CAN I ATTAIN HOPE AT LAST?
“Jean Paul Richter says that many sensitive people feel most depressed
at midday in Midsummer, _i.e._, when the brilliant light and luxuriance
of this world are at the full glory of their perfection. Does not this
show how unsatisfactory are the best states and capabilities of this
world, and how impossible it is to attain perfect happiness here below.
Yes,” continued Aunt Jane, “and to think that there are no beings more
perfect than ourselves, no higher intelligence than weak sinning
mortals--that babies struggle and cry through their painful teething,
and old age through its numerous infirmities, all in vain!--that they
can never, never enjoy an unalloyed happiness, after all their bodily
and mental sufferings, never attain the perfection all the best of us
long for. What a prospect! To think that all the high-minded and
beautiful teachings of Scripture are all delusions! Well, but if they
were even invented by mortals, does not that even show that the mortals
who could thus aspire after perfection, and hope for everlasting life,
will and must attain it?”
“It seems indeed,” I said, “as if man were the only animal made for
suffering--I mean, that the higher his faculties are developed, the
greater his capacity for suffering as well as joy. This, and the fact
that hope is his chief characteristic, would show that he is destined
for a better life than _this_ world can afford. But still the origin of
evil is the great stumbling-block to a thinking and inquiring mind--”
“It is,” replied Aunt Jane, “difficult to remember that this probation
ought to ensure a higher degree of happiness, if our free will has been
rightly directed. Nothing in nature, or literature, or science can solve
the enigma of our condition in this beautiful world, except the account
given in Scripture. If we can believe that Volume, all the misery and
sinfulness of human nature become intelligible. What else can account
for our state here below? A set of beings placed in a condition which
make them wish and hope for a happiness and perfection which, very
certainly, never can in this world be attained. Do not we all,”
continued Aunt Jane, “feel that we improve as we grow older in goodness?
Do not our aspirations after real happiness--the happiness of goodness
and love--become stronger, and therefore we become more fit for eternal
happiness? This in spite of bodily decay, loss of hearing or sight, or
even of the increased irritability which seems to indicate less
amiability; and even the decay of the mental powers of application or
study. I am sure we do. And also does not the above prove that we are
tending towards immortality, becoming fit to enjoy that state of mind
or being which can alone render eternity enjoyable, or even bearable?”
“Yet all old people do not improve,” said I.
“No; but those invariably do who are actuated by the spirit of religion.
I grant you that one of the most depressing things to be met with in
advancing age is to find old friends changed by what appears to us the
worldly or unbelieving bad spirit of the times. To see old friends
gradually imbued with the sceptical scoffing and doubting spirit of
these days--a spirit which did not outwardly show itself on the
countenances of well-bred people of fifty, or more years ago, is very
sad.”
I suppose this must have been the fate of susceptible and thinking
persons in all ages. It may not prove at all that mankind has become
worse, but that different kinds of vices or failings become more or less
developed at various periods, and that as we live on, we are more struck
with the particular fault which happened _not_ to show itself so much in
our youth. Things are very long in operating; and well-born young London
faces of the present day are only beginning to take the stamp which the
scoffers of Voltaire’s time began to print on the features of mankind.
What will remove this fatal and ugly mark?
* * * * *
One day, when I had been talking of old age, I said, “Originality
doubtless increases with age.”
“Yes, it does so,” said Aunt Jane, “and my difference from most other
people has increased most inconveniently, and now prevents me from
agreeing fully with, or condemning wholly, anyone.”
“I have observed that your faculty for seeing all round, and seeing also
the good in everything and everybody, must make you very solitary. So
far can I fully agree with you.”
“Not entirely solitary,” said Aunt Jane, “for I can generally, almost
always, feel the kindness of God towards me. I feel (particularly when
suffering, or in misfortune) that He is _loving_ me and comforting me.
We find it so difficult to believe that responsibility (the power to
choose evil or good) was given to us in order to attain a higher degree
of happiness. Is not this the case?”
“Often,” I said; “and then, again, I find myself wasting whole hours in
wondering about the reasons of my unbelief.”
“Loss of time,” said Aunt Jane, “is chiefly that which impedes and
retards our acquirement of Faith.”
“Has the loss of time,” I asked, “engendered by the doubt created in my
mind by the entering into or studying more fully the doctrine of
different churches been really lost, or will it ever lead to better
faith and hope?”
“I trust and believe it will.”
“Is it because I am so grasping and covetous,” said I, “that I cannot
enjoy the beautiful world in its highest beauty, at those times when my
faith in future happiness, _i.e._, in Revelation and the promises of
Scripture, is weak? Ah! how sadly often is my faith weak! I feel so
worldly in my religion, so exactly like the so-called worldly lady who
is always calculating for the future of herself and family, always
thinking of the ends to be gained, so that she never fully enjoys the
present.”
“In that point of view I am worldly too,” said Aunt Jane, laughing.
“Yes--but don’t interrupt--it is exactly the same, only my anxiety
carries me a little further, and, so far from being satisfied with any
future advantage in this world, I am still more avariciously craving for
future happiness in the next. I am so greedy for this, that nothing--no
other hope can satisfy me. Stop. I exaggerate the text, to work out my
salvation in fear and trembling, always thinking what God will give me,
and those I love, in the next world, and how I shall be with
them--whether for ever freed from all remorse and self-reproach. Yes, I
am the most calculating--that is, worldly of you all.”
“It must, I think, be a blessing to be calculating and worldly after
that fashion,” said I. “But it is rather of a different kind from the
unscrupulous cupidity of Mrs. Powdler, in the story you were reading to
me yesterday.”
“Ah!” continued Aunt Jane, “what strikes me most in these modern novels
is the total absence of any religious sentiment. No one could tell from
reading them whether any of the characters were Christians or Jews, or
anything else. From this proceeds the low standard--the absence of high
and noble sentiment, in the books which are gradually demoralizing our
youth. Does it not stand to reason that it must be much better for us to
believe that an unseen eye is always watching our thoughts, and seeing
more into our hidden motives than even our best friend or keenest enemy
can do? How can we dare to cherish hatred, revenge, and malice, if we
feel that His eye is upon us? And the effort to be good towards others
increases within ourselves that happiness for which we crave, as you
will find when you grow older. Because a loving frame of mind is so much
happier than a hating state--an amiable heart than a proud one. There
is always some of the bitterness of hatred when we feel that we have
been injured or ill-treated, or that our friends have not done enough
for us. Most certainly ‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’”
“It is very difficult,” I said, “to realise an eternity of what one so
seldom feels--happiness. I try to be in a thankful state of mind, and
most of my prayers are thanksgivings, but I so very seldom feel really
happy, that I can scarcely ever imagine an eternity or any length of
time of it. In these sad humours I can fully realise all the punishment
and torture which await such sinners as myself, but I seem totally
unable to believe the beautiful Revelation which promises happiness to
those who do their best. I cannot believe that my ‘bad’ could ever have
been, or will be, ‘best.’ It must be a mental disease which can thus put
faith in one part of immortality, _i.e._, everlasting torture, and yet
have no faith in the beautiful Scriptures, which declare that ‘Blessed
are the meek,’ ‘Blessed are those that mourn.’ I can’t see that all the
sufferings, bodily and mental, can ever give wicked _me_ the kingdom of
heaven. I often think that if in a future life I could obtain a visible
certainty that those I love most were enjoying eternal happiness, this
certain consciousness of it would be sufficient for me. I mean that, if
I were doomed to retain the miserable feeling of remorse, and guilt, and
shortcoming which almost incessantly torment me here below in this
imperfect world, the consciousness of my loved one’s happiness would
make this, my state of misery, bearable. I can so fully realise the
_justice_ of my suffering from remorse--in fact, it is more satisfactory
when I can feel that what I suffer is caused by my own fault, than the
despairing insensibility to sin, the self-pity, or the murmuring pride
which visit some of my darkest hours. If eternity could be like what I
feel at my bright moments, I should be fully satisfied. I cannot realise
that I could ever inherit the joys eternal which are promised to those
who love God; for alas! in my dark hours I only really love or realise
my fellow-creatures, although I am always praying to the Unseen, and
giving Him thanks for all my unmerited blessings. But the conviction
through eternity that those I love are happy, even if I am doomed to a
consciousness of my own sin and consequent remorse, would be far
preferable to the ever-haunting dread I now experience, that there may
be no hereafter for them--that all their sufferings, all their patience
and goodness may attain no reward!--that all the perfections they have
attained through probation and agony would only end in
annihilation!--that they should have suffered and striven and prayed in
vain! This, of course, shews that my only happy moments are those when I
can hope that revelation is true, and the doubt of futurity, or, rather,
dread of annihilation, is my almost absorbing misery.”
“It will not be always so,” said Aunt Jane.
“I think--I trust,” I said, “that Almighty God may grant my prayers for
faith and hope, because He has (probably in His mercy) given me trials
which have not been occasional suffering, but such as I cannot forget
even in my dreams.”