CONTINUATION OF MY STORY. FRESH TROUBLES. A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. HOW
BROUGHT ABOUT. INCIDENTS. THE CHANGE COMPLETE AT LENGTH. ITS RESULTS.
In compliance with the request of some skeptical neighbours, I lectured
against the Divine authority of the Bible in my first settlement in
Ohio. Mr. Spofforth, a Methodist minister was induced to hold a public
discussion with me on the subject, and as he was not well acquainted
either with his own side of the question or the other, he was soon
embarrassed and confounded, and obliged to retire from the contest. Not
content with the retirement of my opponent, I announced another course
of lectures on the Bible, resolved not to relinquish my hold of the
people's attention, till I had laid before them my thoughts on the
exciting subject at greater length. The company listened to me for a
time with great patience, but while I was giving my last lecture, some
young men set to work outside to pull down the log school-house in which
I was speaking, and I and my friends had to make haste out before the
lecture was over, to avoid being buried before we were dead.
The young men had provided themselves plentifully with rotten eggs,
thinking to pelt me on my way home; but the night was very dark, and the
way led through a tall, dense, shadowy forest, and somehow they mistook
their own father for me, and gave _him_ the eggs. When he got home he
was as slimy and odoriferous as a man need to be; while I was perfectly
clean and sweet.
But I was not to be permitted to escape in this way. During the night
they pulled down the fences of my farm, and gave me other hints, that I
must leave, or do worse. So I sold my farm for what I could get, and
bought another some seventy miles away, near Salem, Columbiana County, a
region occupied chiefly by what, in America, were called
"_Come-outers_"--people who had left the churches and the ministry, and
even separated themselves from civil organizations, resolved to be
subject to no authority but their own wills or their own whims. Among
people so free as those, I thought I should have liberty plenty; but I
soon found that they were so fond of freedom, that they wanted _my_
share as well as their own, and I got into trouble once more. And then I
saw that the greatest brawlers about liberty, when they come to be
tried, are often the most arrant despots and tyrants on the face of the
earth.
Then the people in the district were not _all_ Come-outers. Some were
Christians. And these I provoked by my disregard of the Sabbath, and by
my advocacy of views unfriendly to religion and the divine authority of
the Bible. I worked in my garden or on my farm on a Sunday, in sight of
my neighbors as they went to church. I had previously called a Bible
convention in the place, and taken the leading part in its proceedings.
I took the skeptical side in a public discussion on Christianity in the
town, and gave utterance to sentiments which pained the hearts of the
religious portion of my neighbors beyond endurance. The consequence was,
I got into trouble again, and had to move once more, or be undone.
So I moved once more. This time I resolved to make sure of a quiet home,
so I went right away beyond the limits of the States, into the unpeopled
territory of Nebraska, a country at that period ten or twelve times as
large as Pennsylvania or England, and containing less than five thousand
white inhabitants--an immense wilderness, occupied chiefly by tribes of
red Indians, herds of buffalo and deer, countless multitudes of wolves,
with here and there a bear, a panther, or a catamount, and heaps of
rattlesnakes. And here I thought I should be safe. And so I was. The
Indians gave me no trouble. I always treated them kindly, and they were
kind to me in return. As for the wild beasts, God has "put the fear and
dread of man upon every beast of the earth;" and as he approaches, they
retire. As a rule, the fiercest beasts of the forest will turn aside to
make way for man. I have lived in the midst of multitudes of wolves, and
taken no harm. I have slept on the open prairie in regions swarming with
wolves, and never been disturbed. I have travelled by night in other
parts of the country, over the wildest mountains, the homes of panthers,
bears, and catamounts, and never been molested. The rattlesnakes were
the most dangerous creatures. Yet even from them I took no harm, I have
walked among them time after time in slippers or low shoes, yet I never
was bitten. I slept once for three nights with a rattlesnake within two
or three inches of my breast, yet escaped unhurt. God took care of me,
when I neither took due care of myself, nor cared as I ought for Him.
The parties I feared the most were the white people. They had heard of
me, and as they passed me in the street, they looked at me askance,
regarding me apparently as a mystery or a monster. But I never shocked
them by skeptical lectures, or by any other act of hostility to
religion, so they bore with me, and came at length to treat me with
respect and confidence. My wife and family were regarded with favor from
the first. And I shall never forget the kindness of one of our Christian
neighbors to my wife, in a time of affliction and sorrow.
And it is from my settlement in this desolate and far-off region, that I
date the commencement of a change for the better in the state of my
mind. I do not say that my opinions began to change, but the state of my
_feelings_ got better, which rendered possible a change for the better
in my sentiments.
But I had reached a sad extreme. I had lost all trust in a Fatherly God,
and all good hope of a better life. I had come near to the horrors of
utter Atheism. And the universe had become an appalling and inexplicable
mystery. And the world had come to be a dreary habitation; and life a
weary affair; and many a time I wished I had never been born. And there
were occasions when the dark suggestion came, "Life is a burden; throw
it down." But I said; "Nay; there are my wife and children: I will live
for their sakes if for nothing else." And for their sakes I did live,
thank God, till I had something else to live for.
If I were asked what first gave a check to my skepticism, and led me to
turn my face once more towards Christ and Christianity, I should say,
"The answer is supplied by my story." As I have shown, it was the
troubled state of my mind,--the tempest of unhappy feeling, and the
whirlwind of excitement in which I had lived so long,--that had most to
do in carrying me away from Christ; and now my mind was allowed to be at
rest. The whirlwind of excitement had spent its fury. The tempest in my
soul had subsided, so that the principal hindrance to my return was
gone. There were other causes that had contributed to the destruction of
my faith in Christ and Christianity, but this was the first and chief
one, and the one which gave the principal part of their force to the
rest. As I have shown, I had been taught things about the Scriptures
that were not correct. I had found a number of the arguments used by
divines in support of the divinity of the Scriptures to be unsound. I
had detected pious frauds in the writings of some of the advocates of
the Bible and Christianity. I had met with untenable views on the
inspiration and infallibility of the Scriptures. I had, besides, adopted
a defective method of reasoning on religious matters, which exerted an
injurious influence on my mind. All these things, and many others which
I cannot at present mention, had proved occasions of doubt and unbelief.
But the probability is, that none of these things would have destroyed
my faith in Christ, if I had been in a proper state of mind. There was
nothing in them to justify unbelief to a mind unprejudiced,
undistempered, calm. There was attractiveness enough in Christ, if the
mists which passion had thrown around Him, to hide His worth and glory
from my view, could be cleared away. And there was truth and goodness
enough in Christianity, and there were evidences sufficient of its
divinity, if one could have the films removed from one's eyes, and be
permitted to behold it in its own sweet light. The great difficulty was
in the disordered state of my mind, and the trying nature of my
situation. What was wanted, therefore, to make it possible for me to
return to my former faith, was not so much an explanation of particular
difficulties, as a better, happier, calmer state of mind. Explanations
of difficulties _were_ desirable, but they were not the first or
principal things required. The great, the _one_ thing needful, at the
outset, was a fitting state of mind,--a mind sufficiently free from
irritation, painful excitement, and consequent unhappy bias, to enable
me to do justice to the religion of Christ. And the circumstances in
which I was placed in Nebraska were calculated to bring me to this
desirable state of mind; and many things which befel me there were
calculated to stimulate my return to Christ.
1. In the first place, I was in a region favorable to calm and serious
thought. True, we were infected for a time with the fever of speculation
so prevalent in new countries; and we shared the hardships and toils,
the cares and anxieties, of a border life: but there were seasons when
serious thought and salutary reflection were inevitable. I was often
alone amid the quiet and solemnity of a boundless wilderness. The busy
world of men was far away. There was no one near to foster doubt or
unbelief, or to reopen or irritate afresh the closing wounds inflicted
by bigotry and intolerance in days gone by. And the loneliness of my
condition seemed to bring me nearer to God. It allowed the revival of
those Godward-tending instincts implanted in man's heart by the hand of
the Creator. It favored the resurrection to life of the natural
religious affections, and the revival of those holy longings and
aspirations after a higher life and a grander destiny than earth can
give, which arise so spontaneously in the breasts of men. It allowed the
better self to rise and assert its power, while it shamed the evil self
into the shade. And often, when away beyond the sight of man or of human
habitation, amidst the eternal silence and the boundless solitude, I had
strange thoughts and strange feelings; and there were times when, if I
had yielded to the impulses from within, I should have cast myself down
upon the ground, and adored the Great Mysterious Infinite.
On one occasion I went, in company with my youngest son and a friend,
some distance into the interior of the country. At one point we came
upon a deserted and decaying Indian village, and then upon an Indian
track across the desert. A little further on we struck a Mormon track,
along which a company of the Latter-day saints had groped their way
towards their promised Paradise in the Salt Lake Valley. As we followed
the track we came upon a mound, and then upon another, marking the spots
where worn-out travellers had ended their weary pilgrimages, and been
consigned, amid the desolate wilds, to their final resting places. Into
one of these unprotected graves the wolves had made their way, to feed
upon the fallen victim of the new faith. When night came on it found us
in these dreary and desolate wilds, and there we had to prepare to pass
the night under the open sky, with multitudes of wolves around us. We
had hardly spread our blankets when the sky was covered with black and
heavy clouds, and lightnings flashed, and thunders roared, and
everything betokened a night of storm and rain. We protected ourselves
against the threatening elements as well as we could, and prepared
ourselves for cold and drenching showers, and for a sleepless and
troubled night, when, happily for us, the wind suddenly changed, and
dissipated the clouds. The stars came out in all their glory, and the
night was calm and bright, and all we had to try our patience was a
little frost. And there I slept; and there I often awoke; and in my
intervals of wakefulness I gazed on the magnificence of the outspread
skies, and mused on the dreariness of the surrounding wilderness, and
thought of the stirring scenes through which I had passed in days gone
by, and of the strange and death-like silent one in which I then was
placed. "And what will the future be?" said I. "And here is my son; in
the spring of life; on adventures so strange; in a universe so vast and
so mysterious; what will be his destiny? And what will be the destiny of
the dear ones we have left behind?" And then I lost myself in a world of
strange imaginings. When wearied with my restless musings, I sank to
rest again, and passed from waking into sleeping dreams.
Morning broke at length, and we arose, and started on our journey. The
deer were skipping gaily over the plains. The wolves were hiding in
their holes. We came at length to a stream. It was skirted by a grove,
into which we made our way, and there we kindled a fire, and prepared
our breakfast. We filled our coffee kettle from the brook. A hazel twig
served us for a toasting fork; and we were soon engaged in one of the
pleasantest parts of a hungry traveller's work. We relished our bread
and ham and coffee amazingly. The wolves might be snuffing the odor of
our viands, and coveting our repast; but they remained within their
hiding-places, and kept silent; and we finished our meal in peace.
We rested next on the outskirts of a grove on the banks of the Elkhorn
river. Here I was left to take care of the stuff, to prepare a bed, and
to gather wood for a fire to cook our supper, and to frighten away the
wolves, and keep us warm through the night, I gathered a quantity of dry
and withered grass, and spread it on the ground, and covered it with a
blanket, for a bed. I then looked around for wood. I saw some down in a
dark deep gully, and went to fetch it; when I found myself all alone and
unarmed in front of a hideous wolf-hole. I retreated with all the haste
I could, and was soon on the top of the bank again, panting and
trembling, and endeavoring to increase the distance between myself and
the horrible den as rapidly as I could. I next looked round for wood on
safer ground, and having collected a quantity, I waited with anxiety for
the return of my companions. We slept that night in a half-built and
deserted log cabin, without doors or windows, put up by some adventurous
border-man to secure a claim to a portion of the surrounding land. A
considerable part of the cabin was without roof. And there were large
spaces between the layers of logs through which the frosty winds had
free admission. For a time we deliberated whether we should be colder
inside the cabin or outside. At length we decided in favor of the
interior. We then took the wagon body off the frame and carried it into
the cabin, and raised it on one side to screen us from the wind which
came through the cabin walls. Against the wall at our head we fixed up
rugs. At our feet, between our bed and the open doorway, we had our
blazing fire. And there we slept. We had prickly sensations in our eyes
in the morning, but they soon passed away. We took no cold, or none that
proved serious at all. And the wolves seemed to keep at a respectable
distance.
As soon as we had got through our breakfast, and put our wagon and team
in order, we started homewards. At one point, as we passed along, a wolf
looked quietly down upon us from the side of a hill just by. A bigger
one had passed us as we stood in front of the half-built cabin in which
we had passed the night. The region abounded with them, on every side.
While crossing a tract of rich bottom land, where the dry and withered
grass of the previous summer lay thick, I struck a light, and for an
experiment, set the prairie on fire. The flames blazed forth at once
like gunpowder. They spread and roared. The wind rose, and blew the
flames in the direction of our wagon. It was all we could do to get to
the wagon and jump in and flee. We had no sooner started the horses than
we found that the traces of one of them were loose, and we had to jump
out again to fasten them; and before we could retake our places the
flames were almost at our ears. The horses fled, however, at a good
quick pace, and speedily carried us beyond the reach of danger, and we
got safe home.
2. There were many things in my new situation and in my strange way of
life, besides the silence and the solitude of a boundless desert, that
were calculated to awaken within me solemn feeling, and to rouse me to
serious thoughtfulness on things pertaining to God and religion. And
when once my mind had begun to awake to such matters, it was never
permitted to sink again, for any length of time, into its former
death-like slumber. And many things befel me that tended to make me
feel, and feel most painfully at times, the helplessness and
cheerlessness, the gloom and wretchedness, of the man who has lost his
trust in God, and his hope of a blessed immortality. There is nothing in
utter doubt and unbelief to satisfy a man with a heart. A man with a
heart wants a Father in whose bosom he can repose, a Saviour in whose
care and sympathy he can trust, and a better world to which he can look
forward as his final home and resting-place, and as the eternal home and
resting-place of those who are dear to him. And I _had_ a heart. I was
not made for infidelity. I never submitted to it willingly, and I never
sat easy under its power. I had affections, cravings, wants, which
nothing but religion could satisfy.
3. Then trouble came. Infidelity is a wretched affair even in
prosperity; but in adversity it is still worse. And adversity overtook
me. In the spring of 1857 we had a reasonable income, from property
which we supposed to be of considerable value. A few weeks later a panic
came, and our income fell to nothing; our property was valueless;
instead of a support it became a burden, and we had to set to work to
get a living by our labor, at a time when work was hard to be got, and
when wages were down at the lowest point. This was a time of great
distress and grievous trial, and I felt the want of consolation most
keenly. I could once have said, "Although the fig tree shall not
blossom, neither shall fruit be on the vines; the labor of the olive
shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut
off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet will I
rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." But now I
_had_ no God. The universe had no great Fatherly Ruler. The affairs of
man were governed by chance, or by a harsh and grinding necessity; and
all good ground of hope and cheerful trust had given place to doubt, and
gloom, and cruel uncertainty.
4. Trials of other kinds came. Sickness and pain entered our dwelling,
and seized upon one of my family. My youngest son was taken ill. He was
racked with excruciating pain. It seemed as if the agony would drive him
to distraction, or cut short his days. And there I stood, watching his
agony, and distracted with his cries, unable to utter a whisper about a
gracious Providence, or to offer up a prayer for help or deliverance.
5. Another dear one was afflicted; and again my heart was torn, and
again my lips were sealed. I could not even say to the suffering one,
"God bless you."
6. I was called to attend the funeral of a child. The parents were in
great distress, and I was anxious to speak to them a word of comfort;
but doubt and unbelief had left me no such word to speak. I remembered
the day when I could have said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
"They rest in Jesus, and are blest,
How sweet their slumbers are."
But the happy day was gone, and I was dumb in the presence of the
mourners.
7. I was called, on another occasion, to visit a friend, a brother
skeptic, who was sick and likely to die. I had often visited him when he
was well, and we had managed, on those occasions, to interest or amuse
each other; but now we were helpless. Both were in sorrow, and neither
could console his brother. And there we were, looking mournfully on each
other in the face of death, speechless and comfortless. I am horrified
when I think of the dreadful position in which I was placed on those
solemn occasions. It seemed to me as if I had been enchanted all those
dreary days by some malignant demon, and made the sport of his infernal
cruelty. My friend, like myself, had been a Christian in his earlier
days, and had rejoiced in the assurance of God's love and favor, and in
hopes of future and eternal blessedness; and now he was passing away in
utter cheerlessness and hopelessness. He died, and I followed his
remains to the grave. I spoke; but I had no great comforting truths with
which to cheer the sad hearts of his weeping kindred. I looked down,
with his disconsolate widow, and his sorrowing children, into the dark
cold vault, but could say not a single word of a better life. We
sorrowed as those who have no hope.
8. While I was in Nebraska my mother died. Like my father, who had died
some years before, she had been a Christian from her early days; a very
happy one; and she continued a Christian to the last. She was one of the
most affectionate and devoted mothers that ever lived. She had eleven
children. The eldest one died when he was twenty-one, after having spent
a number of years, young as he was, as an able and useful minister of
Christ. He died a happy death. The remaining ten were all permitted to
grow up to manhood and womanhood, and my mother had the happiness at one
time, an unspeakable happiness to her, to see them all, with one
exception, devoted to the service of God, and several of them engaged
as preachers of the Gospel. They were joyful days to her when she could
get them all together, as she sometimes did, to sing with her the sweet
hymns of praise and gratitude, of hope and rapture, which had cheered
her so often during the years of her pilgrimage. And now she was gone. I
had seen her some years before when on a visit to my native land. She
know of my skeptical tendencies, and though she had faith in my desire
to be right, she was afraid lest I should miss my way, and entreated me
with all the affectionate tenderness of an anxious mother, not to allow
myself to be carried away from the faith and hope of the Gospel. "Do
pray, my dear son," she said,--"Do pray that God may lead you in the
right path. I want to meet you all in heaven. It would be a dreadful
thing if any of you should be found wanting at last. Don't forsake God.
Don't leave Christ. Religion is a reality; a blessed reality. I know it,
I feel it, my dear son. It is the pearl of great price." These were the
last words I heard from her lips. I listened to them in silence. Though
I was too far gone to be able to sympathize with her remarks as much as
I ought, I was wishful that she should enjoy all the comfort that her
faith could give her. She wept; she prayed for me; she kissed me; and I
left her, to see her face no more on earth. I returned to my home in
America, and the next thing I heard of the dear good creature was, that
she had finished her course. I kept the sad intelligence to myself, for
my heart was too full to allow me to speak of my loss, even to those who
were nearest and dearest to me. I thought of all her love for me from my
earliest days; and of all her labors and sacrifices for my comfort and
welfare. I remembered her counsels and her warnings. I remembered her
last kind words, her kiss, her prayers, her tears. It seems dreadful;
but unbelief had so chilled my soul, that I could no longer indulge the
sweet thought of an immortal life even for the soul of my dear good
Christian mother. I had once had visions of a land of rest, a paradise
of bliss, and countless crowds of happy souls, and rapturous songs, and
shouts of praise, and joyous meetings of loving and long parted friends
in realms of endless life and boundless blessedness; but all were gone.
A sullen gloom, a deathlike stupor, a horrible and unnatural paralysis
of hope had come in place of those sweet visions of celestial glories.
My only comfort was, that though I had ceased to believe in the divinity
of Christianity myself, _she_ had retained her faith, and had lived and
died in the enjoyment of its consolations.
9. We had a young woman that had lived with us, with the exception of
two short intervals, all the time we had been in America. She had come
to regard us as her natural guardians, and we had come to look on her as
one of our family. The second time she left us she caught a fever, and
returned to us in hopes that in her old and quiet home she would soon be
well again. We procured her medical aid, but the fever got worse. The
doctor lost hopes, and it soon began to be evident, that she was doomed
to a speedy death. I attended her during the last sad night of her
sufferings. I heard her moanings as her life drew slowly towards a
close. I wanted to comfort her, but I had lost the power. I could once
have spoken to her of a Father in heaven, and of a better world; but I
could speak on those subjects no longer. I could once have kneeled by
her side and prayed; but I could pray no more. I could neither comfort
myself nor my dying charge. She passed away without a word of
consolation or a whisper of hope to cheer her as she trod the dark
valley of the shadow of death. I stood by, afflicted and comfortless,
when her lifeless form was committed to its final resting-place, unable
to speak a word of hope or consolation to the sorrowing minds that were
gathered around her grave. She was interred on the slope of the hill, on
the opposite side of the stream over against my farm, within view of the
field and the garden in which I often worked, and the lonely dwelling in
which I frequently slept. And there she lay, far from her kindred and
her native land, the wild winds moaning over her solitary grave, and no
sweet word about God, or Christ, or a better life, to mark the spot
where she slept. And there, on that quiet farm, and in that solitary
dwelling, with that one melancholy grave in view, I passed at times the
long sad days, and the still and solemn nights, in utter loneliness,
gazing on the desolate scenes around, or feeding on saddening thoughts
within, "without hope and without God in the world." I sought for
comfort in a Godless and Christless philosophy, but sought in vain. I
tried to extort from nature some word of consolation, but not a whisper
could I obtain. I tried to forge some theory of my own that might lessen
the gloom in which I was wrapt; but my efforts were fruitless. The light
of life was quenched; the joy, the bliss of being was no more. I had
"forsaken the fountain of living waters," and nothing remained but
broken cisterns that could hold no water. I was wretched; and, apart
from God, and Christ, and immortality, my wretchedness was incurable;
and the sense of my wretchedness prepared me, and ultimately constrained
me, to look once more in the direction of the religion that had cheered
me in my earlier days.
10. I had a great and grievous trial of another kind while in Nebraska.
When we removed to that far-off country, we left our eldest son in Ohio
to look after our interests there, and to send off to us what goods we
might require in our new home. The river Ohio, down which our goods had
to be sent, was low at the time, and the steamer on which they were
placed, while racing recklessly with another steamer, struck on a rock
and was wrecked. There were over a thousand volumes of my books on
board, the best and principal part of my library; nearly all my
manuscripts too were on board, and much other property, amounting in
value to twelve or thirteen hundred pounds; over $6,000; and nearly all
was lost, or irreparably damaged.
This however was but a light part of the trial. As soon as my eldest son
got news of the wreck, he hastened to the spot, to save what portions of
our property he could. The weather was hot by day, and cold by night.
Both the season and the place were unhealthy, and by his great anxiety,
and excessive labors, and continual exposure, he brought on a violent
fever. The first information we received about the matter was that he
was dying. When the dreadful tidings reached us we were more than a
thousand miles away. I started at once for Ohio, and made what haste I
could to reach my son; but go what way I would, I must be four or five
long days on the road, and four or five long nights. I took my way down
the river. For four long days and four long dreary nights I travelled,
in doubt all the time whether my child was dead or alive. And all that
time I was unable to offer up a prayer, either for my son, myself, or
the anxious and sorrowing ones I had left behind. Nor could I apply to
myself a single consolatory promise of Scripture. My mad antichristian
philosophy had robbed me of all. God and His Providence, Christ and His
sympathy, heaven and its blessedness, were all gone, and nothing was
left but the hard blank horrors of inexorable fate. My soul was shut up
as in a dungeon, unable to help itself. It was stretched on a rack, and
tortured with excruciating pain. Those four long dreary days and nights
were the darkest and most miserable I ever passed. But God was merciful.
I lived to reach the end of my dreadful journey, and He had spared my
son. We embraced,--we wept. We were spared--the whole of our family were
spared, thank God--for better days, and for a happier lot.
11. There were other events which befell me while I was in Nebraska,
that had a salutary influence on my mind. I was frequently in the
greatest danger, and was as frequently preserved from harm. As I have
said, I slept three nights with a rattlesnake within three inches of my
breast. My eldest son slept repeatedly in the same terrible position;
yet we both escaped unhurt. Once I was within an inch--within a hair's
breadth, I may say--of being killed by the kick of a horse. On another
occasion, when my eldest son was forking hay in the field, and I was
piling it on the wagon, he heard a rattlesnake, and looked all round
upon the ground to find it, with a view to kill it, but looked in vain.
At length, turning his eyes upwards, he saw it writhing and wriggling on
one of the prongs of his hayfork, which he was holding up in the air. He
had pierced the deadly creature while forking the hay, and I had taken
the hay from the fork with my naked hands, and escaped unbitten. I had
quite a multitude of escapes from deadly peril, some more remarkable
than those I have described. And there were times when the thoughts of
those wonderful deliverances made me feel, that there were far more
incredible doctrines than that of a watchful and gracious Providence.
12. Again. When I commenced my career of religious exploration, I
expected I should get rid of all difficulties, and that I should reach a
region at last where all would be light; where there would be no more
harassing or perplexing mysteries. For a time my hopes appeared to get
realized. The doctrines of Calvinism I threw away in mass, and thus got
rid of the difficulties connected with predestination, election and
reprobation. The difficulties connected with infinite and absolute
fore-knowledge I got rid of by modifying and limiting the doctrine. Many
theological difficulties appeared to arise, not from the doctrines of
Scripture, but from anti-christian fictions, and false theories of
Scripture doctrines. These I set aside without much ceremony. But when
one difficulty was disposed of, another made its appearance, and in some
cases several. And when I got outside the religion of Christ, more
difficulties than ever made their appearance, and difficulties often of
a more appalling character. The doctrine of predestination came back in
the shape of fate or necessity. All the great difficulties of theology
had ugly likenesses in infidel philosophy. Instead of reaching a region
of unsullied light, I got into one of clouds and darkness. And the
further I wandered, the blacker the clouds became, and the thicker the
darkness. The difficulties, the perplexities, on the side of unbelief,
were more distressing and embarrassing than those I had encountered on
the side of Christianity.
13. Again. I was frequently tried by the characters of unbelievers. I
had read and believed that many of the older unbelievers had been
immoral; but I supposed that modern unbelievers were a better class. I
had seen a number of statements to that effect in books and newspapers,
some of them proceeding from Christians, and even from Christian
ministers. I was disposed to believe that even the older infidels had
not been so bad as represented. I knew that _I_ had been belied, and I
considered it probable that all who had had quarrels or controversies
with members of the priesthood, had been belied in like manner. I
believed for a long time, that the loss of faith in the supernatural
origin of Christianity and the Bible, had made me better, in some
respects, instead of worse. I thought no changes had taken place in my
character, but what, on the whole, were improvements. For years after I
became an unbeliever, I endeavored to practise all the unquestionable
virtues inculcated in the Bible, and I was disposed to believe that
modern unbelievers generally did the same. And when I lectured against
the Divine authority of the Bible, I disclaimed, as I have already said,
all sympathy with those who rejected the Bible because it
discountenanced vice. And such was the violence of my anti-religious
fanaticism, that I had actually come at one time to believe that
infidelity, in connection with natural science, was more friendly to
virtue than Christianity.
But my faith in this view met with many rude shocks after I had been
some time in America. Often when I came to be acquainted with the men
who invited me to lecture, I was ashamed to be seen standing with them
in the streets; and I shrank from the touch of their hand as from
pollution. And many a time when I had associated with persons for a
length of time, thinking them above suspicion, I was amazed to find, at
length, that they looked on vicious indulgence as harmless, and were
astonished that any man who had lost his faith in Christianity, should
have scruples with regard to fornication or adultery. Though these
painful discoveries did not at once convince me that infidelity was
wrong, and Christianity right, they were not without effect. They
lessened my respect for the infidel philosophy, and prepared the way for
my return to Christ. In England, where I expected on my return, to find
unbelievers better, I found them worse. I supposed that the Secularists
thought as I did with regard to virtue. I thought their object was to
advance the temporal interests of mankind, and never dreamt but that
they regarded virtue as the greatest of those interests. And when I
found first one and then another to be dishonest, drunken, licentious, I
was disposed to regard them as exceptions to the general rule. To the
last; nay, for some time after my entire separation from the party, I
supposed the profligate, unprincipled, abandoned ones to be the few, and
the honest and virtuous ones to be the many. And when at length I was
convinced past doubt of my mistake, the effect was terribly painful. But
it was salutary. It went far towards convincing me, that whether
religion was founded in truth or not, it was necessary to the virtue and
happiness of mankind. It prepared me and inclined me still further to
return to Christ, and brought me a step or two nearer to His side.
14. Then again, the influences of my family were strongly in my favor. I
had a wife that always loved me, and that never ceased to pray. And I
had children that grew up believers, to a great extent, under the shadow
of my unbelief. They had suffered, as I have already said, from the
cruel treatment to which they had seen their father subjected: they had
been awfully prejudiced against certain classes of ministers, if not
against ministers generally; but now their prejudices were well nigh
gone. And they had never been embittered against Christianity. And now
they had come to feel strongly in its favor, and to look on skepticism
both as a great error, and a terrible calamity. My youngest son was
something of a genius. He was a clever mathematician, and an acute
logician. And he would say to me sometimes, when he heard me uttering
antichristian sentiments, "Father, I think you are wrong. I am sure you
are wrong on that point; and if you will listen to me I think I can
convince you that you are." And I did listen. I had long been accustomed
to regard my children more as friends and companions, than as inferiors,
and to encourage them to speak to me with all freedom. And they were
kind and considerate enough as a rule to use the liberty I gave them
without abusing it; so I hearkened to their remarks and remonstrances.
And there were occasions on which the logic of the child proved mightier
than the logic of the father--there were cases in which the father
learned lessons of truth, from those whom he ought to have instructed.
My eldest son, if not so powerful in logic, was surpassed by none in
goodness and tenderness; and if his brother excelled him in acuteness
and caution, no one could excel him in devout and passionate longings
for his father's return to Christ. And both these sons, and the whole of
my family, exerted an influence, which tended first to check the
extravagances of my skepticism, and then to help and hasten my return to
the truth as it is in Jesus.
My sons assisted me in more ways than one. They were more observant of
men than I was, and they were better judges of character. And they had
better opportunities than I had, of learning what the infidels with whom
they came in contact, really were, both in their principles and way of
life. And they were readier to receive the truth on the subject than I.
The consequence was, that both in America and in England, they gathered
up a multitude of facts that I should have passed unnoticed; and were
prepared to use them for my benefit, when the proper time should come.
And the proper time did come at length. I could believe nothing against
parties with whom I was connected, on any one's testimony, till I had
begun myself to detect their misdoings. My wife and children knew this,
so they never troubled me with _their_ discoveries, till I had myself
begun to make similar discoveries. As soon as they found I had seen
enough to shake my confidence in a number of the unbelievers--as soon as
they found that I had got rid of my mad prejudices in favor of the
parties, and had so far come to myself as to have obtained the use of my
eyes and understanding, they knew that the time for making known to me
_their_ discoveries had come. And they made them known. And they agreed
so perfectly with what I myself had seen and proved, that I could no
longer discredit their statements. And they explained a multitude of
other matters. Thus another blow was struck, both at my faith in
skeptics, and my faith in skepticism.
And both my wife and children had, on the whole, wonderful patience with
me in my tardy movements towards the truth. When I consider how much of
evil they saw in connexion with infidelity, and how strong their feeling
was of the truth and necessity of religion, I wonder at their
forbearance. At times their patience was well-nigh exhausted, but they
seldom betrayed the fact by their behavior. But my eldest son informed
me, after my return to Christ, that at one time, doubting whether I
should ever be cured of my insanity, he made up his mind to forswear all
other occupations, and give himself exclusively to the Christian
ministry, that he might spend his life and powers in a ceaseless warfare
against the horrible delusions to which I seemed so irretrievably
wedded.
15. In the year 1857, towards the close of the summer, I left my home in
Nebraska for a time, and went eastward on a lecturing tour. My first
appointment was at East Liverpool, in Ohio. There I met with my good,
old friend John Donaldson, of Byker, near Newcastle-on-Tyne, England. He
spoke of days long past, when we worked together in the cause of Christ.
He was kind, as he had always been; but it troubled him to find me so
changed--so far estranged from the views of former times. Though glad to
see my friend, the memories which his presence revived, of the days when
I was a happy and a useful minister of Christ, and the partial
re-awakening of old religious thoughts and feelings which it occasioned,
made me feel, for a moment, an indescribable sensation, as of one who
had got an unlooked-for glimpse of some fearful loss he had sustained,
or of some tremendous mistake he had committed. My infidel logic,
however, hastened to my aid, and assured me I was right; but the deep
and deathless instincts of my soul were not entirely at rest.
I reached Philadelphia at length. There I was engaged by Dr. W. Wright
for eight months. I lectured every Sunday, sometimes on theological,
sometimes on moral, and sometimes on scientific and general subjects. I
always urged on my hearers a virtuous life, and did what I could to
escape the society of persons of immoral habits. And I thought, for a
time, I had succeeded. But I was grievously mistaken. One of the acting
men in my congregation was a Plymouth man. He, as I afterwards found,
had deserted his wife and family, and was living with another woman.
Another, a more important member of my congregation, whom I supposed to
be an example of propriety, turned out to be an advocate of unlimited
license. And another, a man of great wealth, who had often invited me to
his house, and shown me kindness in other ways, I found, after his
death, had never been married to the person with whom he had lived as
his wife. I also found that he had another family in another part of the
city. I mention these unpleasant matters to show, that facts were not
wanting to shake my faith in the moral influence of infidel principles.
The gentleman by whom I was employed, treated me with great respect and
kindness, and some of my congregation did what they could to make me
comfortable; but the longer I remained in my position, the less
encouragement I saw to expect infidelity or skepticism to produce a
virtuous and honorable life.
The gentleman by whom I was employed had thought of expending some fifty
thousand dollars in building a hall, and endowing a lecture, &c., for
the propagation of infidel principles; but the conduct of the skeptics
that gathered round him, soon cured him of his anti-christian zeal.
16. Before my term was quite expired, I was engaged by another gentleman
for eight months. But I had seen so much to shake my faith in the
beneficent tendency of infidelity, that this time I left myself free,
both to lecture on what subjects I thought best, and to leave my
situation on two months' notice. As my new engagement did not commence
for three months or more, I had the happiness of spending some time in
the bosom of my family. As usual, the influences to which I was subject
there were all calculated to abate my faith in irreligious principles,
and to dispose me to look with less disfavor and prejudice on
Christianity. In August I started again for Philadelphia. I left my
family with sadness and tears, and I proceeded on my journey with a
feeling that it would not be long before my labors in Philadelphia would
come to an end. And the feeling grew stronger every week. The Hebrews
had a hard task when they were required to make bricks without straw;
but he who undertakes to make people good without religion, has to make
bricks without clay--and that is a vast deal harder. I felt my position
was not the right one, and I longed and sighed for something more in
accordance with my gradually changing views and better feelings; but
knew not exactly what it was I needed, or where it was to be found. I
frequently attended the ministry of Dr. Furness, the Unitarian minister;
and though his preaching was far from being all it should be, his
sermons had a salutary effect on my mind. His words about God and duty,
about Christ and immortality, fell on my soul at times like refreshing
dew. I also went to hear the Rev. Albert Barnes, and was both pleased
and surprised with the truth and excellence of many of his remarks. I
heard several other ministers; but the irrational and anti-christian
doctrines set forth by some of them, exerted an influence on my mind
which was the opposite of salutary.
At the end of two months I gave notice to my committee that I should
give up my situation as lecturer. I had come to the conclusion, that to
war with Christianity was not the way to promote the virtue and
happiness of mankind, and I told my congregation so. I added, that if we
were even sure that the sentiments entertained by Christians were
erroneous, it would be well to refrain from assailing them, till we had
something better to put in their place. And I also advised them, now
they were about to be left without a lecturer, to go to some place of
worship; and if they could not hear exactly what they could like, to
make the best of what they did hear, and by all means to live a
virtuous, honorable, and useful life. I gave similar advice to
congregations in other places, and by many it was well received.
When I gave up my situation in Philadelphia, my intention was to return
to England. I was anxious to free myself, as far as possible, from men
of extreme views, whether in religion or politics, and to place myself
in a position in which I should be perfectly free to pursue whatever
course a regard to truth and duty might require. I made up my mind,
therefore, that on my arrival in England, I would stand alone, apart
from all societies and public men, and have a paper of my own, and
publish from time to time whatever might commend itself to my judgment
as true and good. I knew I had changed during the last two years, though
I did not know how much; and I believed I was changing, though I could
not tell in what the change which was taking place would end. I had no
idea that I could ever become a Christian again, though the tendency of
the change which was taking place in me was in that direction.
Having taken leave of my friends, I hastened to Boston, and prepared for
my voyage across the deep. I was to sail by the Royal Mail Steamship
_Canada_, on the eleventh of January, 1860. Just as I was stepping on
board the packet, I received a letter from my youngest son. Among a
number of other kind things, it contained words like the following:
"Father, dear, when you get to England, don't dream that by any breath
of yours, or by any paper balls that you can fire, you can ever shatter
or shake the eternal foundations on which Christianity rests." Words
like those from a dear good son could not but have a powerful effect on
my mind.
And now I started on my voyage. I had never ventured on the sea before
without dread of shipwreck and drowning. This time I had no such fear.
On the contrary, as the vessel threaded her way among the rocks and
islands of Boston Harbor, I experienced a strange and unaccountable
elevation of soul. I had not felt so cheerful, so hopeful, so happy, for
many years. And this delightful joyousness of soul continued during the
whole of the voyage. Yet I had never gone to sea at so dangerous a
season. And I never encountered such fearful and long-continued storms.
Before we had fairly lost sight of the last point of land, the winds,
which were already raging with unusual violence, began to blow more
furiously. They fell on us in the most fearful blasts, and roared around
us in a deafening howl. The sea was thrown into the wildest uproar. The
vessel was tossed and tumbled about in the most merciless manner. One
moment she was plunging head foremost into the deep; the next she was
climbing the most stupendous waves. Now her right wheel was vainly
laboring deep in the water, while her left was spinning uselessly in the
air; then her right wheel was whirling in the air, while her left was
splurging in the deep. Sometimes the waves swept over the vessel, while
at other times they would strike her so rudely on the side, that she
staggered through all her timbers. After the storm had raged for two or
three days, there came what are called white squalls. A light grey cloud
appears in the distance, and as it approaches you, it sends forth
lightnings, accompanied with hurried bursts of thunder. A furious storm
of hail or snow immediately follows. The howl of the tempest rises to a
yell, and the squall, as it sweeps along in its fury, cuts off the tops
of the waves, and scatters them in foam over the surface of the deep
like a mantle of snow. The first of those squalls went right through our
large square sail, tearing it to shreds. Another sent a wave on board
which snapped in pieces stanchions of wrought iron thicker than my arms,
and carried away one of our best boats. And this unspeakable uproar of
the elements continued for several days. At times I crept on deck for a
few moments, and, holding by the rigging, gazed on the wild magnificence
of the appalling scene. And all this time my heart, instead of being
tortured with its customary fears, was full of a cheerful joyous
confidence. It was as if some spirit of heaven had taken possession of
my soul to give me sweet presentiments of the approach of better days.
And so perhaps it was. I was moving onwards, though I knew it not, to a
happier destiny, and the peace and joy I felt were as the dawn or
twilight of the coming day of my redemption.
We reached Liverpool at length, and I was soon at Betley, the native
place of my wife, which was to be my temporary home. And now, if I had
fallen into good hands, or if the better thoughts and tendencies of my
soul had been sufficiently strong, I might have entered at once on a
happier course. But I encountered an unlooked-for difficulty. As I have
said, my intention was, on landing in England, to begin a periodical,
and to keep apart from persons of extravagant views. I was not a
Christian, nor did I, at the time, suppose I should ever become one; but
I was an earnest moralist, and I had become more moderate in my ideas
both on religious and political subjects. And I was, to some extent,
prepared to receive fresh light. I had got an impression,--I had had it
for some time before I left America,--that my mind was not in a
thoroughly healthy state,--that it was not exactly itself,--that it was
so much biassed in favor of irreligion, that it was incapable of doing
justice to arguments for a God and Providence, for a spiritual world and
a future life. I partly believed, and now I know, that facts and
arguments in favor of the great fundamental doctrines of religion, did
not affect and influence me so much as they ought,--that my doubts and
disbeliefs were stronger than facts or the nature of things warranted. I
suspected, what now I regard as past doubt, that erroneous principles,
and a defective method of reasoning, and long practice in searching out
flaws in arguments, and detecting and exposing errors and pious frauds,
had disposed me too strongly to distrust and disbelief,--that I was in
fact a slave to bad habits of thought and reasoning, as really as the
inveterate drunkard is the slave to his irrational appetite for strong
drink. What I should believe in case the freedom of my mind and the just
and harmonious action of its powers were fully restored, I could not
tell; but I had a strong impression, amounting to something like an
assurance, that I should believe more than I did with respect to God and
a spiritual world. Had I, on arriving in England, found myself in
favorable circumstances, my mind might quickly have recovered its
freedom, and returned, in part at least, to the faith of its earlier
days. But this was not my lot. I was beset with new temptations, and was
doomed to further disappointments.
The Secularists had got out a prospectus of a new paper, and I was urged
to become one of the editors; and thinking that it would seem mean and
selfish to begin a paper of my own under such circumstances, I
reluctantly consented. I however stipulated for full control over one
half of the paper, and when I found that articles of a disgraceful and
mischievous tendency were published in the other half, I published a
special notice in mine, every week, that I was not answerable for those
articles.
In August 1860 my wife and children arrived in England. They were sorry
to find me in connection with that paper and with the party which it
represented; and they set themselves at once to work to bring about a
change; and it was not long before they succeeded. A book, written by a
leading Secularist, was sent to me for review. When I read it, I found
that its object was to undermine marriage and bring it into disrepute,
and to induce men and women to abandon honorable wedlock, and to
substitute for it unbounded sensual license. It was the filthiest, the
most horrible and revolting production I had ever read. This loathsome
book had already been advertised in the paper of which I was one of the
editors, and in the part of the paper over which I had no control, it
had been strongly recommended. I found, too, that it had been very
extensively circulated among the readers of the paper, and that the
Secularist leaders were adopting measures to promote its still more
extensive circulation. I at once exposed the villainous production in my
portion of the paper. As far as a respect for decency would permit, I
laid its loathsome and horrible abominations before my readers. This led
to an instant, a total, and final separation between me and the friends
of the licentious book.
I now commenced a Paper of my own, and I said to myself, and I said to
my children: "I will now re-read the Bible; I will examine Christianity;
I will review the history of the Church; I will examine the character
and workings of the various religious organizations of the day; and
whatever I find in them that is true or good, I will lay before my
readers. I am not a Christian," said I; "and I never expect to be one;
but I will do justice to the Christian cause to the best of my ability.
I have said and written enough on the skeptical side: I will see what
there is to be said on the Christian side."
I had no idea of the greatness of the task I was undertaking. I supposed
that ten or a dozen articles would be sufficient to set forth all that
was true and good in the Bible. But when I came to examine the Book,
with my somewhat altered views, and enlarged experience, and chastened
feelings, I found in it treasures of truth and goodness, of beauty and
blessedness, of which, even in my better days, I seemed to have had but
a very inadequate conception. I was touched with a hundred precepts of
mercy and tenderness in the laws of Moses. I was startled and delighted
with many Old Testament stories. The character of Job, as portrayed in
the twenty-ninth and thirty-first chapters of the book that goes under
his name, melted me to tears. I was delighted with the purity and
tenderness, the beauty and sublimity of the Psalms. I was amazed at the
depth and vastness of the wisdom of the Book of Proverbs. I was pleased
with the stern fidelity with which the prophets rebuked the vices and
the crimes, the selfishness and cruelty, of the sinners of their days,
and the tenderness and devotion with which they pleaded the cause of the
poor, the fatherless, and the widow. When I came to the Gospels, and
read again the wonderful story of the Man of Nazareth, my whole soul
gave way. The beauty, the tenderness, the glory of His character
overpowered me. I was ashamed, that I should ever have so fearfully
misconceived it, and done it such grievous injustice. The tears rolled
from my eyes, moistening the book in which I was reading, and the paper
on which I was writing. But I proceeded with my task. I pondered every
word He uttered, and was delighted with His glorious revelations of God,
and truth, and duty. I gazed on all His wondrous works. I marked, I
studied, every trait in his character. I read the sad story of His
trials. I traced him through all His sufferings. I saw the indignities
and cruelties to which He was subjected, and I saw the meekness, the
patience, and the fortitude with which He suffered. I saw Him on the
cross. I heard the prayer which He offered in the midst of His agonies
in behalf of His murderers, 'Father, forgive them; they know not what
they do.' And still I read, and still I gazed, and still I listened. I
was entranced. I had thought to stand at a distance; to look at Jesus
with the eye of a philosopher and moralist only, and calmly and coolly
to take His portrait; but I was overpowered. The strange, the touching
sight drew me nearer. The loving one got hold of me. His infinite
tenderness, His transcendent goodness, the glory of His whole character,
and life, and doctrine took me captive; and I was no way loth to be held
by such charms. He had won me entirely. I loved Him with all my heart
and soul. I was His,--His disciple, His servant, entirely, and forever.
And I wanted no other treasure but to share His love, and no other
employment but to share His work. I was, though but very imperfectly
enlightened on many things, and exceedingly weak and imperfect in many
respects, most blessedly and indissolubly wedded to Christ and His
cause.
I drew the portrait of the Saviour to the best of my ability, and sent
the articles to the press. It fell to the lot of my children, in
correcting the press, to read those articles. And when they read them,
they too wept, and one said to another, "Father is coming right; he will
be himself again by and by." And they were right in thinking so. I had
come in contact with the Great Healer. I had got a sight of One on whom
it is impossible to look steadfastly and long without experiencing a
thorough transformation of soul. And so it was with me. From my first
look I became less and less of a skeptic, and more and more of a
believer in Christianity, till my transformation was complete.
The more I read the Bible with my altered feelings and change of
purpose, the more was I impressed with its transcendent worth, and the
more was I influenced by its renovating power. I saw that whatever might
be said with regard to particular portions of the Book, it was, as a
whole, the grandest revelation of truth and duty that the mind of man
could conceive. I could no longer find in my heart to talk or write
about what appeared to be its imperfections. There were passages that
seemed dark or doubtful: there were some that seemed erroneous or
contradictory; but they amounted to nothing. They did not affect the
scope, the drift, the aim, the tendency of the Book as a whole. They
might not be consistent with certain erroneous theories of inspiration,
or with certain unguarded statements of extravagant theologians; but
they were consistent with the belief that the book, as a whole, was
worthy of the Great Good being from whom it was said to have come, and
adapted to the illumination and salvation of the race to which it had
been given. Christianity began to present itself to my mind as the
truest philosophy; as the perfection of all wisdom and goodness. While
it met man's spiritual wants, and cheered him with the promise of
eternal bliss, it was manifestly its tendency to promote his highest
interests even in the present world. As the clouds that had darkened my
mind passed away, it become plain as the light, that if mankind could be
brought to receive its teachings, and to live in accordance with its
principles, the world would become a paradise.
2. I reviewed Church History. While under the influence of
anti-Christian views and feelings, I had read the history of the Church
and Christianity with a view to justify my unbelief, rather than with a
desire to know the simple truth. I had looked more for facts which could
be used to damage the Church, than for fair full views of things. My
mind had dwelt particularly on the Church's quarrels, its divisions, its
intolerance, and its wars;--on the favor which the clergy had sometimes
shown to slavery and to despotism;--on their asceticisms, fanaticisms,
and follies; and on cases of fraud, and selfishness, and impurity. I had
read as an advocate retained to plead the cause of unbelief, rather than
as a candid judge, or an unbiassed student, anxious to know and teach
the whole truth. I was not conscious of my unfairness at the time, but I
now began to see that I had been influenced by my irreligious passions
and prejudices. I saw, on looking over my Guizot for instance, that I
had marked the passages which contained matters not creditable to the
clergy, and passed unnoticed those portions of the work which set forth
the services which the Church and Christianity had rendered to
civilization. I also remembered how eagerly I had swallowed the unfair
representations and fallacious reasonings of Buckle with regard to
Christianity and skepticism, and how impatiently I had hurried over what
reviewers friendly to Christianity said on the other side of the
subject. The balance of my mind was at length restored. I now saw that
Christianity had proved itself the friend of peace and freedom, of
learning and science, of trade and agriculture, of temperance and
purity, of justice and charity, of domestic comfort and national
prosperity. The history of Christianity was the history of our superior
laws, of our improved manners, of our beneficent institutions, of our
schools of learning, of our boundless wealth, of our constitutional
governments, of our unequalled literature, of our world-wide influence,
of our domestic happiness, and of all that goes to make up our highest
forms of civilization. Imperfectly as it had been understood, and
defectively as it had been reduced to practice, Christianity had placed
the nations of Europe at the head of the human race. Christian nations
were the most enlightened and virtuous, the most prosperous and
powerful, the most free and happy of all the nations of the earth. The
pious frauds, the intolerance and persecutions, the oppressions and
wrongs, the selfishness and sin, which were found in the history of the
Church, were not the effects of Christianity, but the effects of
passions and principles directly opposed to its spirit and teachings.
3. I looked at the Churches of the day. I found them all at work for the
education of the young, and for the instruction and salvation of the
world. I saw them building schools and chapels, and supplying them with
teachers and preachers. I saw them printing books, and tracts, and
Bibles, and spreading them abroad in all directions. I saw them founding
libraries and reading-rooms, and young men's Christian associations, and
ladies' sewing societies. I saw them sending out missionaries abroad,
and carrying on a multitude of beneficent operations at home. I asked
for the schools and libraries, the books and periodicals, the halls of
science and the missionary operations of the enemies of Christianity;
but they were nowhere to be found. They _talked_ about education, but
instructed no one. They talked about science, but did nothing for its
spread or its advancement. They abused Christians for neglecting men's
temporal interests, but did nothing to promote men's earthly happiness
themselves. They found fault with Sunday-schools, and talked of the
faults of Christians, but never corrected their own. They talked of
liberty, and practised tyranny. They complained of intolerance, yet
followed such as renounced their society, or questioned their views,
with the bitterest reproaches, and the most heartless persecution. They
talked of reform, but sowed the seeds of rebellion, anarchy, and
unbounded licentiousness.
The Christians had the advantage over their adversaries even in outward
appearance. They were cleaner and better clad, and were more orderly in
their deportment. There was quite a contrast between the crowds of
Christians that passed along the streets to their places of worship, and
the knots of Godless, Christless men who strolled along, or sat in their
doors, in their dirty clothes, with their unwashed faces, smoking their
pipes, or reading their filthy papers. There was a contrast between
Christian congregations and infidel meetings. One had the appearance of
purity and elevation; while the other had the stamp of pollution and
degradation. Irreligion seemed the nurse of coarseness and barbarism.
Some of the secularists actually argued against civilization, as
Rousseau had done before them. One of them reprinted Burke's ironical
work in favor of the savage state, and sent it to me for review, and was
greatly offended because I refused to recommend it as a sober, serious,
philosophical treatise to my readers.
It was plain that there was something wrong in infidelity; that its
tendency was to vice and depravity; while Christianity, whether it was
divine in its origin or not, was evidently the friend and benefactor of
our race.
In 1862, some friends of mine at Burnley, who had built a public hall
there, engaged me as their lecturer. The parties were unbelievers, but
they were opposed to the advocates of unbounded license. They were
favorable to morality, and wished to have an association that should
embody what they thought good in the Church, without being decidedly
religious. They wished to have music and singing at the Sunday meetings,
and to limit public discussion to the week-night meetings. They also
wished to have Sunday-schools, day-schools, reading-rooms, and
libraries. We had come to the conclusion that the Christians were right
on the whole in their way of conducting their public meetings, and we
were resolved to imitate them as far as we honestly could. And here I
lived and labored for more than a year. We did not succeed however so
well as we had expected. Our singers, and musicians, and Sunday-school
teachers had no high and powerful motive to keep them regularly at their
posts, so that whenever a strong temptation came to lure them away, they
ran from their tasks, and left me and another or two to toil alone. We
then formed a Church, and made laws, thinking to keep our associates to
their duty in that way. But this made matters worse. Their fancies and
pleasures were their laws, and they would obey no other. Most of our
teachers left, and I and a friend or two had to teach the school
ourselves. My friends established a day-school, and hired a teacher; but
he turned out to be an unbounded license man; he brought with him, in
fact, an unmarried woman instead of his wife, and they found it
necessary to get rid of him as soon as they could.
All the time I was at Burnley my heart first, and then my head, were
coming nearer and nearer to Christ and Christianity. I gradually gave up
my opposition both to religion and to the churches. The last lecture in
which I gave utterance to anything unfavorable to the Bible was one on
Noah's flood. I spoke on the subject by request, and against my
inclination, and before I had got half through I began to feel
unutterably dissatisfied with myself. I was really unhappy. From that
time forward I dwelt chiefly on moral subjects, and often took occasion
to speak favorably of the Bible and Christianity. I tried to explain
what was dark, and to set forth what was manifestly true and good in
their teachings.
I lectured on the wisdom of the Book of Proverbs, on the beauty of
Christ's character, and on the excellency of many of His doctrines, on
the advantages of faith in Christ, and on the follies and vices of
infidel secularism, and on quite a number of other Christian subjects.
My younger son came to reside at Burnley while I was there, and we had
frequent talks as we walked together along the fields and lanes, and
over the neighboring hills; and this also helped to bring me nearer to
Christ and His Church. I read the works of Epictetus at this time, and
my faith in God and immortality, and my love of virtue too, were
strengthened by his reasonings.
About the same time a person wrote to me to go and lecture at Goole. I
went. No subject had been named to me, and I resolved to speak in favor
of the leading practical principles of Christianity. When I got to
Goole, I found that the man who had invited me had put up a bill,
calling on his neighbors and fellow-townsmen to come and hear the
triumphant opponent of Christianity demolish their religion. I told him
he should not have put forth a bill like that,--that I was not an
opponent of Christianity,--that I was not an enemy of the
churches,--that I had no desire to demolish religion,--that I wished to
bring people to cherish and practise the leading principles of
Christianity. This rather puzzled and distressed him; but
notwithstanding his disappointment, he would have me lecture. The
meeting was out of doors. I soon had a large audience. I quickly
undeceived such as had come expecting to hear me vilify the Bible, the
churches, or religion. I spoke in the highest terms of Christ and His
teachings. I showed that many of them were the perfection of wisdom and
goodness. I spoke of the causes of human wretchedness, and showed that
obedience to the teachings of Christ and His Apostles would remove them
all. Many things that I said, and especially some remarks I made on
domestic duties and domestic happiness, went home to the hearts of my
hearers. Not a murmur was heard from any quarter. Men nudged each other,
and women looked in each others' faces, and all gave signs that they
felt the truth of my remarks, and the wisdom of my counsels, and the
meeting ended as satisfactorily as could be desired.
It was while I was living at Burnley that I began again to pray. A young
atheist died, and I was invited to his funeral, and requested to speak
at his grave. When we got to the cemetery the little chapel was occupied
by another company, and we had to wait some time for our turn. My mind
was in a sad and solemn mood, and I left my party and wandered to the
farther end of the cemetery. It was a bright and beautiful day in April.
The grass was springing fresh and green, and the hawthorn buds were
opening, and everything seemed full of life, and big with promise. The
sun was shining in all his glory. The thrushes and the blackbirds were
singing in the surrounding groves and thickets, and the larks were
pouring forth their melody in the air. Yet all was dark and sorrowful
within. I felt the misery of unbelief, yet felt myself unable to free
myself from its horrible and tormenting power. I had a growing
conviction that I was the slave of a vicious method of reasoning, and of
an inveterate habit of unreasonable or excessive doubt, and that I had
not the power to do God and Christianity justice. I felt as if I ought
to pray, but something whispered, "It is irrational." No matter, I could
refrain no longer: and lifting up my tearful eyes to heaven I exclaimed,
"God help me." He did help me. He strengthened my struggling soul from
that hour, and gave to the good within me a growing power over the evil.
I dried my tears and returned to my party. I spoke at the poor young
Atheist's grave, and concluded my address with the following prayer,
"May trust in God, and the hope of a better life, and the love of truth
and virtue, and delight in doing good, remain with all who have them,
and come to all who have them not. Amen."
The gentleman with whom I had lived at Burnley had said to me on the
morning of that very day, that if I prayed at the funeral he should
never think well of me more. He afterwards said, when he heard of the
prayer I had offered, he had no objection to a prayer like that. He was
not aware of the shorter prayer that I had offered when alone, or he
would have spoken probably in another strain. He was dreadfully opposed
to religion, and very uneasy when he saw me moving in the direction of
Christianity.
Among the friends who left the church on account of my expulsion, was
Samuel Methley, of Mirfield, near Huddersfield. He was rather eccentric
in some respects; but he was an honest, earnest, kind, and Christian
man. He had had little or no school instruction, and he had nothing that
could be called learning, or high intellectual culture; but he was a man
of great faith, of much love, and much prayer. His affection and
reverence for me were almost unbounded, and so long as I continued a
believer in Christ, he was ready to go with me any lengths in
Evangelical reform. When I ran into politics he was somewhat staggered,
but followed me as far as he durst. When I began to be skeptical he
stood still, afraid, and very unhappy. On one occasion he ventured to
rebuke me; but I knew that the rebuke was the offspring of affection,
and I took it quietly. When I went to America he was greatly distressed,
and prayed for me most anxiously and earnestly. When he found I had
become an unbeliever, he resolved never to go near a meeting of mine
again, and prayed to God to help him to keep his resolution. For many
years he tried to wean himself from me, to extinguish his passionate
regard for me; but whenever he found that I was to lecture in his
neighborhood, he lost his self-control, and came, though with
reluctance, and many misgivings, to my meetings. He generally rose after
my lectures, to protest against my extravagances, and to testify his
uncontrollable affection for me, and his anxious desire for my
salvation. To do otherwise than take his remarks in good part was
impossible. Poor, dear, good man! I little thought at the time how much
distress and pain I was causing him. When he found that I was coming
back to Christ, he was joyful beyond measure. When he heard me preach on
true religion, he was in transports. At a meeting that followed, he
spoke with so much feeling and fervor, that I was obliged to try to
check him a little, for fear the violence of his excitement should
injure his feeble and failing health. My conversion, though but partial
then, gave him the utmost delight.
At length his feeble frame gave way, and he sank into his bed to rise no
more. He sent me word that he was very desirous to see me, and I visited
him without delay. He was very ill. His voice was almost gone, and he
spoke with great difficulty. He told me he wished me, when he was gone,
to preach his funeral sermon, and write his epitaph, and take charge of
a manuscript containing the story of his life. I told him I would do so.
He then spoke of his trust in God, his love of Christ, and his hopes of
a blessed immortality, while tears of joy stood glistening in his eyes.
He then referred to some matters that had tried him sadly, but added: "I
have cast my care on God." He tried to speak of his feelings towards me,
but said: "Those papers (referring to the story of his life) will tell
you all." At last he said: "Pray with me, Joseph." I had not prayed with
any one for many years, but I said at once: "I will, Sammy;" and I fell
on my knees, and prayed by his side. He then, weak as he was, prayed
earnestly for me, and for my wife and family.
He died a few weeks after. I preached his funeral sermon on the
following Sunday, in May, 1863, in a field near the house in which he
had lived and died, from the text: "Let me die the death of the
righteous, and let my last end be like his." There was an immense
congregation, consisting of people of all denominations, both infidel
and Christian, from every part of the surrounding district. When
speaking of his conduct in clinging to the religion of Christ, instead
of following me into the regions of doubt and unbelief, I declared my
conviction that he had done right. "He had read little," said I, "and I
had read much: yet he was the wiser man of the two. His good religious
instincts and feelings kept him right, and kept him happy in the warmth
and sunlight of the religion of Christ; while my vain reasonings carried
me astray into the dark and chilling regions of eternal cold and utter
desolation. There is a seeming wisdom that is foolishness; and there is
a childlike, artless simplicity of faith, which, while it is regarded as
foolishness by many, is in truth the perfection of wisdom. There are
things which are hid from the wise and prudent, that are revealed to
babes. And Jesus was right, when, addressing the self-conceited
skeptical critics of His day, He said: 'Except ye be converted and
become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.' My
dear departed friend, when trusting in God as his Father, and in Christ
as his Saviour, and living a godly life, was right, while I, in
distrusting the promptings of my religious instincts and affections, and
committing myself to the reasonings of a cold and heartless logic, was
wrong. The new-born babe, that rests untroubled in its mother's arms,
and, without misgiving, sucks from her breast the milk so wonderfully
provided for it, does the best and wisest thing conceivable. In obeying
its instincts, it obeys the great good Author of its being, and lives.
If--to suppose what is happily an impossibility--if the child should
discard its instincts, and refuse to trust its mother, till it had
logical proof of her trustworthiness; and, distrusting its natural
cravings, should refuse to take the nutriment provided for it, till it
could ascertain by chemical analysis and physiological investigation,
that it was just the kind of food which it required, it would die. My
departed friend was the happy, confiding child, and saved his soul
alive; while I was the analytical and logical doubter, and all but
starved my miserable soul to death. Thank God, I have lived to see my
error. The loving, trusting Christian is right. The religion of Jesus is
substantially true and divine; and, thus far, I declare myself a
Christian."
It was a beautiful, summer-like day. The sun shone brightly, and the
winds were low, and the vast congregation was orderly and attentive, and
many were much affected. The report that I had declared myself a
Christian, without any qualification annexed, got into the papers, and
ran through the country. To many it gave the greatest satisfaction.
Good, kind Christians came round me wherever I went, testifying their
delight and gratitude. Some wept for joy. Unbelievers were greatly
annoyed at the tidings of my conversion, and some of them came and
entreated me to give the report a public contradiction. This I refused
to do. True, the papers said somewhat more than I had said; but the
statement they gave was true in substance, so I let it pass, and the
growing change for the better in my views and feelings soon made it true
in form.