CONTACT WITH UNITARIANS, AND DOWNWARD TENDENCY TO DEISM.
I had now for some time been gradually approaching the views of the more
moderate class of Unitarians. Some of my friends, when they saw this,
became alarmed, and returned to their old associates in the orthodox
communities; others got out of patience with me for moving so slowly,
and ran headlong into unbelief; while the great majority still chose to
follow my guidance.
Two of my Quaker friends, who had aided me in my peace lectures, waited
upon me and said, that it would be necessary for me, if I meant to
continue to lecture in connection with the Peace Society, not to allow
myself to be known as holding heterodox views. I answered that I would
not submit to one hair's breadth of restraint, nor to a feather's weight
of pressure; and the consequence was, the withdrawal of all assistance
and countenance from the orthodox portion of the Quakers in every part
of the country.
The Unitarians had long been observing our movements, and when they
found us coming so near to their views, they began to attend our
meetings, and to court our company. At first we were very uneasy at
their advances, and shrank from them with real horror; but our dislike
and dread of them gradually gave way. They were very kind. They lent us
books, and assisted us with the loan of schools and chapels. They showed
themselves gracious in many ways. And after the cruelty we had
experienced from other parties, their kindness and sympathy proved very
agreeable. I read their works with great eagerness, and was often
delighted to find in them so many sentiments so like my own. I had read
some of Channing's works before, and now I read them all, and many of
them with the greatest delight. I read the work of Worcester on the
Atonement, of Norton on the Trinity, and of Ware on a variety of
subjects. I also read several of the works of Carpenter, Belsham,
Priestley, and Martineau. Some of those works I published. I also
published a work by W. Penn, "The Sandy Foundation Shaken," which some
thought Unitarian. I came at length to be regarded by the Unitarians as
one of their party. They invited me to preach in their chapels, and
aided me in the circulation of some of my publications. I preached for
them in various parts of the country. I was invited to visit the
Unitarians in London, and I preached in most of their chapels there, and
was welcomed by many of the ministers and leading laymen of the
Metropolis at a public meeting. When my friends raised a fund to
purchase me a steam printing press, many Unitarians gave liberal
subscriptions. Several of their leading men attended the meeting at
which the press was presented, and took a leading part in the
proceedings.
I had not mingled long with the Unitarians before I found that they
differed from one another very much in their views. Some few were Arian,
some were Socinian, and some quite Latitudinarian. Some admired
Priestley, some Carpenter, some Channing, and some Parker. Some looked
on Channing as an old fogy, and said there was not an advanced or
progressive idea in his writings; while others thought that everything
beyond Channing bordered on the regions of darkness and death. Some
looked on the Scriptures as of divine authority, and declared their
readiness to believe whatever they could be proved to teach: others
regarded the Scriptures as of no authority whatever, and declared their
determination to accept no views but such as could be proved to be true
independent of the Bible. Some believed Jesus to be a supernatural
person, commissioned by God to give a supernatural revelation of truth
and duty, and empowered to prove the divinity of His mission and
doctrine by supernatural works. Others looked on Christ as the natural
result of the moral development of our race, like Bacon, Shakespeare, or
Baxter. They looked on miracles as impossible, and regarded all the
Bible accounts of supernatural events as fables. They were Deists. One
I found who declared his disbelief in a future life. There was a gradual
incline from the almost Christian doctrine of Carpenter and Channing,
down to the principles of Deism and Atheism.
While in London I became acquainted with Dr. Bowring, afterwards Sir
John Bowring. He was one of my hearers at Stamford Street Chapel, and
complimented me, after the sermon, by calling me the modern John Bunyan.
He had been pleased with the simplicity of my style, and the familiar
and striking character of my illustrations. He invited me to his house,
showed me a multitude of curiosities, which he had collected in his
travels round the world, made me a present of part of a skull which he
had taken from an Egyptian Pyramid--the skull of a prince, who, he said,
had lived in the days of Joseph,--he also made me a present of his
works, including five volumes of translations from the Poets of Russia,
Hungary, and other countries, and some works connected with his own
eventful history. Dr. Bowring was a member of Parliament, and he took me
to the House of Commons, introduced me to a number of the members, got
me into the House of Lords, and did all in his power to make my stay in
London as pleasant as possible.
Another London gentleman who was very kind was Dr. Bateman, the Queen's
Assistant Solicitor of Excise. He took me to several assemblies, at one
of which, besides a number of the great ones of the land, I was
introduced to a New Zealand chief, a strong-built, broad-set,
large-headed, lion-looking man. It was hinted that he knew the taste of
human flesh, and was probably thinking at that moment, what rich
contributions some of the youthful and well-fed parties who were paying
their respects to him, would make to a New Zealand feast. At one of
those assemblies there was a tremendous crowd, and I lost my hat, and
some body else must have lost his, for I got a magnificent and
strange-shaped head-cover, that might have distinguished, if not
adorned, the greatest magnate of the land.
Dr. Bateman and Dr. Bowring showed me kindness in other ways, obtaining
for me and my friends large grants of books, contributing to the fund
for the purchase of a steam press to be presented to me, and inducing a
number of their friends to contribute. I was also introduced to Dr.
Hutton, minister of Carter Lane Chapel, and preached and lectured in his
pulpit. And I visited the meeting-place of the Free-thinking Christians,
was introduced to the leading members of the society, and was presented
with their publications. I preached at Hackney Chapel, where I had
William and Mary Howitt as hearers, who were introduced to me after the
sermon, invited me to spend some time at their house, showed me the
greatest possible kindness, and did as much as good and kind people
could do to make my stay in London a pleasure never to be forgotten.
A meeting was called in the Assembly room of the Crown and Anchor, or
the city of London Tavern, to give me a public welcome to London, and a
great number, the principal part, I suppose, of the London Unitarians
met me there, to give me a demonstration of their respect and good
wishes. I spoke, and my remarks were very favorably received; and so
many and kind were the friends that gathered round me, and so strange
and gratifying the position in which I found myself, that I seemed in
another world. The contrast was so great between the treatment to which
I had so long been accustomed in the New Connexion, and the
long-continued and flattering ovation I was receiving from so large a
multitude of the most highly cultivated people in the country, that if I
had lost my senses amid the delightful excitement it could have been no
matter for wonder.
But it was more than I was able to enjoy. I longed for quiet. I wanted
to be at home with my wife and children, and in the society of my less
distinguished, but older and more devoted friends. I fear I hardly
showed myself thankful enough for the honor done me, or made the returns
to my new friends to which they were entitled. They must have thought me
rather cool in private; but they knew that I had been bred a Methodist,
a plain Methodist, and had lived and moved among Methodists of the
plainer kind, and never before been fairly outside the Methodist world.
And some of them knew that I had not much time for pleasure-taking,
sight-seeing, and the current kind of chat, or even the multiplication
of new friends and acquaintances. They knew too that I had a business
which required my attention, and a vast quantity of letters to answer,
and parties calling for my help in almost every part of the country.
I was happy at length to find myself at liberty to leave the metropolis,
and my many new, agreeable and generous friends and acquaintances there,
and return to quieter and calmer scenes, and more customary occupations,
in the country.
But I never was permitted to confine myself within my old circle of
acquaintances, and my old sphere of labor, after my visit to London.
Accounts of my London meetings were given in the Unitarian newspapers
and periodicals, and spread abroad through the whole country. The result
was, I received invitations to preach and lecture from almost every town
of importance throughout the kingdom, and from many places that were not
of so much importance; and many of those invitations I was induced to
accept. I visited Bristol, and had a welcome there as gratifying and
almost as flattering as my London one. I was introduced to all the
leading Unitarians there, and had a grand reception, and a course of
lectures in the largest and most splendid hall in the city. And the
place was crowded. I visited Bridgewater, Plymouth, Exeter, and
Tavistock, with like results. And then I had calls to Yarmouth, Lynn,
Bridport, Northampton, Taunton, Birmingham, Sheffield, Hull, Manchester,
Liverpool, Bolton, Stockton, and other places without number. And
everywhere I found myself in very agreeable society, and in every place
I met with real, hearty, and generous friends. It is true I met with
some who had little of religion but the name; but I met with others, and
that in considerable numbers, who really feared and loved God, and who
were heartily desirous to promote a living practical Christianity among
their neighbors. These were delighted to see and hear a man who, while
he held to a great extent their own religious views, was full of
Methodistical zeal and energy, and who had power to attract, and
interest, and move the masses of the people. They regarded me as an
Apostle of their faith. They believed the millennium of enlightened and
liberal Christianity was at hand. They hearkened to my counsels, and set
to work to distribute tracts, to improve their schools, to establish new
ones, to organize city missions, to employ local preachers, and to
circulate books of a popular and rousing character. And both they and I
believed that a great and lasting revival of pure unadulterated religion
was at hand. And it took some time to dissipate these pleasant hopes,
and throw the well disposed and more pious part of the Unitarians down
into the depths of despondency again. But the melancholy period arrived
at length.
You cannot kindle a fire and keep it burning in the depths of the sea.
And it is as hard to revive a dead or dying church, especially when its
ministers and schools are supported by old endowments, and when many of
its most influential members have caught the infection of infidelity,
and become mere selfish, flesh-pleasing worldlings.
And this was the case with Unitarians. Many of the trustees, and a
considerable portion of the wealthier members, cared nothing for
religion. Others had no regard for anything about Christianity but the
name and a little of the form. Some had such a hatred of what they
called Methodist fanaticism, that they shrank from any manifestation of
religious life or earnestness. And they had such a horror of cant, that
they canted on the other side. Their talk about religion was little else
but cant. Their talk about cant itself was cant. They had quite a
dislike of any thing like religious zeal, and had a dread of any one who
had been a Methodist, especially if he retained any of his Methodistical
earnestness. The word unction was a term of reproach, and the rich,
invaluable treasure for which it stood was an offence. They wished to
enjoy themselves in a quiet, easy, self-indulgent, fashionable way, and
have just so much of the form and appearance of religion as was
requisite to a first class worldly reputation. They had no desire to be
regarded as skeptics or unbelievers; that would have been as bad as to
have been reputed Methodists; but they would have nothing to do with any
schemes or efforts for the revival of religious feeling in their
churches, or with any interference with the customary habits or quiet
worldliness of their peaceable neighbors. Some, and in certain districts
many, even of the poorer members, were utterly indifferent, and in some
cases even opposed, to any religion. In some cases both rich and poor
had become grossly immoral. Their churches had degenerated into eating
and drinking clubs. The endowments were spent in periodical feasts.
There were also cases in which the chapel and school endowments had
fallen into the hands of individuals or families, who looked on them and
used them very much as private property. The schools and congregations
had disappeared, and even the chapels and school-houses were rapidly
hastening to ruin.
And there was everywhere a tendency downward from the Christian to the
infidel level. If churches do not labor for the conversion of the world,
and endeavor to become themselves more Christ-like and godly,
degeneracy, and utter degradation and ruin are inevitable. And the
tendency, at the time to which I refer, throughout the whole little
world of Unitarianism was downwards to utter unbelief. In many minds
there was as much impatience with old-fashioned moderate Unitarianism,
as with old-fashioned Christianity or Methodism. They wanted preachers
who would openly assail the doctrine of the divine or special
inspiration of the Bible, and the supernatural origin of Christianity,
and try to bring people down or up to the pagan or infidel level of mere
sense and reason.
The Unitarians required no profession of faith; so that deists and
atheists had the same title to membership as believers in Christ. They
administered the Lord's Supper, but they had no church discipline, so
that people defiled with the filthiest vices had the same right to
communicate as people of the rarest virtues. Even the ministers were not
required to make any profession of faith, so that deists and atheists
were admitted, not only into the churches, but into the pulpits.
I was not aware of these things when I first became identified with the
Body. It is possible that the Body was not so corrupt at that time as it
was after. Any way, at the time of my return from infidelity to
Christianity, both deists and atheists were among the ministers. If any
find it hard to believe these things, let them read my pamphlet on
Unitarianism, where they will find testimony from leading Unitarians
themselves, to the truth of these statements.
Whatever encouragement therefore certain portions of the Unitarian Body
might give to a man like me, the influence of the Body generally was
sure to render my labors of little or no avail. If the more religious
portion of the ministers and members had been willing to come out from
the Body, and leave their old-fashioned buildings and endowments behind
them, they might have done some good; but this they were not prepared to
do. Many even of the better class of Unitarian ministers were fond of a
quiet literary life. They were students, scholars, and gentlemen, rather
than preachers and apostles. They were too good to be where they were,
and yet not robust, and daring, and energetic enough to make their way
into more useful positions. And their style of preaching was not
popular. It never would have moved the masses. Indeed much of it would
have been unintelligible to the kind of people who crowded to my
meetings. They could not therefore have moved into my sphere without
exposing themselves to want. If some one could have gone and helped them
in their own work, in their own spheres, it might have answered for
them; but it would not have answered for them to come out and battle
with the rude, coarse, outside world. And even if good, earnest
ministers had gone to their aid, it would have caused a rupture and
division in the church.
My labors therefore could do little more than rouse the better portion
of the Body to a temporary zeal and activity, and transfer a number of
my friends to their communion.
And I and my friends were out of our place, and out of our element, in
their society. The earnest words we spoke were not 'like fire among dry
stubble;' but like sparks falling into the water. Instead of us kindling
them, they extinguished us. The 'strong man armed' who had got
possession of the Unitarian House, was _too_ strong to be overpowered
and cast out by anything short of a miracle of Omnipotence. And that was
out of the question. Christ can save individuals, but not churches. To
members of a dead or depraved church his words are, 'Come out of her, my
people.' And there was, and there is, no revival, no salvation, for
Unitarians, but by their abandonment of the Unitarian fellowship, and
their return to Christ as individuals. So you may guess what followed. I
had got where it was impossible for me to do others much good, even if I
had been better myself, and where it was impossible for me to prevent
others from doing me most serious harm. I was on an inclined plane,
tending ever downward, with all surrounding influences calculated to
render my descent every day more rapid.
Down this inclined plane I gradually slid, till I reached at length the
land of doubt and unbelief. My descent was very slow. It took me several
years to pass from the more moderate to the more extravagant forms of
Unitarianism.
When I first read the works of Dr. Channing, though I was delighted
beyond measure with many portions of his writings, I had a great dislike
for some of his remarks about Christ and the Atonement. And when I first
resolved to publish an edition of his works, I intended to add notes,
with a view to neutralize the tendency of his objectionable views; but
by the time I got his works into the press, those views appeared
objectionable no longer.
I still however regarded portions of Theodore Parker's works with
horror. His rejection of miracles, and of the supernatural origin of
Christianity, seemed inexcusable. And many a time was I shocked while
reading his "_Discourse on Matters pertaining to Religion_," by the
contemptuous manner in which he spoke of portions of the sacred
Scriptures. I was enchanted with many parts of the book; but how a man
of so much learning, and with such amazing powers, and with so much love
and admiration of Christ, and God, and goodness, could go to such
extremes seemed a mystery. And I resolved, that if ever I published an
edition of _his_ works, I would add a refutation of his revolting
extravagances. Yet time, and intercourse with the more advanced
Unitarians, brought me, in a few years, to look on Parker as my model
man.
When I first heard an Unitarian say, "Supernaturalism is superstition,"
I gave him to understand that I did not feel easy in his company. "You
are right," said Dr. Bateman, "Pay no regard to such extreme views:
preach your own old-fashioned practical doctrines." This made me feel
more at ease. Yet the gentleman who spoke to me thus, as I afterwards
found, was himself on anti-supernaturalist. But he saw that I had to be
dealt with carefully,--that I was not to be hurried or argued, but led
gently and unconsciously, into ultra views. This was the gentleman that
busied himself more than any other in obtaining subscriptions towards
the steam press. He professed to like my supernatural beliefs much
better than the anti-supernatural views of the extremer portion of his
brethren. And perhaps he _did_ like them better, though he had lost the
power to believe them himself. But whether he liked them or not, he won
my confidence, and gained an influence over me, which an honest avowal
of his opinions, and especially an open attempt to induce me to accept
them, would have rendered it impossible for him to gain.
Strange as it may seem, I still retained many of my old methodistical
habits, and tastes, and sensibilities. My mind was still imbued to a
considerable extent with true religious feeling. My head had changed
faster than my heart. And I still took delight in reading a number of my
old religious books. And I had no disposition to indulge myself in
worldly amusements. I could not be induced to go to a theatre, or even
to a concert. I would not play at draughts or chess. I hated cards. And
all this time I held myself prepared to defend, in public discussion,
what I considered to be the substance of Christianity. An arrangement
was actually made for a public debate on Christianity about this time,
between me and Mr. Holyoake. It was to take place at Halifax, and I
attended at the time, and stated my views in two lectures; but Mr.
Holyoake did not attend. He was prevented from doing so by illness, it
was said.
Some of the publications which I issued about this time, in reply to one
sent forth by the Rev. W. Cooke, led to a public discussion between me
and that gentleman, in the Lecture-room, Newcastle-on-Tyne. Mr. Cooke
was a minister--the ablest minister--in the Body to which I myself had
formerly belonged. The list of subjects for debate included the
following:--"What is a Christian? What is the Scripture doctrine with
regard to the Atonement? What is Saving Faith? What do the Scriptures
teach with regard to Original Sin, or Natural Depravity, The Trinity,
The Divinity of Christ, The Hired Ministry, and Future Punishment?"
The discussion lasted ten nights, and every night the room was crowded
to its utmost capacity. The excitement was intense. And it pervaded the
whole country. There were persons present from places nearly two
hundred miles distant. Hugh Miller, the Scotch geologist, was there one
night. As usual, both parties considered themselves victorious. And both
were right. Neither the truth nor the error was all on one side; nor was
the argument. Christianity was something different from the creed of
either party, and something more and better. It was more and better than
the creeds of both parties put together. My opponent, though something
of a Christian, was more of a theologian. He was committed to a system,
and could not see beyond it, or dared not accept any views at variance
with its doctrines. Hence he went in direct opposition to the plainest
teachings of the Scriptures, and the clearest dictates of common sense.
He found it necessary also, to spend a portion of his time in foolish
criticisms on Greek and Hebrew words, and in efforts to make the worse
appear the better reason. As for myself, I was committed to change. I
was travelling downwards at the time, at a rather rapid rate, and was
not to be turned back, or even made to slacken my pace. The ordinary
kind of theological vanities I regarded with the utmost contempt, and I
had come to look on some portions even of Christ's own teachings as
nothing more than doubtful human opinions. I held to the great
foundation truths of religion, and to the general principles of
Christian truth and duty, and, I will not say, defended them, for they
needed no defence beyond their own manifest reasonableness and
excellence,--but stated them both with sufficient clearness and fulness.
But neither party was in a state of mind to learn from the other. War,
whether it be a war of words, or a war of deadlier weapons, tends
generally to widen the differences and increase the antipathies of the
combatants. And so it was here. And one party certainly went further and
travelled faster in the way of error after this exciting contest than he
had done before.
And greater extremes produced more bitterness of feeling in my
opponents. One man wished me dead, and said to a near relation of mine,
"If there was a rope round his neck, and I had hold of it, I would hang
him myself." And this was a man remarkable, in general, for his meekness
and gentleness. Another said he "should like to _stick_ me:" but _he_
was a butcher. Another person, a woman, said, "Hanging would be too
good for him: hell is not bad enough for him." There was one even among
my relations that would not speak to me; a relation that before had
regarded me with pride. At some places where I was announced to lecture,
men organized and plotted to do me bodily injury, and in some cases they
threatened me with death. On more than one occasion I had narrow escapes
with my life. Once I was struck on the head with a brick, which almost
took away my consciousness, and came near putting an end to my life. On
another occasion I was hunted by a furious mob for hours, and had
repeated hair-breadth escapes from their violence. One man advocated my
assassination in a newspaper, and the editor inserted the article, and
quietly gave it his sanction.
All this was natural, but it was not Christian, nor was it wise. "The
wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God." Hard bricks have no
tendency to soften a man's heart. These attempts to force me into
submission made me more rebellious. They roused my indignation to the
highest pitch, and fearfully increased my hatred of the churches and
their creeds, and made me feel as if I ought to wage against my
persecutors an unsparing and eternal war.