These singular instances of bygone experience of a religious student,
of which few similar have ever been given, must be suggestive--perhaps
instructive--to religious teachers in church and chapel, engaged in
inculcating their views. How much happier had been my life had there
then existed that tolerance of social effort, that regard of social
needs, that consideration of individual aspiration, which happily now
prevail. This chapter will conclude what Herbert Spencer would call the
"natural history" of a mind, or, as Lord Westbury would say, "what I am
pleased to call my mind."
One evening, at the Mechanics' Institution, Birmingham, I was told that
Robert Owen, who had unexpectedly arrived in town, was likely to speak
in Well Lane, Allison Street, and was asked "would I go?" Mistaking
the name for Robert Hall, I said I would. Of Robert Owen I had scarcely
heard; of the Rev. Robert Hall (who had denounced all deflectors from
the Baptist standard with brilliant bitterness) I had heard, admired
(and do still), and much desired to see. Great was my disappointment
when I discovered the mistake. As Mr. Owen passed me on entering the
room, I--a mere youth--looked at the aged philosopher (who had been
working for human welfare long before I was born) with an impertinent
pity. I felt also some real terror for his future, as I thought what
a "wicked old man" he must be. I had been assured by Robert Hall that
morality without faith was of no avail in the eye of God.
Eventually it became known at the works where I was employed that I had
been to hear Robert Owen, and remarks were made. In those days (1837-8)
advocates of social reform were called "Socialists." Some of the remarks
made against them were unjust Some "Socialists" were fellow-students at
the Mechanics' Institution. These commentators made the usual mistake of
concluding that the social thinkers in question must hold the opinions
it was inferred that they held. At that time I did not understand this
way of reasoning, though no doubt I used it myself, as those among whom
I was reared knew no better. Everybody was sure that an opponent must
mean what you inferred he meant, and charged against him the inference
as a fact--never thinking of inquiring whether it was so. If I was not
misled by those confident arguments, it was because I knew that the
persons accused were leal and kind in daily life. Out of mere love
of fairness I defended them to my working associates, as far as my
knowledge went. Being told that "I did not know what their principles
were" caused me to read their pamphlets and to hear some lectures. For
a year or more I used the knowledge thus gained against the uninformed
impressions of their aspersers around me.
Well do I remember that one day, as I passed two workmen in the
mill-yard, one said to the other, "That is young Holyoake the sceptic."
They did not know that "sceptic" merely meant a doubter in search of
evidence. They used the word in the brutal sense of one who disbelieved
the truth, knowing it to be the truth. The term startled me, as I
neither believed nor assumed to believe what I had reported as the
opinions of my friends. For myself, I had no thought of holding their
opinions. The heresy supposed to be included in them was, indeed, my
aversion. Then I made the resolution to examine their principles, with a
view to show what arguments I could myself bring against them. Great
was my dismay when, after months of thought, I found that the questioned
tenets seemed, on the whole, to be true. These tenets were that wise
material circumstances were likely to have a better influence on men
than bad ones; and that, men having general qualities which they have
inherited, the treatment of the worst should be tempered by compassion
for their ill-fortune. Then it concerned me no more what any one said of
me. It was as though I had passed into a new country, leaving behind
me the barren land of supplication for a land of self-effort and
improvement; and entered into the fruitful kingdom of material
endeavour, where help and hope dwelt. Heretofore doubt and perturbation
as to whether I was of the "elect" had oft agitated me. Now, I had no
bonds in the death of my disproved opinions--no struggle, no misgivings.
Without wish or effort of mine, I was delivered by reason alone from the
prison-house in which I had dwelt with its many terrors. Not all at once
did the terrors go. They long hovered about the mind like evil spirits
tempting me to distrust the truth written in the Book of Nature, of
which I believed God to be the author.
Some time before this change in my opinion occurred I had taken in, out
of my slender savings, the beautiful Diamond edition of the Rev.
Mr. Stebbing's Bible in parts. The type was very fine, the outline
illustrations seemed to me very beautiful; they affect me with
admiration still. It was the first book with marks of art about it that
I had possessed. I had it bound in morocco, with silver clasps. It was
quite a wonder in the workshop when I took it there. To possess many
things I never cared, but if I had only one, and it had some beauty and
finish in it, it was to me as though I had a light in my room at night,
and the thought of it made me glad in the dark. A fellow-workman of
sincere piety, whom I respected very much, coveted this Bible, and
induced me to sell it to him, which I did, as I had it in my mind to get
another bound in a yet daintier way.
Simple and natural as was this transaction, it was misconstrued. It was
said I had "sold" my Bible, as though it was my act instead of being
the act of another. Next it was reported that I had "burnt" it. Thus I
became a founder of myths without knowing it. Nevertheless, it gave me
pain--for nothing was more alien to my mind, my taste and reverence,
than the act imputed to me. But what made a greater impression upon me,
it being inconceivable, and unforeseen, was that he who induced me to
part with my valued volume never came forward to say so. The inspiration
of Christianism I had taken to be personal truth which could be
trusted. In the noblest minds it is so still. But for the first time I
found a Christian could be mean.
It was about this period that a poor woman I knew drew near to death
from consumption. At times I visited and read the Scriptures to her. One
night I asked her if she would like some one to pray with her. As she
wished it, I induced one with whom I had been a Sunday school teacher to
come with me one evening and pray by her side.
The consolation was very precious to her, and that is why I sought it
for her. At no time did it seem to me that everybody should be of one
opinion, since honesty of life consists in living and dying in that
opinion of the truth of which you are convinced. This man whom I took
with me was a workman, poor, mean, and utterly uninformed. In religious
sympathy he inclined to the Ranters, who are not at all melodious
Christians. Yet heaven might respect his prayer as much as a bishop's,
for he had given up his night, after a hard day's labour, to afford what
humble consolation he could to this poor woman.
One sentiment that had always possessed me was a pleasure in vengeance.
I had quite a distinct passion of hatred where I was wronged, and had
no means of resistance or redress. A man in my father's employ did
something very unfair to me when I was quite a youth, and during nine
years that I worked by his side I did not forget it or forgive it. The
Lord's prayer taught me that I should "forgive those who trespassed
against me," and at times I thought I had forgiven him, but I never had.
Christian as I was, the revengeful lines of Byron long influenced me:--
"If we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power,
That could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong."
No sermon, no prayer, no belief, no Divine command, rendered me neutral
towards those I disliked. Neither authority nor precept had force which
gave no reason for amity. But when I came to understand Coleridge's
saying that "human affairs are a process," I could see that patience and
wise adaptation of condition was the true method of improvement, since
the tendency to nobleness or baseness was alike an inheritance nurtured
by environment. If tempest of the human kind came, precaution and not
anger--which means ignorance taken by surprise--was the remedy. Pity
takes the place of resentment. Clearly, vengeance did but add to the
misfortune of destiny.
I oft pondered Hooker's saying, that "anger is the sinew of the soul,
and he that lacketh it hath a maimed mind." Nevertheless, I am content
to be without that "sinew." Anger is rather the epilepsy of the
understanding than the dictate of reason. I had come to see that there
are no bad weeds in Nature--but much bad gardening. The reasons of amity
had become clear to me, and that Helvetius was right. We should "go on
loving men, but not expecting too much from them." Even Hooker could not
win me back to the profitless pursuits of anger and retaliation.
These bygone days left their instruction with me evermore. In them I
learned consideration for others. Whatever my convictions, I was always
the same to my mother. The wish to change her views never entered my
mind. She had chosen her own. I respected her choice, and she respected
mine. In after years, when I visited Birmingham, I would read the Bible
to her. She liked to hear my voice again as she had heard it in earlier
days. When her eyes became dim by time I would send her large type
editions of the New Testament, and of religious works which dwelt upon
the human tenderness of Christ. The piety of parents should be sacred
in the eyes of children. Convictions are the food of the soul, which
perisheth on any other diet than that which can be assimilated by the
conscience.
One of the bygones which had popularity in my day was silence,
where explicitness was needed. Nothing is more grateful to the young
understanding than clear, definite outlines. _The Spectator_ (July 23,
1891) said that "Dean Stanley could not at any time have exactly defined
what his own theology really was." George Dawson, who charmed so many
audiences and was under no official restraint, never attempted it.
Emerson, who criticised everybody who had an opinion, never disclosed
his. Carlyle, who filled the air with adjurations to sincerity of
conviction, carefully concealed his own. They who take credit for
advising the public what to believe should avow their own belief. Otway,
crossing the street to Dryden's house, wrote upon his door: "Here lives
Dryden, a poet and a wit." Seeing these words as he came out, Dryden
wrote under them: "Written by Otway opposite," which might mean: "This
is but a partial and friendly estimate written by my neighbour who lives
over the way, opposite to me"; or, it might mean that "It is written by
Otway--the very 'opposite' of 'a poet and a wit.'" Janus sentences
are the very grace of satire, because they offer a mitigating or a
complimentary construction; but in questions of conscience, ethics, or
politics, uncertainty is an evil--an evil worth remembering where it can
be avoided.
"Socialists" were liable to indictment who officiated in a place not
licensed as a place of worship. Such a license could be obtained on
making a declaration on oath that their discourses were founded on
belief in the cardinal tenets of the Church. Two social speakers were
summoned to swear this. One was the father of the late Robert Buchanan.
He and his colleague did so swear to avoid penalties, though they swore
the contrary of the truth. I joined with other colleagues in protesting
against this humiliation and ignominy. And in another way imprisonment
came to all of us. Silence or the oath was the alternative from which
there was no escape. The question then arose, "Was the existence of
Deity so certainly known to men that inability to affirm it justified
exclusion from citizenship?" Thus it was of the first moment to inquire
whether it was so or not, and what was regarded as an atheistical
investigation became a political necessity in self-defence. Was there
such conclusive knowledge of the Unknowable as to warrant the law in
making the possession of it a condition of justice and civil equality?
Thus the refutation of Theism became a form of self-defence, and without
foreseeing it, or intending it, or wishing it, I was, without any act of
my own, engaged in it.
This narrative concerns those who deplore the rise and popularity of
independent thinkers, alien to received doctrine. Few persons are aware
how or why agnostic advocacy was welcomed and extended. Surely this is
worth remembering. The tenet bore statute fruit, for the Affirmation Act
came out of it.
It will be a satisfaction to students of spiritual progress to know that
the extension and legalisation of the rights of conscience, brought no
irreverence with it. The sense that the nature of Deity was beyond the
capacity of dogmatism to define, created a feeling of profound humility
in the mind; the incapacity which disabled me from asserting the
infinite premises of Theism rendered denial an equal temerity. What
tongue can speak, what eye can see, what imagination can conceive the
marvels of the Inscrutable? I think of Deity as I think of Time, which
is with us daily. Who can explain to us that mystery? Time--noiseless,
impalpable, yet absolute--marshals the everlasting procession of nature.
It touches us in the present with the hand of Eternity, and we know it
only by finding that we were changed as it passed by us.