And I am glad,
Glory, O hallelujah.
The devil may pout,
But I will shout.
Glory, O hallelujah.
I noticed this meeting, and quoted their popular hymn in the Teacher, and the Brethren in that county were very indignant. At their next meeting one of their preachers took up the matter. “That little Universalist preacher,” said he, “that lives in Lafayette, and prints that Universalist paper, is mad because we sing about his daddy.”
I attended, on a dark and gloomy night, a fanatical camp-meeting of the Methodists, near Ladoga. It was held in a dense forest. When a mile from the camp, I heard the noise of the nocturnal worshipers. Arriving on the ground, the scene that opened to the vision, beggared description. The whole camp seemed to be in an uproar. Preachers were preaching, exhorters exhorting, singers singing, shouters shouting, and jumpers were jumping. Some seemed to be suffering intense agony, others as happy as clams at high water. Some kept their seats, while others were hopping, skipping and jumping like chickens with their heads cut off. One man ran past me without looking to the right or left. “Where are you going?” said I. “To glory.” A preacher screamed as loud as his lungs would allow, “The devil is in the camp, and must be driven out. Get the horn, form in line, march round the ground three times, blow the horn, the devil must be driven out, the walls of Jericho shall fall.” The procession was formed, the horn was blown, and the march was made. Whether Satan left the camp, and the said walls fell at this demonstration, the master of the ceremony did not see proper to inform us. I left the ground about midnight, when the excitement was under full headway, and my reflections while walking back to the village were as follows: Is this the proper way to worship God? Does he require us to make fools of ourselves, and act like bedlamites? Is religion fanaticism? Is regeneration an hallucination? I will not believe a word of it. Religion consists in love to God and man. Noise, uproar, fanaticism are not worship, are not religion, are not regeneration. God speaks to the soul with the still small voice of inspiration and intuition, and the truly pious make but little outward demonstration. Empty wagons make much noise, heavy laden ones pass our streets without hardly being heard. But then I do not wonder at the noise, lamentation, agonizing, and every other extravagance, of these people. They think God is frowning on this world, that his wrath is kindled to its hottest pitch, that he has already banished most of the dead to the infernal regions, and that during every moment of time crowds are driven from earth to hell, and that we all stand on the very brink of a bottomless pit. No wonder the victims of this terrible belief are nearly insane. Strange they are not all raving mad. O God, enlighten their minds concerning thee, whom to know is life eternal.
I visited Michigan City by request, and delivered four discourses. The Episcopal clergyman of the place, took the trouble to go around town, and destroy all the notices of the meetings that were tacked up, and to tell the people not to go near me. But large congregations attended, and all seemed much interested. In one of my lectures I gave a history of the “rise and progress” of the Episcopal Church. Stated that it was conceived in sin and brought forth in iniquity; that Henry VIII., universally admitted to have been the most beastly monarch that ever reigned in England, was the first Episcopalian, and the father of the sect; that church from Henry’s day to this day has been a proud, arrogant, insolent, overbearing concern; in England it draws half of its support from unwilling pockets, from those who belong to other communions; that it cares not who starves provided its priests, bishops, and lords live in indolence, race horses, chase foxes, and drink brandy; it never took but one short step from the Catholic Church, the mother of harlots, and it was now creeping back into the arms of its old mamma; but there are some live men and women in the church, and they deplore the stupidity, coldness and old hunkerism of the lifeless body to which they are bound.
The distance from Lafayette to Michigan City, is about one hundred miles, and for fifteen miles on each side of the Kankakee river, there was not, in those days, a house. It commenced raining on my way to Michigan City, when I had reached the south margin of that wilderness of prairie, and it poured down in torrents till I made the first house, thirty miles distant. It was a swamp nearly all the way, and the flood of that day made the road, such as it was, nearly impassable. I sometimes thought I should have to return; but about ten at night I reached a cabin, drenched with rain, covered with mud, and as hungry as a bear.
A Presbyterian elder, by the name of Smith, was eager for a debate, and he was gratified. We occupied the Presbyterian church in Dayton, and the poor elder did one pretty hard day’s work. He was frightened out of most of his wits; his nerves were unstrung, and his hand so trembled he could not hold his Bible to read his texts. I pitied him, but dealt as hard blows as I could strike. He was disgusted with himself, and proposed, a few weeks after, to try again, hoping to do better. We spent two days at Rossville, near his home, and he then willingly retired without further debating.