out lest he should be the prey of the beast, not daring to jump to the
bottom lest he should be devoured by the dragon, clings to the branches of
a wild bush which grows out of one of the cracks of the well. His hands
weaken, and he feels that he must soon give way to certain fate; but still
he clings, and sees two mice, one white, the other black, evenly moving
round the bush to which he hangs, and gnawing off its roots.

"The traveler sees this and knows that he must inevitably perish; but while
thus hanging he looks about him and finds on the leaves of the bush some
drops of honey. These he reaches with his tongue and licks them off with

"Thus I hang upon the boughs of life, knowing that the inevitable dragon of
death is waiting ready to tear me, and I cannot comprehend why I am thus
made a martyr. I try to suck the honey which formerly consoled me; but the
honey pleases me no longer, and day and night the white mouse and the black
mouse gnaw the branch to which I cling. I can see but one thing: the
inevitable dragon and the mice--I cannot turn my gaze away from them.

"This is no fable, but the literal incontestable truth which every one may
understand. What will be the outcome of what I do to-day? Of what I shall
do to-morrow? What will be the outcome of all my life? Why should I live?
Why should I do anything? Is there in life any purpose which the inevitable
death which awaits me does not undo and destroy?

"These questions are the simplest in the world. From the stupid child to
the wisest old man, they are in the soul of every human being. Without an
answer to them, it is impossible, as I experienced, for life to go on.

"'But perhaps,' I often said to myself, 'there may be something I have
failed to notice or to comprehend. It is not possible that this condition
of despair should be natural to mankind.' And I sought for an explanation
in all the branches of knowledge acquired by men. I questioned painfully
and protractedly and with no idle curiosity. I sought, not with indolence,
but laboriously and obstinately for days and nights together. I sought like
a man who is lost and seeks to save himself,--and I found nothing. I became
convinced, moreover, that all those who before me had sought for an answer
in the sciences have also found nothing. And not only this, but that they
have recognized that the very thing which was leading me to despair--the
meaningless absurdity of life--is the only incontestable knowledge
accessible to man."

To prove this point, Tolstoy quotes the Buddha, Solomon, and Schopenhauer.
And he finds only four ways in which men of his own class and society are
accustomed to meet the situation. Either mere animal blindness, sucking the
honey without seeing the dragon or the mice,--"and from such away," he says,
"I can learn nothing, after what I now know;" or reflective epicureanism,
snatching what it can while the day lasts,--which is only a more deliberate
sort of stupefaction like the first; or manly suicide; or seeing the mice
and dragon and yet weakly and plaintively clinging to the bush of life.

Suicide was naturally the consistent course dictated by the logical
"Yet," says Tolstoy, "whilst my intellect was working, something else in me
was working too, and kept me from the deed--a consciousness of life, as I
may call it, which was like a force that obliged my mind to fix itself in
another direction and draw me out of my situation of despair. ... During the
whole course of this year, when I almost unceasingly kept asking myself how
to end the business, whether by the rope or by the bullet, during all that
time, alongside of all those movements of my ideas and observations, my
heart kept languishing with another pining emotion. I can call this by no
other name than that of a thirst for God. This craving for God had nothing
to do with the movement of my ideas,--in fact, it was the direct contrary of
that movement,--but it came from my heart. It was like a feeling of dread
that made me seem like an orphan and isolated in the midst of all these
things that were so foreign. And this feeling of dread was mitigated by the
hope of finding the assistance of some

Of the process, intellectual as well as emotional, which, starting from
this idea of God, led to Tolstoy's recovery, I will say nothing in this
lecture, reserving it for a later hour. The only thing that need interest
us now is the phenomenon of his absolute disenchantment with ordinary life,
and the fact that the whole range of habitual values may, to a man as
powerful and full of faculty as he was, come to appear so ghastly a mockery.

When disillusionment has gone as far as this, there is seldom a *restitutio
ad integrum*. One has tasted of the fruit of the tree, and the happiness of
Eden never comes again. The happiness that comes, when any does come,--and
often enough it fails to return in an acute form, though its form is
sometimes very acute,--is not the simple ignorance of ill, but something
vastly more complex, including natural evil as one of its elements, but
finding natural evil no such stumbling-block and terror because it now sees
it swallowed up in supernatural good. The process is one of redemption, not
of mere reversion to natural health, and the sufferer, when saved, is saved
by what seems to him a second birth, a deeper kind of conscious being than
he could enjoy before.

We find a somewhat different type of religious melancholy enshrined in
literature in John Bunyan <http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Author:John_Bunyan>'s
autobiography. Tolstoy's preoccupations were largely objective, for the
purpose and meaning of life in general was what so troubled him; but poor
Bunyan's troubles were over the condition of his own personal self. He was
a typical case of the psychopathic temperament, sensitive of conscience to
a diseased degree, beset by doubts, fears, and insistent ideas, and a
victim of verbal automatisms, both motor and sensory. These were usually
texts of Scripture which, sometimes damnatory and sometimes favorable,
would come in a half-hallucinatory form as if they were voices, and fasten
on his mind and buffet it between them like a shuttlecock. Added to this
were a fearful melancholy self-contempt and despair.

"Nay, thought I, now I grow worse and worse; now I am farther from
conversion than ever I was before. If now I should have burned at the
stake, I could not believe that Christ had love for me; alas, I could
neither hear him, nor see him, nor feel him, nor savor any of his things.
Sometimes I would tell my condition to the people of God, which, when they
heard, they would pity me, and would tell of the Promises. But they had as
good have told me that I must reach the Sun with my finger as have bidden
me receive or rely upon the Promise. [Yet] all this while as to the act of
sinning, I never was more tender than now; I durst not take a pin or stick,
though but so big as a straw, for my conscience now was sore, and would
smart at every touch; I could not tell how to speak my words, for fear I
should misplace them. Oh, how gingerly did I then go, in all I did or said!
I found myself as on a miry bog that shook if I did but stir; and was as
there left both by God and Christ, and the spirit, and all good things.

"But my original and inward pollution, that was my plague and my
affliction. By reason of that, I was more loathsome in my own eyes than was
a toad; and I thought I was so in God's eyes too. Sin and corruption, I
said, would as naturally bubble out of my heart as water would bubble out
of a fountain. I could have changed heart with anybody. I thought none but
the Devil himself could equal me for inward wickedness and pollution of
mind. Sure, thought I, I am forsaken of God; and thus I continued a long
while, even for some years together.

"And now I was sorry that God had made me a man. The beasts, birds, fishes,
etc., I blessed their condition, for they had not a sinful nature; they
were not obnoxious to the wrath of God; they were not to go to hell-fire
after death. I could therefore have rejoiced, had my condition been as any
of theirs. Now I blessed the condition of the dog and toad, yea, gladly
would I have been in the condition of the dog or horse, for I knew they had
no soul to perish under the everlasting weight of Hell or Sin, as mine was
like to do. Nay, and though I saw this, felt this, and was broken to pieces
with it, yet that which added to my sorrow was, that I could not find with
all my soul that I did desire deliverance. My heart was at times
exceedingly hard. If I would have given a thousand pounds for a tear, I
could not shed one; no, nor sometimes scarce desire to shed one.

"I was both a burthen and a terror to myself; nor did I ever so know, as
now, what it was to be weary of my life, and yet afraid to die. How gladly
would I have been anything but myself! Anything but a man! and in any
condition but my

Poor patient Bunyan, like Tolstoy, saw the light again, but we must also
postpone that part of his story to another hour. In a later lecture I will
also give the end of the experience of Henry Alline, a devoted evangelist
who worked in Nova Scotia a hundred years ago, and who thus vividly
describes the high-water mark of the religious melancholy which formed its
beginning. The type was not unlike Bunyan's.
"Everything I saw seemed to be a burden to me; the earth seemed accursed
for my sake: all trees, plants, rocks, hills, and vales seemed to be
dressed in mourning and groaning, under the weight of the curse, and
everything around me seemed to be conspiring my ruin. My sins seemed to be
laid open; so that I thought that every one I saw knew them, and sometimes
I was almost ready to acknowledge many things, which I thought they knew:
yea sometimes it seemed to me as if every one was pointing me out as the
most guilty wretch upon earth. I had now so great a sense of the vanity and
emptiness of all things here below, that I knew the whole world could not
possibly make me happy, no, nor the whole system of creation. When I waked
in the morning, the first thought would be, Oh, my wretched soul, what
shall I do, where shall I go? And when I laid down, would say, I shall be
perhaps in hell before morning. I would many times look on the beasts with
envy, wishing with all my heart I was in their place, that I might have no
soul to lose; and when I have seen birds flying over my head, have often
thought within myself, Oh, that I could fly away from my danger and
distress! Oh, how happy should I be, if I were in their

Envy of the placid beasts seems to be a very widespread affection in this
type of sadness.

The worst kind of melancholy is that which takes the form of panic fear.
Here is an excellent example, for permission to print which I have to thank
the sufferer. The original is in French, and though the subject was
evidently in a bad nervous condition at the time of which he writes, his
case has otherwise the merit of extreme simplicity. I translate freely.

"Whilst in this state of philosophic pessimism and general depression of
spirits about my prospects, I went one evening into a dressing-room in the
twilight to procure some article that was there; when suddenly there fell
upon me without any warning, just as if it came out of the darkness, a
horrible fear of my own existence. Simultaneously there arose in my mind
the image of an epileptic patient whom I had seen in the asylum, a
black-haired youth with greenish skin, entirely idiotic, who used to sit
all day on one of the benches, or rather shelves against the wall, with his
knees drawn up against his chin, and the coarse gray undershirt, which was
his only garment, drawn over them inclosing his entire figure. He sat there
like a sort of sculptured Egyptian cat or Peruvian mummy, moving nothing
but his black eyes and looking absolutely non-human. This image and my fear
entered into a species of combination with each other. *That shape am I*, I
felt, potentially. Nothing that I possess can defend me against that fate,
if the hour for it should strike for me as it struck for him. There was
such a horror of him, and such a perception of my own merely momentary
discrepancy from him, that it was as if something hitherto solid within my
breast gave way entirely, and I became a mass of quivering fear. After this
the universe was changed for me altogether. I awoke morning after morning
with a horrible dread at the pit of my stomach, and with a sense of the
insecurity of life that I never knew before, and that I have never felt
was like a revelation; and although the immediate
feelings passed away, the experience has made me sympathetic with the
morbid feelings of others ever since. It gradually faded, but for months I
was unable to go out into the dark alone.

"In general I dreaded to be left alone. I remember wondering how other
people could live, how I myself had ever lived, so unconscious of that pit
of insecurity beneath the surface of life. My mother in particular, a very
cheerful person, seemed to me a perfect paradox in her unconsciousness of
danger, which you may well believe I was very careful not to disturb by
revelations of my own state of mind. I have always thought that this
experience of melancholia of mine had a religious bearing."

On asking this correspondent to explain more fully what he meant by these
last words, the answer he wrote was this:--
"I mean that the fear was so invasive and powerful that if I had not clung
to scripture-texts like 'The eternal God is my refuge,' etc., 'Come unto
me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden,' etc., 'I am the resurrection
and the life,' etc., I think I should have grown really

There is no need of more examples. The cases we have looked at are enough.
One of them gives us the vanity of mortal things; another the sense of sin;
and the remaining one describes the fear of the universe;--and in one or
other of these three ways it always is that man's original optimism and
self-satisfaction get leveled with the dust.

In none of these cases was there any intellectual insanity or delusion
about matters of fact; but were we disposed to open the chapter of really
insane melancholia, with its hallucinations and delusions, it would be a
worse story still--desperation absolute and complete, the whole universe
coagulating about the sufferer into a material of overwhelming horror,
surrounding him without opening or end. Not the conception or intellectual
perception of evil, but the grisly blood-freezing heart-palsying sensation
of it close upon one, and no other conception or sensation able to live for
a moment in its presence. How irrelevantly remote seem all our usual
refined optimisms and intellectual and moral consolations in presence of a
need of help like this! Here is the real core of the religious problem:
Help! help! No prophet can claim to bring a final message unless he says
things that will have a sound of reality in the ears of victims such as
these. But the deliverance must come in as strong a form as the complaint,
if it is to take effect; and that seems a reason why the coarser religions,
revivalistic, orgiastic, with blood and miracles and supernatural
operations, may possibly never be displaced. Some constitutions need them
too much.

Arrived at this point, we can see how great an antagonism may naturally
arise between the healthy-minded way of viewing life and the way that takes
all this experience of evil as something essential. To this latter way, the
morbid-minded way, as we might call it, healthy-mindedness pure and simple
seems unspeakably blind and shallow. To the healthy-minded way, on the
other hand, the way of the sick soul seems unmanly and diseased. With their
grubbing in rat-holes instead of living in the light; with their
manufacture of fears, and preoccupation with every unwholesome kind of
misery, there is something almost obscene about these children of wrath and
cravers of a second birth. If religious intolerance and hanging and burning
could again become the order of the day, there is little doubt that,
however it may have been in the past, the healthy-minded would at present
show themselves the less indulgent party of the two.

In our own attitude, not yet abandoned, of impartial onlookers, what are we
to say of this quarrel? It seems to me that we are bound to say that
morbid-mindedness ranges over the wider scale of experience, and that its
survey is the one that overlaps. The method of averting one's attention
from evil, and living simply in the light of good is splendid as long as it
will work. It will work with many persons; it will work far more generally
than most of us are ready to suppose; and within the sphere of its
successful operation there is nothing to be said against it as a religious
solution. But it breaks down impotently as soon as melancholy comes; and
even though one be quite free from melancholy one's self, there is no doubt
that healthy-mindedness is inadequate as a philosophical doctrine, because
the evil facts which it refuses positively to account for are a genuine
portion of reality; and they may after all be the best key to life's
significance, and possibly the only openers of our eyes to the deepest
levels of truth.

The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those which
insane melancholy is filled with, moments in which radical evil gets its
innings and takes its solid turn. The lunatic's visions of horror are all
drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization is founded on the
shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of
helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive there
yourself! To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of geologic times is hard
for our imagination--they seem too much like mere museum specimens. Yet
there is no tooth in any one of those museum-skulls that did not daily
through long years of the foretime hold fast to the body struggling in
despair of some fated living victim. Forms of horror just as dreadful to
their victims, if on a smaller spatial scale, fill the world about us
to-day. Here on our very hearths and in our gardens the infernal cat plays
with the panting mouse, or holds the hot bird fluttering in her jaws.
Crocodiles and rattlesnakes and pythons are at this moment vessels of life
as real as we are; their loathsome existence fills every minute of every
day that drags its length along; and whenever they or other wild beasts
clutch their living prey, the deadly horror which an agitated melancholiac
feels is the literally right reaction on the

It may indeed be that no religious reconciliation with the absolute
totality of things is possible. Some evils, indeed, are ministerial to
higher forms of good; but it may be that there are forms of evil so extreme
as to enter into no good system whatsoever, and that, in respect of such
evil, dumb submission or neglect to notice is the only practical resource.
This question must confront us on a later day. But provisionally, and as a
mere matter of program and method, since the evil facts are as genuine
parts of nature as the good ones, the philosophic presumption should be
that they have some rational significance, and that systematic
healthy-mindedness, failing as it does to accord to sorrow, pain, and death
any positive and active attention whatever, is formally less complete than
systems that try at least to include these elements in their scope.

The completest religions would therefore seem to be those in which the
pessimistic elements are best developed. Buddhism, of course, and
Christianity are the best known to us of these. They are essentially
religions of deliverance: the man must die to an unreal life before he can
be born into the real life. In my next lecture, I will try to discuss some
of the psychological conditions of this second birth. Fortunately from now
onward we shall have to deal with more cheerful subjects than those which
we have recently been dwelling on.

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