I do not know about those things. There may be a God, there may be a
"Heaven," there may be an immortal soul. And a man might accept all I
say about religion without giving up any hope his faith may bid him hold
as to a future life.
As to those "counsels of despair" the question puzzles me. Despair of
what?
Let me put the matter as I see it. I think sometimes, in a dubious
way, that perhaps there may be a life beyond the grave. And that is
interesting. But I think my stronger, and deeper, and more permanent
feeling is that when we die we die finally, and for us there is no more
life at all. That is, I suppose, my real belief--or supposition. But do
I despair? Why should I? The idea of immortality does not elate me very
much. As I said just now, it is interesting. But I am not excited about
it. If there is another innings, we will go in and play our best; and we
hope we shall be very much better and kinder than we have been. But if
it is sleep: well, sleep is rest, and as I feel that I have had a really
good time, on the whole, I should consider it greedy to cry because I
could not have it all over again. That is how I feel about it. Despair?
I am one of the happiest old fogeys in all London. I have found life
agreeable and amusing, and I'm glad I came. But I am not so infatuated
with life that I should care to go back and begin it all again. And
though a new start, in a new world, would be--yes, interesting--I am
not going to howl because old Daddy Death says it is bed-time. I think
somebody, or something, has been very good to allow me to come in and
see the fun, and stay so long, especially as I came in, so to speak "on
my face." But to beg for another invitation would be cheeky. Some of you
want such a lot for nothing.
"But," you may say, "the poor, the failures, the wretched--what of
them?" And I answer: "Ah! that is one of the weak points of _your_
religion, not of mine." Consider these unhappy ones, what do you offer
them? You offer them an everlasting bliss, not because they were starved
or outraged here--not at all. For your religion admits the probability
that those who came into this world worst equipped, who have here been
most unfortunate, and to whom God and man have behaved most unjustly,
will stand a far greater chance of a future of woe than of happiness.
No. According to your religion, those of the poor or the weak who get
to Heaven will get there, not because they have been wronged and must be
righted, but because they believe that Jesus Christ can save them.
Now, contrast that awful muddle of unreason and injustice with what
you call my "counsels of despair." I say there may be a future life and
there may not be a future life. If there is a future life, a man will
deserve it no less, and enjoy it no less, for having been happy here.
If there is no future life, he who has been unhappy here will have lost
both earthly happiness and heavenly hope.
Therefore, I say, it is our duty to see that all our fellow-creatures
are as happy here as we can make them.
Therefore I say to my fellow-creatures, "Do not consent to suffer, and
to be wronged in this world, for it is immoral and weak so to submit;
but hold up your heads, and demand your rights, here and now, and leave
the rest to God, or to Fate."
You see, I am not trying to rob any man of his hope of Heaven; I am only
trying to inspire his hope on earth.
But I have been asked whether I think it right and wise to "shake the
faith of the poor working man--the faith that has helped him so long."
What has this faith helped him to do? To bear the ills and the wrongs
of this life more patiently, in the hope of a future reward? Is that the
idea? But I do not want the working man to endure patiently the ills and
wrongs of this life. I want him, for his own sake, his wife's sake,
his children's sake, and for the sake of right and progress, to demand
justice, and to help in the work of amending the conditions of life on
earth.
No, I do not want to rob the working-man of his faith: I want to awaken
his faith--in himself.
Religion promises us a future Heaven, where we shall meet once more
those "whom we have loved long since and lost awhile," and that is the
most potent lure that could be offered to poor humanity.
How much of the so-called "universal instinct of belief" arises from
that pathetic human yearning for reunion with dear friends, sweet wives,
or pretty children "lost awhile"? It is human love and natural longing
for the dead darlings, whose wish is father to the thought of Heaven.
Before that passionate sentiment reason itself would almost stand
abashed: were reason antagonistic to the "larger hope"--which none can
prove.
Few of us can keep our emotions from overflowing the bounds of reason in
such a case. The poor, tearful desire lays a pale hand on reason's lips
and gazes wistfully into the mysterious abyss of the Great Silence.
So I say of that "larger hope," cherish it if you can, and if you feel
it necessary to your peace of mind. But do not mistake a hope for a
certainty. No priest, nor pope, nor prophet can tell you more about that
mystery than you know. It is a riddle, and your guess or mine may be as
near as that of a genius. We can only guess. We do not know.
Is it wise, then, to sell even a fraction of your liberty of thought or
deed for a paper promise which the Bank of Futurity may fail to honour?
Is it wise, is it needful, to abandon a single right, to abate one just
demand, to neglect one possibility of happiness here and now, in order
to fulfil the conditions laid down for the attainment of that promised
Heaven by a crowd of contradictory theologians who know no more about
God or about the future than we know ourselves?
Death has dropped a curtain of mystery between us and those we love. No
theologian knows, nor ever did know, what is hidden behind that veil.
Let us, then, do our duty here, try to be happy here, try to make others
happy here, and when the curtain lifts for us--we shall see.