Tracks of a Rolling Stone [75]
I pictured him making his tea, broiling some of William's trout, and spreading his things before the fire to dry. I could see the animals moving around the glow. It was my home. How I yearned for it! How should I reach it, if ever? In this frame of mind the attempt was irresistible. I started as near as I could from opposite the two islands. As on horseback, I got pretty easily to the first island. Beyond this I was taken off my feet by the stream; and only with difficulty did I once more regain the land.
My next object was to communicate with Samson. By putting both hands to my mouth and shouting with all my force I made him hear. I could see him get up and come to the water's edge; though he could not see me, his stentorian voice reached me plainly. His first words were:
'"Is that you, William? Coke is drowned."
'I corrected him, and thus replied:
'"Do you remember a bend near some willows, where you wanted to cross yesterday?"
'"Yes."
'"About two hours higher up the river?"
'"I remember."
'"Would you know the place again?"
'"Yes."
'"Are you sure?
'"Yes, yes."
'"You will see me by daylight in the morning. When I start, you will take my mare, my clothes, and some food; make for that place and wait till I come. I will cross there."
'"All right."
'"Keep me in sight as long as you can. Don't forget the food."
'It will be gathered from my words that definite instructions were deemed necessary; and the inference - at least it was mine - will follow, that if a mistake were possible Samson would avail himself of it. The night was before me. The river had yet to be crossed. But, strange as it now seems to me, I had no misgivings! My heart never failed me. My prayer had been heard. I had been saved. How, I knew not. But this I knew, my trust was complete. I record this as a curious psychological occurrence; for it supported me with unfailing energy through the severe trial which I had yet to undergo.'
CHAPTER XXVI
OUR experiences are little worth unless they teach us to reflect. Let us then pause to consider this hourly experience of human beings - this remarkable efficacy of prayer. There can hardly be a contemplative mind to which, with all its difficulties, the inquiry is not familiar.
To begin with, 'To pray is to expect a miracle.' 'Prayer in its very essence,' says a thoughtful writer, 'implies a belief in the possible intervention of a power which is above nature.' How was it in my case? What was the essence of my belief? Nothing less than this: that God would have permitted the laws of nature, ordained by His infinite wisdom to fulfil His omniscient designs and pursue their natural course in accordance with His will, had not my request persuaded Him to suspend those laws in my favour.
The very belief in His omniscience and omnipotence subverts the spirit of such a prayer. It is on the perfection of God that Malebranche bases his argument that 'Dieu n'agit pas par des volontes particulieres.' Yet every prayer affects to interfere with the divine purposes.
It may here be urged that the divine purposes are beyond our comprehension. God's purposes may, in spite of the inconceivability, admit the efficacy of prayer as a link in the chain of causation; or, as Dr. Mozely holds, it may be that 'a miracle is not an anomaly or irregularity, but part of the system of the universe.' We will not entangle ourselves in the abstruse metaphysical problem which such hypotheses involve, but turn for our answer to what we do know - to the history of this world, to the daily life of man. If the sun rises on the evil as well as on the good, if the wicked 'become old, yea, are mighty in power,' still, the lightning, the plague, the falling chimney-pot, smite the good as well as the evil. Even the dumb animal is not spared. 'If,' says Huxley, 'our ears were sharp enough to hear all the cries of pain that are uttered in the earth by man and beasts we should be deafened by one continuous
My next object was to communicate with Samson. By putting both hands to my mouth and shouting with all my force I made him hear. I could see him get up and come to the water's edge; though he could not see me, his stentorian voice reached me plainly. His first words were:
'"Is that you, William? Coke is drowned."
'I corrected him, and thus replied:
'"Do you remember a bend near some willows, where you wanted to cross yesterday?"
'"Yes."
'"About two hours higher up the river?"
'"I remember."
'"Would you know the place again?"
'"Yes."
'"Are you sure?
'"Yes, yes."
'"You will see me by daylight in the morning. When I start, you will take my mare, my clothes, and some food; make for that place and wait till I come. I will cross there."
'"All right."
'"Keep me in sight as long as you can. Don't forget the food."
'It will be gathered from my words that definite instructions were deemed necessary; and the inference - at least it was mine - will follow, that if a mistake were possible Samson would avail himself of it. The night was before me. The river had yet to be crossed. But, strange as it now seems to me, I had no misgivings! My heart never failed me. My prayer had been heard. I had been saved. How, I knew not. But this I knew, my trust was complete. I record this as a curious psychological occurrence; for it supported me with unfailing energy through the severe trial which I had yet to undergo.'
CHAPTER XXVI
OUR experiences are little worth unless they teach us to reflect. Let us then pause to consider this hourly experience of human beings - this remarkable efficacy of prayer. There can hardly be a contemplative mind to which, with all its difficulties, the inquiry is not familiar.
To begin with, 'To pray is to expect a miracle.' 'Prayer in its very essence,' says a thoughtful writer, 'implies a belief in the possible intervention of a power which is above nature.' How was it in my case? What was the essence of my belief? Nothing less than this: that God would have permitted the laws of nature, ordained by His infinite wisdom to fulfil His omniscient designs and pursue their natural course in accordance with His will, had not my request persuaded Him to suspend those laws in my favour.
The very belief in His omniscience and omnipotence subverts the spirit of such a prayer. It is on the perfection of God that Malebranche bases his argument that 'Dieu n'agit pas par des volontes particulieres.' Yet every prayer affects to interfere with the divine purposes.
It may here be urged that the divine purposes are beyond our comprehension. God's purposes may, in spite of the inconceivability, admit the efficacy of prayer as a link in the chain of causation; or, as Dr. Mozely holds, it may be that 'a miracle is not an anomaly or irregularity, but part of the system of the universe.' We will not entangle ourselves in the abstruse metaphysical problem which such hypotheses involve, but turn for our answer to what we do know - to the history of this world, to the daily life of man. If the sun rises on the evil as well as on the good, if the wicked 'become old, yea, are mighty in power,' still, the lightning, the plague, the falling chimney-pot, smite the good as well as the evil. Even the dumb animal is not spared. 'If,' says Huxley, 'our ears were sharp enough to hear all the cries of pain that are uttered in the earth by man and beasts we should be deafened by one continuous