the unincorporated and warring elements that seemed at first altogether absent from the synthesis of conversion.  We are tripped up by forgetfulness, by distraction, by old habits, by tricks of appearance.  There come dull patches of existence; those mysterious obliterations of one’s finer sense that are due at times to the little minor poisons one eats or drinks, to phases of fatigue, ill-health and bodily disorder, or one is betrayed by some unanticipated storm of emotion, brewed deep in the animal being and released by any trifling accident, such as personal jealousy or lust, or one is relaxed by contentment into vanity.  All these rebel forces of our ill-coordinated selves, all these “disharmonies,” of the inner being, snatch us away from our devotion to God’s service, carry us off to follies, offences, unkindness, waste, and leave us compromised, involved, and regretful, perplexed by a hundred difficulties we have put in our own way back to God.

This is the personal problem of Sin.  Here prayer avails; here God can help us.  From God comes the strength to repent and make such reparation as we can, to begin the battle again further back and lower down.  From God comes the power to anticipate the struggle with one’s rebel self, and to resist and prevail over it.

4.  The sins of the insane

An extreme case is very serviceable in such a discussion as this.

It happens that the author carries on a correspondence with several lunatics in asylums.  There is a considerable freedom of notepaper in these institutions; the outgoing letters are no doubt censored or selected in some way, but a proportion at any rate are allowed to go out to their addresses.  As a journalist who signs his articles and as the author of various books of fiction, as a frequent name, that is, to any one much forced back upon reading, the writer is particularly accessible to this type of correspondent.  The letters come, some manifesting a hopeless disorder that permits of no reply, but some being the expression of minds overlaid not at all offensively by a web of fantasy, and some (and these are the more touching ones and the ones that most concern us now) as sanely conceived and expressed as any letters could be.  They are written by people living lives very like the lives of us who are called “sane,” except that they lift to a higher excitement and fall to a lower depression, and that these extremer phases of mania or melancholia slip the leash of mental consistency altogether and take abnormal forms.  They tap deep founts of impulse, such as we of the safer ways of mediocrity do but glimpse under the influence of drugs, or in dreams and rare moments of controllable extravagance.  Then the insane become “glorious,” or they become murderous, or they become suicidal.  All these letter-writers in confinement have convinced their fellow-creatures by some extravagance that they are a danger to themselves or others.