THE HELL QUESTION, AND THE REV. JOHN WESTLOCK.
My father’s religion would have been unsatisfactory without a hell.
It was a part of his hope of the future that worldly men who scoffed at
his piety would be punished, and this was as much a part of his
expectation as that those who were faithful to the end would be
rewarded. Everybody saved, to my father’s thinking, was as bad as nobody
saved, and in his well-patronized Bible not a passage for pleasurable
contemplation which intimated universal salvation was marked, if such
exists.
The sacrifices he made for religion were tasks, and his reward was a
conviction that those who refused to make them would be punished, for he
regarded it as an injustice of which the Creator was incapable to do as
well by His enemies as by His friends. I believe that he would rather
have gone to heaven without the members of his family than with them,
unless they had earned salvation as he had earned it, and travelled as
steadily as himself the hard road marked on his map as leading
heavenward.
One of the best evidences to his mind of a compassionate and loving
Saviour was the belief that all thought of unfortunate friends in
torment was blotted from the memory of the redeemed, and the lake of
fire he thought of as a remedy for the great number of disagreeable
people with whom he was compelled to come in contact below, and of whom
he would be happily rid above. Religion was a misery to be endured on
earth, that a reward might be enjoyed after death. A man must spend the
ages of his future either in a very pleasant place, with comfortable
surroundings and pleasant associates, or in a very unpleasant place,
with uncomfortable surroundings and all the mean people turned into
devils and imps for companions. It was the inevitable law; every man of
moderate sense should be able to appreciate the situation at a glance,
and do that which would insure his personal safety. If there was a
doubt--the thought was too absurd for his contemplation, but admitting a
doubt--his future would be equal to that of the worldly man, for one
cannot rot more easily than another, or be more comfortable as dust; but
if there was no doubt--and all the authorities agree that there was
none--then the difference would be in his favor.
It was the best thing offering under the circumstances, and should
therefore be accepted without hesitation. If the conditions were hard,
he could not help it; he might have suggested changes in the plan of
salvation had his judgment been invited, but the plan had been
formulated before his time, and there was nothing left for him but
obedience. If he thought he deserved credit for all he possessed (and he
was a man very likely to be seized with that suspicion), the Bible said
it came from God; that settled the matter finally and forever--he gave
thanks (for a punishment was provided if he did not, and a reward if he
did), and pretended to have had nothing to do with accumulating his
property.
Religion was a matter of thrift and self-interest as much as laying away
money in youth and strength for old age and helplessness, and he called
upon sinners to flee the wrath to come because he had been commanded to
go out and preach to all the world, for it mattered little to him
whether the people were saved or not. They had eyes, therefore let them
see; ears, therefore let them hear. The danger was so plain that they
ought to save themselves without solicitation.
That which he most desired seldom came to pass; that which he dreaded,
frequently, but no matter; he gave thanks to the Lord because it was
best to do so, and asked no questions. There were jewels for those who
earned them, and as a thrifty man he desired a greater number of these
than any other citizen of Fairview. He was the principal man in his
neighborhood below, and desired to be a shepherd rather than a sheep
above; therefore he was foremost in the church, and allowed no one to be
more zealous in doing the service of the hard master he had, after
careful thought and study, set out to serve, believing the reward worth
the service, and determined to serve well if he served at all, as was
his custom in everything else.
If I do him an injustice I do not intend it, but I have thought all my
life that he regarded children as troublesome and expensive--a practical
sort of punishment for sin, sent from time to time as the case seemed to
require; and that he had been burdened with but two was no doubt
evidence to his mind that his life had been generally blameless, if,
indeed, this opinion was not confirmed by the circumstance that one of
them had been taken from him in return for good service in the holy
cause. Once they had arrived, however, he accepted the trust to return
them to their Maker as nearly like they came as possible, for that was
commanded of him.
Because he frequently referred to the road to heaven as narrow and
difficult, and the highway in the other direction as broad and easy, I
came to believe that but for his religion he would have been a man much
given to money-getting, and ambitious for distinction, but he put such
thoughts aside, and toiled away at his work as if to get out of
temptation’s way. When he talked of the broad and easy road it was with
a relish, as though he could enjoy the pleasant places by the way-side
if he dared; and in his preaching I think he described the pleasures of
the world so vividly that his hearers were taken with a wish to enjoy
them, though it is not probable that he knew anything about them except
from hearsay, as he had always been out of temptation’s way--in the
backwoods during his boyhood, and on the prairie during his maturer
years. But when he talked of the narrow and difficult path, his manner
changed at once; a frown came upon his face; he looked determined and
unforgiving, and at every point he seemed to build sign-posts marked
“Duty!” It has occurred to me since that he thought of his religion as a
vigorous, healthy, successful man thinks in his quiet moments of a wife
sick since their marriage; although he may deserve a different fate, and
desire it, he dares not complain, for the more wearisome the invalid,
the louder the call of duty.
I think he disliked the necessity of being religious, and only accepted
and taught religion because he believed it to be the best thing to do,
for it did not afford him the peace he professed. To all appearances he
was a most miserable man, although he taught that only the sinful are
miserable, and the few acquaintances he had who were not equally devout
(strangers passing through, or those he met at the country town, for all
were pious in Fairview) lived an easy and contented life which he seemed
to covet, but nobody knew it, for he reproved them with all the more
vigor because of his envy.
When not engaged in reading at night, as was his custom, he sat for
hours looking steadily into the fire, and was impatient if disturbed. I
never knew what occupied his thoughts at these times; it may have been
his preaching, or his daily work, but more likely he was seeing glimpses
of forbidden pictures; caravans of coveted things passing in procession,
or of hopes and ambitious dwarfed by duty. Perhaps in fancy he was out
in the world mingling with people of a class more to his taste than
Fairview afforded, and was thinking he could enjoy their pleasures and
occupations if they were not forbidden, or wondering if, after all, his
principles were not mistakes. I believe that during these hours of
silent thinking he was tempted and beckoned by the invisible and
mysteriously potent forces he pretended to despise, and that he was
convinced that, to push them off, his religion must be made more
rigorous and pitiless.
That he coveted riches could be easily seen, and but for his fear of
conscience he could have easily possessed himself of everything worth
owning in Fairview, for with the exception of Theodore Meek, the next
best man in the neighborhood, he was about the only one among the people
who read books and subscribed for newspapers. None of them was his equal
in intelligence or energy, and had he desired he could have traded them
out of what little they possessed, and sold it back again at a
comfortable profit. But, “do unto others as you would have others do
unto you,” was commanded of him by his inexorable master, and he was
called upon to help the weak rather than rob them; therefore he often
gave them assistance which he could but poorly afford. This limited him
so much that he had no other hope of becoming well-to-do than that the
lands which he was constantly buying would finally become valuable by
reason of the development and settlement of the country. This he
regarded as honorable and fair, and to this work he applied himself
with great energy.
I heard little of his father, except that he was noted where he lived as
a man of large family, who provided them all with warm clothes in winter
and plenty to eat all the year round. His early history was probably as
unimportant and eventless as my own. He seldom mentioned his father to
any one, except in connection with a story which he occasionally told,
that once, when his house was on fire, he called so loud for help that
he was heard a mile. Evidently the son succeeded to this extraordinary
pair of lungs, for he sang the religious songs common in that day with
such excellence that no man attempted to equal him. While his singing
was strong and loud, it was melodious, and he had as great a reputation
for that as for piety and thrift. His was a camp-meeting voice, though
he occasionally sang songs of little children, as “Moses in the
Bulrushes,” of which there were thirty-eight verses, and the cradle song
commencing, “Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,” written by a noted
hymn-writer, otherwise my father would not have patronized him. Besides
a thorough familiarity with all the common, long, short, and particular
metres, he had a collection of religious songs preserved in a
leather-bound book, the notes being written in buckwheat characters on
blue paper fast turning yellow with age, and the words on the opposite
page. Feeling the necessity of a knowledge of notes once, he had learned
the art in a few weeks, in his usual vigorous way, and sang at sight;
and after that he preserved his old songs, and all the new ones he
fancied, in the book I have mentioned. The songs to which I refer I have
never seen in print, and he sang them on special occasions, as at a
camp-meeting when a tiresome preacher had allowed the interest to flag.
“Behold Paul a Prisoner,” a complete history of the Apostle requiring
almost an afternoon in its performance, or “Christ in the Garden,”
nearly as long, never failed to start the interest anew in an emergency,
and if the case were very desperate, he called the members of his family
into the pulpit, and sang a quartet called “The Glorious Eighth of
April,” using for the words the first hymn in the book.
This was usually sufficient to start some one to shouting, and after a
short prayer he preached as vigorously and loudly as he sang, and with
an equally good effect.
Of his brothers and sisters, although he had a great number, he seldom
talked, and I scarcely knew the names of the States in which they lived,
as they were scattered in every direction. I had heard him mention a
Samuel, a Joseph, a Jacob, an Elias, a Rebecca, a Sarah, a Rachel, and
an Elizabeth, from which I came to believe that my grandfather was a
religious man (his own name was Amos), and I once heard that his
children on Sundays carried their shoes to the brook near the
meeting-house before putting them on, that they might last the longer,
which confirmed the belief that there had been religion in his family as
there was in ours.
Of his mother he said nothing at all, and if they had neighbors he never
mentioned them. In short, he did not seem proud of his family, which
caused us to wonder why he was so much like his father, which we had
come to believe without exactly knowing why. We were certain he was like
his father in religion; in the hard way in which he worked; in his
capacity to mend his own ploughs and wagons; and in the easy manner in
which he adapted himself to his surroundings, whatever they were, for in
all these particulars he was unlike any other man we had ever known, and
different from his neighbors, who spent half a day in asking advice in a
matter which could be remedied in half an hour. The people came to our
house from miles around to borrow, and to ask the best time to plant and
to sow, but the Rev. John Westlock asked advice of no one, and never
borrowed. If he needed an extra harrow, he made one of wood to answer
until such a time as he could trade to advantage for a better one; if he
broke a plough, he managed somehow to mend it until a rainy day came,
when he made it as good as new. Even in cases of sickness he usually had
a bottle hid away that contained relief, and in all other things was
equally capable and thrifty.
If it be to the credit of a man to say that he was a slave to hard work,
I cheerfully add this testimony to the greatness of my father, for he
went to the field at daylight only to return with the darkness, winter
and summer alike; and never in my life have I seen him idle--except on
the day appointed for rest--and even then he devoured the Bible like a
man reading at so much per page. He worked hard when he preached,
talking rapidly that he might accomplish as much as possible before the
people became impatient, and he no sooner finished one song of warning,
than he began another.
My father being large and positive, it followed naturally that my mother
was small and weak, and thoroughly under his control. I don’t think she
was afraid of him, but he managed his own affairs so well that she was
willing he should manage hers, as he had given her good reason to
respect his judgment. She probably argued--if she argued the question at
all--that as his ideas were good in everything else, he would of course
know how to manage a boy, so my bringing up was left entirely to him.
She never corrected me except to say that father would not like what I
was doing, and she might find it necessary to call his attention to it,
but in the goodness of her heart she forgot it, and never told him
unless the offence was a very grave one. While she frequently pleaded
with me to be good, and cried in vexation if I would not, she never gave
commands which were enforced with severe punishments, as he did;
therefore I am afraid that I did not appreciate her kindness and favor,
but rather enjoyed my freedom when under her care as a respite from
restraint at other times. She was as quiet and thoughtful as her
husband, but seemed sad rather than angry and discontented, as was the
case with him, and it will be readily imagined that as a family we were
not much given to happiness. While I never heard my father speak harshly
to her, he was often impatient, as though he regretted he had not
married a wife as ambitious and capable as himself; but if he thought of
it, he gave it no other attention than to become more gloomy, and
pacified himself by reading far into the night without speaking to any
one.
I could find no fault with him except that he never spoke kindly to me,
and it annoyed him if I asked him questions concerning what I read in
his books. When Jo and I worked with him in the field, which we both
began to do very early in life, he always did that which was hardest and
most disagreeable, and was not a tyrant in anything save the ungrumbling
obedience he exacted to whatever he thought about the matter in hand,
without reference to what others thought on the same subject. We had to
be at something steadily, whether it helped him or not, because he
believed idle boys grew up into idle men. Other boys in the neighborhood
built the early fires, and did the early feeding, but he preferred to do
these things himself--whether out of consideration for us, or because it
was troublesome to drive us to it, I do not know. After starting the
fire in the room in which he slept, he stepped to our door and told us
to get up, to which command we mumblingly replied and slept on. After
returning from the stables, he spoke to us again, but we still paid no
attention. Ten minutes later he would start up the stairs with angry
strides, but he never caught us, for we knew that was final and hurried
on our clothes. Seeing that we were up and dressing when he reached the
head of the stairs, he would say, “Well, you’d better,” and go down
again, where we speedily followed. This was his regular custom for
years; we always expected it of him, and were never disappointed.
After the morning devotions, which consisted of reading a chapter from
the Bible and a prayer always expressed in exactly the same words, he
asked a blessing for the meal by this time ready (the blessing was as
unvarying as the prayer), and we ate in silence. Then we were warmly
clothed, if it was winter, and compelled to go out and work until we
were hungry again. I suppose we helped him little enough, but his
reasoning convinced him that, to work easily and naturally, work must
become a habit, and should be taught from youth up, therefore we went
out with him every day and came back only with the darkness.
I think he was kinder with us when at work than at any other time, and
we admired him in spite of the hard and exacting tasks he gave us to
do--he called them stints--for he was powerful and quick to aid us when
we needed it, and tender as a child if we were sick. Sometimes on cold
days we walked rather than rode to the timber, where my father went to
chop wood while Jo and I corded it. On one of these occasions I became
ill while returning home at night--a slight difficulty, it must have
been, for I was always stout and robust--and he carried me all the way
in his arms. Though I insisted I could walk, and was better, he said I
was not heavy, and trudged along like a great giant, holding me so
tenderly that I thought for the first time that perhaps he loved me. For
weeks after that I tried as hard as I could to please him, and to induce
him to commend my work; but he never did, for whether I was good or bad,
he was just the same, silent and grave, so that if I became indifferent
in my tasks, I fear he was the cause of it.
Other families had their holidays, and owned guns and dogs, which they
used in hunting the wild game then so abundant; but there was little of
this at our house, and perhaps this was the reason why we prospered more
than those around us. Usually Jo and I were given the Saturday
afternoons to ourselves, when we roamed the country with some of the
idle vagabonds who lived in rented houses, visiting turkey roosts a
great distance in the woods, and only returning long after night-fall. I
do not remember that we were ever idle in the middle of the week, unless
we were sent on errands, as buying young stock at low prices of the less
thrifty neighbors, or something else in which there was profit; so that
we had little time to learn anything except hard work, and if we learned
that well it was because we were excellently taught by a competent
master. During those years work became such a habit with me that ever
since it has clung to me, and perhaps, after all, it was an inheritance
for which I have reason to be thankful. I remember my father’s saying
scornfully to me once, as if intimating that I ought to make up by
unusual industry for the years of idleness, that I was a positive burden
and expense to him until I was seven years old. So it will readily be
imagined that I was put to work early, and kept steadily at it.