“One more question. Could you be happy in heaven if you should see all the dear ones you now love, roasting in hell? Will you answer?”
“To be candid, I do not see how I could be happy.”
“I thank you for your candor. According to your interpretation of the passage, and it is the common interpretation, heaven and hell, the latter a region of quenchless fire, are neighbors, within speaking distance of each other, and mankind are to be torn asunder—part driven into hell, and part sent to heaven—husbands and wives divided, parents and children, brothers and sisters divided, part in heaven and part in hell, and those in heaven will know that half of the world are in hell, that their near and dear friends are there. Now, it is utterly impossible for there to be any happiness in heaven, when such a world of woe is within sight and hearing. The passage must be a parable—figurative language. Jesus often spake in parables. It is in connection with several parables, and like them is figurative. But I have not time this evening to give an explanation of it, but on to-morrow, Sunday, at eleven o’clock, will give what I regard to be the true exposition of that important passage.”
The discussion had a sensible effect on the hearers; some rejoiced and some were mad. One old gentleman, with streaming eyes, thanked me for what he had heard. But others were so enraged, that some of my friends feared that violent hands would be laid on me, ere I should reach the hotel, and I heard several cry, “Search his saddle-bags! he is a d——d abolitionist! get a rail!”
The next day my meeting was in a grove, for no house, that could be obtained, would hold half of the people who came out. My youth, the novelty of my faith, and the controversy, drew an immense concourse. The people listened with attention and respect, and the meeting was not disturbed by any opposition. I went to the village a stranger to all, but when I left, which was the next day, I had many friends.
I often preached in Harpers Ferry, and generally had large congregations. The town site, and its surroundings, are well known to be remarkably picturesque. The Shenandoah and Potomac, rapid streams, here unite, and roar and plunge through the chasm they have made through the Blue Ridge. The rocks on both sides are several hundred feet high, and nearly perpendicular. Thomas Jefferson said it was worth a voyage across the Atlantic to see this wonderful work of nature.
Near Hagerstown, I had a little controversy with a Campbellite preacher. We both had an appointment in a barn, and the people were eager to hear both of us speak. He delivered a discourse on his peculiar views—dwelt long on the importance of water baptism, which he affirmed was a condition of salvation. In my discourse, I paid particular attention to his water-cure notions, and showed that if he was correct, none could be saved without being baptized in water, and therefore most of mankind would be lost forever, as but a small portion of our race are immersed. In his reply he said he did not believe in endless misery, but in annihilation, and admitted that he had no evidence of the salvation of a soul, old or young, in a christian or a heathen land, without water baptism. What a gospel! I rejoined. Instead of bringing life and immortality to light, it proclaims eternal death to nearly the whole world; instead of being good news to our race, it is a howl of everlasting despair; instead of being a blessing to the world, it is an unmitigated curse; instead of its proclaiming that God is the loving Father of mankind, it announces that He is full of partiality and hatred towards most of His creatures. Never again prostitute that blessed word, gospel, by calling your partial, cruel and revengeful system by that dear name. There is not as much gospel in your creed as there is brain in a mosquito’s head.
One evening, I accompanied a friend to a Methodist meeting; the congregation was large, and a “revival” was raging in its midst. The first speaker spoke well and sensibly, but his words fell on dull ears and cold hearts. The second speaker was a regular son of thunder, and he did thunder, and storm, and quake, and he made some of his hearers do the same. When he got through with his “exhortation,” he kneeled and said, “Let us pray.” He prayed, and half of the assembly prayed with him. He raised his voice, and they raised theirs; he screamed like a maniac, and they did the same; he jumped up and down, and they jumped up and down. I looked on with utter amazement, having never witnessed such a scene before. As soon as he had finished this part of the performance, he told all to rise to their feet, who wanted to go to heaven. I was the only one who did not stand up. “Rise to your feet,” said he, “or you will be damned.” I kept my seat, and though strongly tempted to rebuke him, I said nothing.
Near Charleston, Va., I attended, for the first time, a Methodist camp-meeting, and have not since been anxious to renew my acquaintance with such gatherings. It was held in a beautiful grove, and there were present some two thousand people, black and white. During the services, the whites were seated in front of the speaker’s stand, and the negroes in its rear. The speakers would talk awhile to their white brethren, and then turn on their heels and give the black brethren a broadside, and the latter always responded to the condescension of the preachers with a hearty shout. The night was the hour of promise; then they were almost sure of being blessed with copious showers of “grace.” Sunlight, it seems, is not favorable to its descent; it comes more plentifully with moonshine. The night I was on the ground, there were all sorts of manifestations of the “spirit.” Some laughed, others cried, groaned, and threw themselves on the ground. I noticed one poor fellow trying to climb a tree, and I asked him where he was going. “To heaven,” said he, and he kept scratching the tree with his finger and toe nails, for he was bare-footed. The preachers and the hearers generally, seemed to think all that hopping, jumping, shouting and screaming, was the work of God in converting the souls of the people. Every good thing can be abused, and thus become an evil. Religious excitement, when kept within due bounds, is productive of much good, but when it overleaps all bounds, and becomes temporary insanity, as it did on this occasion, it is prostituted to a very bad purpose. I spent a short time in the “preacher’s tent” where the following conversation ensued:
“John Wesley was opposed to such excitement as you have here.”