i
Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days: that I may be
certified how long I have to live (Ps. xxxix. 5).
Of all prayers this is the insanest. That the one who uttered it should
have made and retained a reputation is a strong argument in favour of his
having been surrounded with courtiers. “Lord, let me not know mine end”
would be better, only it would be praying for what God has already
granted us. “Lord, let me know A.B.’s end” would be bad enough. Even
though A.B. were Mr. Gladstone—we might hear he was not to die yet.
“Lord, stop A.B. from knowing my end” would be reasonable, if there were
any use in praying that A.B. might not be able to do what he never can
do. Or can the prayer refer to the other end of life? “Lord, let me
know my beginning.” This again would not be always prudent.
The prayer is a silly piece of petulance and it would have served the
maker of it right to have had it granted. “A painful and lingering
disease followed by death” or “Ninety, a burden to yourself and every one
else”—there is not so much to pick and choose between them. Surely, “I
thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast hidden mine end from me” would be
better. The sting of death is in foreknowledge of the when and the how.
If again he had prayed that he might be able to make his psalms a little
more lively, and be saved from becoming the bore which he has been to so
many generations of sick persons and young children—or that he might find
a publisher for them with greater facility—but there is no end to it.
The prayer he did pray was about the worst he could have prayed and the
psalmist, being the psalmist, naturally prayed it—unless I have misquoted
him.
ii
Prayers are to men as dolls are to children. They are not without use
and comfort, but it is not easy to take them very seriously. I dropped
saying mine suddenly once for all without malice prepense, on the night
of the 29th of September, 1859, when I went on board the _Roman Emperor_
to sail for New Zealand. I had said them the night before and doubted
not that I was always going to say them as I always had done hitherto.
That night, I suppose, the sense of change was so great that it shook
them quietly off. I was not then a sceptic; I had got as far as
disbelief in infant baptism but no further. I felt no compunction of
conscience, however, about leaving off my morning and evening
prayers—simply I could no longer say them.
iii
Lead us not into temptation (Matt. vi. 13).
For example; I am crossing from Calais to Dover and there is a well-known
popular preacher on board, say Archdeacon Farrar.
I have my camera in my hand and though the sea is rough the sun is
brilliant. I see the archdeacon come on board at Calais and seat himself
upon the upper deck, looking as though he had just stepped out of a
band-box. Can I be expected to resist the temptation of snapping him?
Suppose that in the train for an hour before reaching Calais I had said
any number of times, “Lead us not into temptation,” is it likely that the
archdeacon would have been made to take some other boat or to stay in
Calais, or that I myself, by being delayed on my homeward journey, should
have been led into some other temptation, though perhaps smaller? Had I
not better snap him and have done with it? Is there enough chance of
good result to make it worth while to try the experiment? The general
consensus of opinion is that there is not.
And as for praying for strength to resist temptation—granted that if,
when I saw the archdeacon in the band-box stage, I had immediately prayed
for strength I might have been enabled to put the evil thing from me for
a time, how long would this have been likely to last when I saw his face
grow saintlier and saintlier? I am an excellent sailor myself, but he is
not, and when I see him there, his eyes closed and his head thrown back,
like a sleeping St. Joseph in a shovel hat, with a basin beside him, can
I expect to be saved from snapping him by such a formula as “Deliver us
from evil”?
Is it in photographer’s nature to do so? When David found himself in the
cave with Saul he cut off one of Saul’s coattails; if he had had a camera
and there had been enough light he would have photographed him; but would
it have been in flesh and blood for him neither to cut off his coat-tail
nor to snap him?
There is a photographer in every bush, going about like a roaring lion
seeking whom he may devour.
iv
Teach me to live that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed.
This is from the evening hymn which all respectable children are taught.
It sounds well, but it is immoral.
Our own death is a premium which we must pay for the far greater benefit
we have derived from the fact that so many people have not only lived but
also died before us. For if the old ones had not in course of time gone
there would have been no progress; all our civilisation is due to the
arrangement whereby no man shall live for ever, and to this huge mass of
advantage we must each contribute our mite; that is to say, when our turn
comes we too must die. The hardship is that interested persons should be
able to scare us into thinking the change we call death to be the
desperate business which they make it out to be. There is no hardship in
having to suffer that change.
Bishop Ken, however, goes too far. Undesirable, of course, death must
always be to those who are fairly well off, but it is undesirable that
any living being should live in habitual indifference to death. The
indifference should be kept for worthy occasions, and even then, though
death be gladly faced, it is not healthy that it should be faced as
though it were a mere undressing and going to bed.
XIV
Higgledy-Piggledy