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MODERN SKEPTICISM:

A

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF DOUBT

AND BACK AGAIN.

A LIFE STORY

BY

JOSEPH BARKER.

PHILADELPHIA:
SMITH, ENGLISH & CO.
1874.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
REV. JOSEPH BARKER,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

Jas. B. Rodgers Co.,
Printers and Stereotypers,
Philadelphia.

CONTENTS.

[Preface], [7]

[CHAPTER I.]

Introduction.—My early life.—Enter the Church.—The Ministry.—Happy days.—Sad change.—How happened it? [17]

[CHAPTER II.]

Causes of unbelief.—Vice.—Other causes.—Constitutional tendencies to doubt.—Disappointed expectations about Christianity.—Mysteries of Providence.—Misrepresentations of Christ and Christianity in human creeds.—Church divisions.—Ignorant advocates of Christianity.—Wrong principles of reasoning.—False science, [19]

[CHAPTER III.]

Another cause of unbelief.—Bad feeling between ministers or among church members.—Alienates them from each other.—Then separates them from the Church.—Then from Christ.—How it works.—My case, [26]

[CHAPTER IV.]

Origin of the unhappy feeling between me and some of my brother ministers.—Tendencies of my mind.—Rationalizing tendency.—Its effects.—Reading.—Investigations.—Discoveries, [30]

[CHAPTER V.]

Modification of my early creed.—Unscriptural doctrines relinquished.—Scriptural ones adopted.—Some doctrines modified.—Theological fictions dropped.—Eager for the pure, simple truth as taught by Jesus.—Doctrine of types given up.—Other notions relinquished.—Alarm of some of my brethren at these changes, [44]

[CHAPTER VI.]

How preachers and theologians indulge their fancies on religion.—John Wesley.—His resolution to be a man of one book.—What came of his resolution.—His sermon on God's approbation of His works,—unscriptural and unphilosophical throughout.—Illustrations and proofs.—And Wesley was one of the best and wisest, one of the most honest and single-minded of our theologians.—What then may we expect of others?—Evils of theological trifling.—Mischievous effects of mixing human fictions with Divine revelations, [55]

[CHAPTER VII.]

Further theological investigations.—Unwarranted statements by preachers.—John Foster's Essay on Some of the Causes by which Evangelical Religion is Rendered Distasteful to Persons of Cultivated Minds.—Introduction of similar views to the notice of my ministerial brethren.—The reception they met with.—No Church has got all the truth.—Most Churches, perhaps all, have got portions of it, which others have not.—My attempts to gather up the fragments from all.—Freedom from bigotry.—Love to all Christians.—Judging trees by their fruit.—Reading the books of various denominations, like foreign travel, liberalizes the mind.—I found truth and goodness in all denominations.—Appropriated all as part of my patrimony.—Results.—Suspicions and fears among my brethren.—Mutterings: Backbitings: Controversy. Bad feeling, [65]

[CHAPTER VIII.]

My style of preaching.—Decidedly practical.—Using Christianity as a means for making bad people into good ones, and good ones always better.—Reasons for this method.—A family trait.—Hereditary.—Great need of practical preaching.—Folly of other kinds of Preaching.—Littleness of great Preachers.—Worthlessness of great sermons.—The Truly Great are the Greatly Good and Greatly Useful.—My Models.—The Bible.—Jesus.—My Favorite Preachers.—Billy Dawson, David Stoner, James Parsons.—My Favorite Books.—The Bible—Nature.—Simple Common Sense, instructive, earnest, moving books.—How my preaching was received by the people.—Its effects on churches and congregations.—Uneasiness of my colleagues.—Fresh mutterings; tale bearings; controversies; and more bad feeling, [82]

[CHAPTER IX.]

Extracts from my Diary.—A strange preacher.—Horrible sermons.—Lights of the world that give no light.—Theological mist and smoke.—Narrow-mindedness.—Intolerance.—T. Allin,—Great preaching great folly.—A. Scott,—A good preacher.—Sanctification.—Keep to Scripture.—R. Watson: theological madness.—Big Books on the way of salvation; puzzling folks.—Antinomian utterances about Christ's work and man's salvation.—Preachers taking the devil's side; and doing his work.—Scarcity of common sense in priesthoods, and of uncommon sense.—The great abundance of nonsense and bad sense.—Common religious expressions that are false.—Favorite Hymns that are not Scriptural—Baxter's good sense, [98]

[CHAPTER X.]

Reforming tendencies.—Corruptions in the Church.—Bad trades.—Faults in the ministry.—Toleration of vice.—Drinking habits.—Intemperance.—The Connexion.—Faulty rules.—Bad customs.—Defective institutions.—All encouraged to suggest reforms and punished for doing so.—Original principles of the Connexion set aside, and persecution substituted for freedom.—My simplicity.—My reward.—The Ministry.—Drunkenness.—Teetotalism.—Advocacy of Temperance.—Outcry of preachers.—My Evangelical Reformer.—Articles on the prevailing vices of the Church; On Toleration and Human Creeds;—On Channing's Works; On Anti-Christian trading, &c., get me into trouble.—Conference interference.—Conference trials.—The state of things critical.—No remedy.—Matters get worse and worse.—Exciting events: too many to be named here.—Envy, jealousy, rage, strife, confusion, and many evil works.—Conspiracies: Fierce conflicts.—Expulsion, [117]

[CHAPTER XI.]

Explanations about the different Methodist Bodies.—Grounds of my reformatory proceedings.—About immoralities.—Christianity not to blame for the faults of professors and preachers.—My own defects, [153]

[CHAPTER XII.]

Story of my life continued.—Results of my expulsion.—Fierce fighting.—Desperation of my persecutors.—Great excitement on my part.—Rank crop of slanders.—Monstrous ones.—And silly ones.—Bad deeds as well as wicked words.—Hard work.—Exhaustion.—Powerlessness.—Three days' rest.—Long sleep.—Wonderful,—delightful,—result.—Public debates.—Remarkable occurrences; seemed Providential.—A lying opponent unexpectedly confronted and confounded.—New Body,—Christian Brethren.—My church at Newcastle.—Change in my views, and fresh troubles.—Losses.—Poverty.—Learn the Printing business.—Follow it under difficulties.—Want of funds.—Generous friends. Family on the verge of want.—Pray.—An unlooked-for cart-load of provisions.—Trust in Providence.—False friends.—True ones.—A mad utterance.—A worse deed.—Theological Conventions.—Free investigations and public discussions.—Change of views, [103]

[CHAPTER XIII.]

Approach to Unitarianism.—Kindness of Unitarians.—Preaching and lecturing in their pulpits.—Ten nights' public discussion with Rev. W. Cooke.—Subjects.—Results.—Publications.—Now periodicals.—Unitarian invitation to London.—Public reception.—Liberal contributions to Steam Press Fund.—Press presentation.—Dr. Bateman; Dr.-Sir-John Bowring.—Pleasurable change from intolerance and persecution to friendship and favor.—Discoveries.—Unitarianism has many phases.—Channingism.—Anti-supernaturalism.—Deism.—Atheism.—Gradually slid down to the lower, [191]

[CHAPTER XIV.]

The Bible.—My earliest views of its origin and authority.—Changed as I grew up.—Further changes.—Important facts about the Bible.—False theories of its Divine inspiration.—The true—the Bible's own,—doctrine on the subject.—Needful to keep inside of this.—No defence outside either for the Bible or for Bible men.—Explanations: illustrations: testimonies of celebrated writers.—The PERFECTION of the Bible—in what does it consist.—Foolish and impossible notions of perfection.—No absolute perfection in any thing.—No need for it.—Foolish talk about infallibility.—Other important testimonies, [202]

[CHAPTER XV.]

Enters politics.—Advocates extreme political views.—Republicanism.—Foretells the French Revolution of 1848.—Great political excitement in England.—Government alarmed.—Get arrested.—Lodged in prison.—Trial.—Triumph over Government.—Great rejoicings.—Elected member of Parliament for Bolton, and Town Councillor for Leeds.—Exhaustion from excess of labor.—Health fails.—Terrible Pains.—Voyage to America and back.—Removes to America.—Objects in doing so.—Settles on a farm.—Gets into fresh excitement.—The Abolitionists.—Women's Rights.—All kinds of wild revolutionary theories.—Go farther into unbelief instead of getting back to Christ.—A mad world, with strange unwritten histories, and awful, nameless mysteries, [241]

[CHAPTER XVI.]

Story of my descent from the faith of my childhood, to doubt and unbelief.—Bad theological teaching in my early days.—Dreadful results.—Perplexity.—Madness.—Survive all, and get over it.—The first arguments I heard for the Bible.—True basis of religious belief.—Reading on the evidences.—Effects.—Unsound arguments.—Their effect.—Internal evidences best.—Negative criticism, long continued, ruinous both to faith and virtue.—Moving ever downwards.—The devil as a theologian, a poet and a philosopher.—Bible Conventions.—W. L. Garrison, A. J. Davis.—Public discussions in Philadelphia with Dr. McCalla.—The Doctor's disgraceful failure.—Great,—mad,—excitement.—Narrow escape from murder.—Eight nights' debate with Dr. Berg.—The good cause suffered through bad management.—The Doctor took an untenable position.—Undertook to prove too much and failed.—Substantially right, but logically wrong.—Other debates in Ohio, Indiana, England and Scotland.—Mean and mischievous opponents.—Honorable and useful ones.—Bad advocates of a good cause, its worst enemies, [269]

[CHAPTER XVII.]

Continuation of my Story.—Lectures on the Bible in Ohio.—Trouble.—Riot.—Rotten eggs.—Midnight mischief.—Had to move.—Settlement among Liberals, Comeouters.—Too fond of liberty.—Would have my share as well as their own.—Fresh trouble.—Another forced move.—Settlement in the wilds of Nebraska, among Indians, wolves, and rattlesnakes.—Experience there.—A change for the better.—How brought about.—Quiet of mind.—Reflection.—Horrors of Atheism.—Destroys the value of life.—Deceives you; mocks you; makes you intolerably miserable.—Suggests suicide.—Prosperity not good for much without religion: adversity, sickness, pain, loss, bereavement intolerable.—Strange adventures in the wilderness; terrible dangers; wonderful deliverances.—Solemn thoughts and feelings in the boundless desert.—Solitude and silence preach.—Religious feelings revive.—Recourse to old religious books.—Demoralizing tendency of unbelief.—Lecture in Philadelphia.—Cases of infidel depravity.—You can't make people good, nor even decent, without religion.—Infidelity means utter debasement.—A good, a loving, and a faithful wife, who never ceases to pray.—Return to England.—Experience there.—Unbounded licentiousness of Secularism.—Total separation from the infidel party.—My new Periodical.—Resolution to re-read the Bible, to do justice to Christianity, &c.—A sight of Jesus.—Happy results.—Change both of head and heart.—Happy transformation of character.—A new life.—New work.—New lot.—From darkness to light,—From death to life,—from purgatory to paradise,—from hell to heaven, [310]

[CHAPTER XVIII.]

Parties whose Christian sympathy, and wise words, and generous deeds, helped me back to Christ, [345]

[CHAPTER XIX.]

The steps by which I gradually returned to Christ.—Lectures and sermons on the road.—Answers to objections against the Bible and Christianity.—Spiritualism.—Strange phenomena.—Answers to objections advanced by myself in the Berg debate.—The position to be taken by advocates of the Bible and Christianity.—Additional remarks on Divine inspiration.—What it implies, and what it does not imply.—Overdoing is undoing.—Genesis and Geology.—The Bible and Science.—Public discussions,—explanation.—At Home in the Church.—Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.—Joy unspeakable, [355]

[CHAPTER XX.]

Lessons I have learned.—1. Men slow to learn wisdom by the experience of others.—2. Danger of bad feeling.—3. Of a controversial spirit.—4. Old ministers should deal tenderly with their younger brethren.—5. Young thinkers should be prayerful, humble, watchful; yet faithful to conscience and to truth, trusting in God.—6. With Christian faith goes Christian virtue.—The tendency of unbelief is ever downwards.—7. Unbelievers are not irreclaimable.—We should not pass them by unpitied or unhelped.—8. Converts from infidelity must look for trials.—They must not expect too much from churches and ministers. Paul's case.—9. They must risk all for Christ, and bear their losses and troubles patiently.—10. They should join the Church, right away.—Not look for a perfect Church.—Keep inside.—Bear unpleasantnesses meekly.—Stones made smooth and round in the stream, by the rubbing they get from other stones.—Reformers should move gently, and have long patience.—The more haste the worst speed.—Killing rats.—12. Unbelief, when not a sin, is a terrible calamity: a world of calamities in one, [406]

[Concluding Remarks], [437]

PREFACE.

The object of this Book is, First, to explain a portion of my own history, and, Secondly, to check the spread of infidelity, and promote the interests of Christianity. How far it is calculated to answer these ends I do not pretend to know. I have no very high opinion of the work myself. I fear it has great defects. On some points I may have said too much, and on others too little. I cannot tell. I have however done my best, and I would fain hope, that my labors will not prove to have been altogether in vain.

I have spent considerable time with a view to bring my readers to distinguish between the doctrines of Christ, and the theological fictions which are so extensively propagated in His name. It is exceedingly desirable that nothing should pass for Christianity, but Christianity itself. And it is equally desirable that Christianity should be seen in its true light, as presented in the teachings and character, in the life and death of its great Author. A correct exposition of Christianity is its best defence. A true, a plain, a faithful and just exhibition of its spirit and teachings, and of its adaptation to the wants of man, and of its tendency to promote his highest welfare, is the best answer to all objections, and the most convincing proof of its truth and divinity. And the truth, the reasonableness, the consistency, the purifying and ennobling tendency, and the unequalled consoling power of Christianity, can be proved, and proved with comparative ease; but to defend the nonsense, the contradictions, the antinomianism and the blasphemies of theology is impossible.

I have taken special pains to explain my views on the Divine Inspiration of the Scriptures. I am satisfied that no attempts to answer the objections of infidels against the Bible will prove satisfactory, so long as men's views on this subject go beyond the teachings of the Scriptures themselves. To the fanciful theories of a large number of Theologians the sacred writings do not answer, and you must therefore, either set aside those theories, and put a more moderate one in their place, or give up the defence of the Bible in despair. I therefore leave the extravagant theories to their fate, and content myself with what the Scriptures themselves say; and I feel at rest and secure.

The views I have given on the subject in this work, and in my pamphlet on the Bible, are not new. You may find them in the works of quite a number of Evangelical Authors. The only credit to which I am entitled is, that I state them with great plainness, and without reserve, and that I do not, after having given them on one page, take them back again on the next.

How far my friends will be able to receive or tolerate my views on these points, I do not know. I hope they will ponder them with all the candor and charity they can. I have kept as near to orthodox standards as I could, without doing violence to my conscience, and injustice to the truth. I would never be singular, if I could honestly help it. It is nothing but a regard to God, and duty, and the interests of humanity, that prevents me going with the multitude. It would be gratifying in the extreme to see truth and the majority on one side, and to be permitted to take my place with them: but if the majority take sides with error, I must take my place with the minority, and look for my comfort in a good conscience, and in the sweet assurance of God's love and favor.

A Dream.

In looking over some manuscripts some time ago, belonging to a relation of my wife's father-in-law, I found the following story of a dream. Some have no regard for dreams, but I have. I have both read of dreams, and had dreams myself, that answered marvellously to great realities; and this may be one of that kind. In any case, as the Preface does not take up all the space set apart for it, I am disposed to give it a few of the vacant pages.

The dreamer's account of his dream is as follows.

'After tiring my brain one day with reading a long debate between a Catholic and a Protestant about the Infallibility of the Church and the Bible, I took a walk along a quiet field-path near the river, full of thought on the subject on which I had been reading. The fresh air, the pleasant scene, and the ripple of the stream, had such a soothing effect on me, that I lost myself, and passed unconsciously from the World of realities, into the Land of dreams. I found myself in a large Hall, filled with an eager crowd, listening to a number of men who had assembled, as I was told, to discuss the affairs of the Universe, and put an end to controversy. The subject under discussion just then was the Sun. I found that after the world had lived in its light for thousands of years, and been happy in the abundance of the fruit, and grain, and numberless blessings produced by his wondrous influences, some one, who had looked at the Great Light through a powerful telescope, had discovered that there were several dark spots on his disk or face, and that some of them were of a very considerable size. He named the matter to a number of his friends who, looking through the telescope for themselves, saw that such was really the case.

'Now there happened to be an order of persons in the Land of dreams whose business it was to praise the Sun, and extol its Light. And they had a theory to the effect, that the Light of the Sun was unmixed, and that the Sun itself was one uniform mass of brightness and brilliancy, without speck, or spot, or any such thing. They held that the Head of their order was the Maker of the Sun,—that He Himself was Light, and that in Him was no darkness at all; and that the Sun was exactly like Him, intense, unmingled, and unvarying Light. When these people heard of the alleged discovery of the spots, they raised a tremendous cry, and some howled, and some shrieked, and all united in pronouncing the statement a fiction, and in denouncing in severe terms, both its author, and all who took his part, as deceivers; as the enemies of the Sun, as blasphemers of its Author, and as the enemies of the human race.

'This was one of the great controversies which this world-wide convention had met to bring to an end.

'As I took my place in the Hall, one of the Professors of the Solar University was speaking. He said the story about the spots was a wicked calumny; and he went into a lengthy and labored argument to show, that the thing was absurd and impossible. 'The Sun,' said he, 'was made by an All-perfect Artificer,—made on purpose to be a Light, the Great Light of the world, and a Light it must be, and nothing else but a Light; a pure unsullied Light all round, without either spot, or speck of any kind, or any varying shade of brilliancy in any part.' He added, 'To say the contrary, is to do the Sun injustice, to dishonor its All-glorious Author, to alienate the minds of men from the Heavenly Luminary, to destroy their faith in his Light and warmth, to plunge the world into darkness, and reduce it to a state of utter desolation. If the Sun is not all light, he is no Light at all. If there be dark spots on one part of his face, there may be dark spots on every part. All may be dark, and what seems Light may be an illusion; a false Light, 'that leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.' He is not to be trusted. Every thing is uncertain.' And he called the man who said he had seen the spots, an impostor, a blasphemer, a scavenger, an ass, a foreigner, and a number of other strange names.

'The man he was abusing so unmercifully, stepped forward, and in a meek and quiet spirit said, 'I saw the spots with my own eyes. I have seen them scores of times. I can show them to you, if you will look through this glass.' 'Your glass is a cheat, a lie,' said the Professor. 'But others have seen them,' said the man, 'as well as I, and seen them through a number of other glasses.'

''It is impossible,' answered the Professor. 'A Sun made by an All-perfect God, and made on purpose to be a Light, cannot possibly be defaced with dark spots; and whoever says any thing to the contrary is a ——.'

'Here the Professor rested his case;—'A Sun without spots, or no Sun. Light without variation of shade, or no Light. Prove that the Sun has spots, and you reduce him to a level with an old extinguished lamp, that is fit for nothing but to be cast away as an unclean and worthless thing. The honor of God, and the welfare of the universe all hang on this one question,—Spots, or no spots!'

'His fellow professors took his part, and many spoke in the same strain. But the belief in the spots made its way, and spread further every day, and the consequence was, the obstinate Professors were confounded and put to shame. Facts were too strong for them, and their credit and influence were damaged beyond remedy.

'After the Professors of the Sun were silenced, the Man in the Moon arose and spoke. He contended that both Sun and Moon were free from spots, but said, that no one could see the Sun as it really was, unless he lived in the Moon, and looked at it from his standpoint. 'The Moon,' said he, 'like the Sun, is the work of the All-perfect Creator; and its face is one unchanging blaze of absolute and unvaried brightness.'

'Now all who had ever looked at the Moon, had noticed, that no part of her face was as bright as the Sun, and that some portions were of a shade considerably darker than the rest. And I noticed that even the Professors who had spoken extravagantly about the Sun, looked at each other and smiled, when they heard the statements of the Man in the Moon. Indeed there was such a tittering and a giggling through the Hall, that the meeting was broken up.

'I hastened out, and found there were a hundred discussions going on in the street. Many of the disputants seemed greatly excited. I felt melancholy. A quiet-looking man, with a very gentle expression of countenance, came up to me, and in tones of remarkable sweetness, said, 'You seem moved.' 'I feel troubled,' said I. 'I don't know what to think; and I don't know what to do.' He smiled, and said, 'None of these things move me.' Then lifting up his eyes towards Heaven he said,—'The Sun still shines; and I feel his blessed warmth as sensibly as ever. And the millions of our race still live and rejoice in his beams.' 'Thank God,' said I: 'Yes, I see, he still shines; and I will rest contented with his light and warmth.' 'The spots are there,' said he, 'past doubt; but experience, the strongest evidence of all, proves that they do not interfere with the beneficent influences of the Great and Glorious Orb, or lessen his claims to our respect and veneration, or diminish one jot our obligations to his great Author. They have their use, no doubt. The Sun might be too brilliant without them, and destroy our eyes, instead of giving us light. Too much light might prove as bad as too little. All is well. I accept plain facts. To deny them is to fight against God. To admit them and trust in God is the true faith, and the germ of all true virtue and piety.

''I have no faith in the kind of absolute perfection those professors contend for, either in Sun or Moon, Bible or Church; but I believe in the SUFFICIENCY, or practical perfection of all, and am as happy, and only wish I were as good and useful, as ——'

'Just as he spoke those words, I awoke. He seemed as if he had much to say, and I would fain have heard him talk his sweet talk till now; but perhaps I had heard enough, and ought now to set myself heartily to work, to get through with the business of my life.'

So ends the Dream-story.

Some writers seem to think that their readers should understand and receive their views, however new and strange they may be, the moment they place them before their minds. They cannot understand how that which is clear to them, should not be plain to everybody else. And there are some readers who seem to think, that every thing they meet with in the books they read, however much it may be out of the way of their ordinary thought, or however contrary to their long-cherished belief, should, if it be really intelligible and true, appear so to them at first glance. How can anything seem mysterious or untrue to them, that is not mysterious or untrue in its very nature?

It so happened, that along with the dream-story, I found the following fragment. It is not an interpretation of the dream, but it seems as if it might teach a useful lesson, both to writers and readers.

'Something more than light, and eyes, and surrounding objects, is necessary to seeing. A new-born child may have light, and eyes, and surrounding objects, and yet not see anything distinctly. And a man born blind may have the film removed from his eyes, and be placed, at noontide, in the midst of a world of interesting objects, and yet, instead of seeing things, as we see them, have nothing but a confounding and distressing sensation. Seeing, as we see, is the result of habit, acquired by long-continued use. The new-born babe must have time to exercise its eyes, and exercise its little mind as well, before it can distinguish face from face, and form from form. The man who has just received his sight must have time for similar exercise, before he can enjoy the rich pleasures and advantages of sight to perfection. Even we who have had our sight for fifty years do not see as many things in a picture, a landscape, or a bed of flowers, when we see them for the first time, as those who have been accustomed to inspect and examine such objects for years.

'And so it is with mental and moral vision. Something more than a mind, and instruction, and mental objects are necessary to enable a man to understand religion and duty. Attention, study, comparison, continued with calmness, and candor, and patience, for days, for months, or for years, may be necessary to enable a skeptic to understand, to believe, and to feel like those who have long been disciples of Christ.

'And a change of habits, continued till it produces a change of tastes and desires, is necessary to prepare the sensualist to judge correctly with regard to things moral and religious. We must not therefore expect a good lecture, or an able book, to cure a skeptic of his doubts at once. It may produce an effect which, in time, if the party be faithful to duty, will end in his conversion at a future day. The seed committed to the soil does not produce rich harvests in a day. A change of air and habits does not at once regenerate the invalid. The husbandman has to wait long for his crop: and the physician has to wait long for the recovery of his patient. And the skeptic has to wait long, till the seed of truth, deposited in his soul, unfolds its germs, and produces the rich ripe harvest of faith, and holiness, and joy.

'And preachers and teachers must not think it strange, if their hearers and readers are slow to change. Nor must they despond even though no signs of improvement appear for months or years. A change for the better in a student may not be manifest till it has been in progress for years. It may not be perfected for many years. You cannot force a change of mind, as you can force the growth of a plant in a hot-house. An attempt to do so might stop it altogether. Baxter said, two hundred years ago, 'Nothing so much hindereth the reception of the truth, as urging it on men with too much importunity, and falling too heavily on their errors.'

'Have patience, then. Teach, as your pupil may be prepared to learn, but respect the laws of the Eternal, which have fixed long intervals for slow and silent processes, between the seed-time and the harvest-home.'

While I am in doubt as to whether I have put into my book too much on some subjects, I am thoroughly convinced that I have put into it too little on others. I have not said enough, nor half enough, on Atheism. I ought to have exposed its groundlessness, its folly, and its mischievous and miserable tendency at considerable length.

This defect I shall try to remedy as soon as possible, and in the best way I can.

Some weeks ago I read a paper before the M. E. Preachers' Meeting of Philadelphia, on Atheism,—what can it say for itself? The paper was received with great favor, and many asked for its publication. It will form the first article in my next volume.

I expect, in fact, to give the subject of Atheism a pretty thorough examination in that volume, and to show that it is irrational and demoralizing from beginning to end, and to the last extreme.

John Stuart Mill, the head and representative of English Literary and Philosophical Atheists, has left us a history of his life, and of his father's life. In this work he presents us with full length portraits of himself and his father, and both gives us their reasons for being Atheists, and reveals to us the influence of their Atheism on their hearts and characters, as well as on their views on morality, politics, and other important subjects.

And though the painter, as we might expect, flatters to some extent both himself and his father, yet he gives us the more important features of both so truthfully, that we have no difficulty in learning from them, what kind of creatures great Philosophical Atheists are, or in gathering from their works a great amount of information about infidelity, of the most melancholy, but of the most interesting and important character.

This Autobiography of Mr. Mill I propose to review. I meant to review it in this volume, but I had not room. I intend therefore to give it a place in my next volume, which may be looked for in the course of the year.

Another work has just been published, called The Old Faith and the New. It is the last and most important work of D. F. Strauss, the greatest and ablest advocate of antichristian and atheistic views that the ages have produced,—the Colossus or Goliath of all the infidel hosts of Christendom. In this work, which he calls his CONFESSION, Strauss, like Mill, gives us a portrait of himself, exhibiting not only his views, and the arguments by which he labors to sustain them, but the influence of those views on the hearts, the lives, the characters, and the enjoyments of men. If this Book can be answered,—if the arguments of Strauss can be fairly met, and his views effectually refuted, infidelity must suffer serious damage, and the cause of Christianity be greatly benefited. I have gone through the Book with great care. I have measured and weighed its arguments. And my conviction is, that the work admits of a thorough and satisfactory refutation. If I had had space, I should have made some remarks on it in this volume: but I had not. I propose therefore to review it at considerable length in my next.

Some time ago Robert Owen was a prominent man in the infidel world. He was extolled by his friends as a great Philanthropist. He too left us a history of his life, and his son, Robert Dale Owen, has just been repeating portions of that history in the Atlantic Monthly. It may be interesting to my readers to know what Atheism can do in the way of Philanthropy. We propose therefore to add a review of the Life of Robert Owen to those of Strauss and Mill.

Robert Dale Owen himself was an Atheist formerly, and a very zealous and able advocate of Atheistical views. He gives his articles in the Atlantic Monthly as an autobiography, and seeks to make the impression that he has revealed to his readers all the important facts of his history without reserve. And he has certainly revealed some strange things. But there are certain facts which he has not revealed, facts of great importance too, calculated to show the demoralizing tendency of infidelity. We propose to render the autobiography of Mr. Dale Owen more complete, more interesting, and more instructive, by the addition of some of those facts.

Frances or Fanny Wright was a friend of Mr. Dale Owen's. She was the great representative female Atheist of her time. Like Mr. Dale Owen's father, she was rich, and like him, seemed desirous to do something in the way of philanthropy. Mr. Dale Owen, who was her agent for some time, gives us some interesting facts with regard to her history, which may prove of service to our readers.

In Buckle we have an Atheistical Historian, who endeavors to prove that we are indebted for all the advantages of our superior civilization, not to Christianity, but to natural science and skepticism alone. He represents Christianity as the enemy of science, and as the great impediment to the advance of civilization. These views of Buckle we regard as false and foolish to the last extreme, and we expect to be able to show that Europe and America are indebted for their superior civilization, and even for their rich treasures of natural science, not to infidelity, but to the influence of Christianity.

Matthew Arnold has just published an interesting book entitled LITERATURE AND DOGMA. It is however a mixed work; and we propose, while noticing a number of its beautiful utterances, to make a few remarks on some of its objectionable sentiments.

There is a great multitude of important facts with regard to Christianity,—facts which can be understood and appreciated by persons of ordinary capacity, and which no man of intelligence and candor will be disposed to call in question; yet facts of such a character as cannot fail, when duly considered, to leave the impression on men's minds, that Christianity is the perfection of all wisdom and goodness, and worthy of acceptance as a revelation from an all-perfect God, and as the mightiest and most beneficent friend of mankind. A number of those facts we propose to give in our next volume.

MODERN SKEPTICISM.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

When a man has travelled far, and seen strange lands, and dwelt among strange peoples, and encountered unusual dangers, it is natural, on his return home, that he should feel disposed to communicate to his family and friends some of the incidents of his travels, and some of the discoveries which he may have made on his way.

So when a man has travelled far along the way of life, especially if he has ventured on strange paths, and come in contact with strange characters, and had altogether a large and varied experience, it is natural, as he draws near to the end of his journey, or when he reaches one of its more important stages, that he should feel disposed to communicate to his friends and kindred some of the incidents of his life's pilgrimage, and some of the lessons which his experience may have engraven on his heart. He will especially be anxious to guard those who have life's journey yet before them, against the errors into which he may have fallen, and so preserve them from the sorrows that he may have had to endure.

And so it is with me. I have travelled far along the way of life. I may now be near its close. I have certainly of late passed one of its most important stages. I have had a somewhat eventful journey. There are but few perhaps who have had a larger or more varied experience. I have committed great errors, and I have in consequence passed through grievous sorrows; and I would fain do something towards saving those who come after me from similar errors and from similar sorrows: and this is the object of the work before you.

At an early period, when I was little more than sixteen years of age, I became a member of the Methodist society. Before I was twenty I became a local preacher. Before I was twenty-three I became a travelling preacher; and after I had got over the first great difficulties of my calling, I was happy in my work; as happy as a mortal man need wish to be. It was my delight to read good books, to study God's Word and works, and to store my mind with useful knowledge. To preach the Gospel, to turn men from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, and to promote the instruction and improvement of God's people were the joy and rejoicing of my soul. There were times, and those not a few, when I could sing with Wesley—

"In a rapture of joy my life I employ,
The God of my life to proclaim:
'Tis worth living for this, to administer bliss
And salvation in Jesus's name."

And I was very successful in my work. I never travelled in a circuit in which there was not a considerable increase of members, and in one place where I was stationed, the numbers in church-fellowship were more than doubled in less than eighteen months.

In those days it never once entered my mind that I could ever be anything else but a Christian minister: yet in course of time I ceased to be one; ceased to be even a Christian. I was severed first from the Church, and then from Christ, and I wandered at length far away into the regions of doubt and unbelief, and came near to the outermost confines of eternal night. And the question arises,

How happened this? And how happened it that, after having wandered so far away, I was permitted to return to my present happy position?

These two questions I shall endeavor, to the best of my ability, to answer.

CHAPTER II.

CAUSES OF UNBELIEF.

How came I to wander into doubt and unbelief?

1. There are several causes of skepticism and infidelity. One is vice. When a man is bent on forbidden pleasures, he finds it hard to believe in the truth and divinity of a religion that condemns his vicious indulgences. And the longer he persists in his evil course, the darker becomes his understanding, the more corrupt his tastes, and the more perverse his judgment; until at length he "puts darkness for light, and light for darkness; calls evil good and good evil, and mistakes bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter." He becomes an infidel. It is the decree of Heaven that men who persist in seeking pleasure in unrighteousness, shall be given up to strong delusions of the devil to believe a lie.

2. But there are other causes of skepticism and unbelief besides vice. Thomas was an unbeliever for a time,—a very resolute one,—yet the Gospel gives no intimation that he was chargeable with any form of vice. And John the Baptist, one of the noblest characters in sacred history, after having proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah to others, came himself to doubt, whether He was really "the one that should come, or they should look for another." Like the early disciples of the Saviour, and the Jewish people generally, John expected the Messiah to take the throne of David by force, and to rule as a temporal prince; and when Jesus took a course so very different, his confidence in his Messiahship was shaken. And one of the sweetest Psalmists tells us that, as for him, his feet were almost gone; his steps had well-nigh slipped: and that, not because he was eager for sinful pleasures, but because he saw darkness and clouds around the Providence of God: he could not understand or "justify the ways of God to man."

And there are thoughtful and good men still who fall into doubt and unbelief from similar causes. The kind of people who, like Thomas, are constitutionally inclined to doubt, are not all dead. Baxter mentions a class of men who lived in his day, that were always craving for sensible demonstrations. Like Thomas, they wanted to see and feel before they believed. In other words, they were not content with faith; they wanted knowledge. And there are men of that kind still in the world.

And the darkness and clouds which the Psalmist saw around the providence of God are not all gone. There are many things in connection with the government of the world that are hard to be understood,—hard to be reconciled by many with their ideas of what is right. There are mysteries both in nature and in history, which baffle the minds and try the faith of the best and wisest of our race.

3. And there are matters in connection with Christianity to try the faith of men. Like its great Author, when it first made its appearance, it had "neither form nor comeliness" in the eyes of many. It neither met the expectations of the selfish, proud, ambitious Jew, nor of the disputatious, philosophic Greek. To the one "it was a stumbling-block," and to the other "foolishness." And there have been men in every age, who have been unable to find in Christianity all that their preconceived notions had led them to expect in a religion from Heaven. There are men still, even among the sincerest and devoutest friends of Christianity, who are puzzled and staggered at times by the mysterious aspects of some of its doctrines, or by some of the facts connected with its history. They cannot understand, for instance, how it is that it has not spread more rapidly, and become, before this, the religion of the whole world. You tell them the fault is in its disciples and ministers, and not in Christianity itself. But they cannot understand why God should allow the success of a system so important to depend on faithless or fallible men. Nor can they understand how it is that in the nations in which the Gospel has been received, it has not worked a greater transformation of character, and produced a happier change in their condition. How is it, they ask, that it has not extinguished the spirit of war, destroyed the sordid lust for gain, developed more fully the spirit of self-sacrificing generosity, and converted society into one great brotherhood of love? How is it that the Church is not more holy, more united, and more prosperous,—that professors and teachers of Christianity do not exhibit more of the Christian character, and follow more closely the example of the meek and lowly, the loving and laborious, the condescending and self-sacrificing Saviour whose name they bear? They are amazed that so little is done by professing Christians to save the perishing classes; that so many of the churches, instead of grappling with the vice and wretchedness of our large towns, turn their backs on them, build their churches in aristocratic neighborhoods mostly, and compete with one another for the favor of the rich and powerful. They cannot understand how it is, that churches and ministers do not exert themselves more for the extinction of drunkenness, gambling, and licentiousness, and for the suppression of all trades and customs that minister to sin. It startles them to see to what a fearful extent the churches have allowed the power of the press, which once was all their own, to pass out of their hands, into the hands of selfish, worldly, and godless adventurers. These matters admit of explanation, but there are many to whose minds the explanation is never presented, and there are some whom nothing will relieve from perplexity and doubt but a grander display of Christian zeal and philanthropic effort, on the part of the churches, for the regeneration of society.

4. Then the religion of Christ is not, as a rule, presented to men in its loveliest and most winning, or in its grandest and most overpowering form. As presented in the teachings and character of Christ, Christianity is the perfection of wisdom and goodness, the most glorious revelation of God and duty the mind of man can conceive: but as presented in the creeds, and characters, and writings of many of its teachers and advocates, it has neither beauty, nor worth, nor credibility. Some teach only a very small portion of Christianity, and the portion they teach they often teach amiss. Some doctrines they exaggerate, and others they maim. Some they caricature, distort, or pervert. And many add to the Gospel inventions of their own, or foolish traditions received from their fathers; and the truth is hid under a mass of error. Many conceal and disfigure the truth by putting it in an antiquated and outlandish dress. The language of many theologians, like the Latin of the Romish Church, is, to vast numbers, a dead language,—an unknown tongue. There are hundreds of words and phrases used by preachers and religious writers which neither they nor their hearers or readers understand. In some of them there is nothing to be understood. They are mere words; meaningless sounds. Some of them have meanings, but they are hard to come at, and when you have got at them you find them to be worse than none. They are falsehoods that lurk within the dark and antiquated words. I have heard and even read whole sermons in which nine sentences out of ten had no more meaning in them than the chatter of an ape. Perhaps not so much. I have gone through large volumes and found hardly a respectable, plain-meaning sentence from beginning to end. And wagon loads of so-called religious books may still be found, in which, as in the talk of one of Shakespeare's characters, the ideas are to the words as three grains of wheat to a bushel of chaff; you may search for them all day before you find them; and when you find them they are good for nothing. When I first came across such books I supposed it was my ignorance or want of capacity that made it impossible for me to understand them; but I found, at length, that there was nothing in them to understand. There are other books which have a meaning, a good meaning, but it is wrapped up in such out-of-the-way words and phrases, that it is difficult to get at it. Men of science have not only discarded the foolish fictions of darker ages, but have begun to simplify their language; to cast aside the unspeakable and unintelligible jargon of the past, and to use plain, good, common English, thus rendering the study of nature pleasant even to children; while many divines, by clinging to the unmeaning and mischievous phraseology of ancient dreamers, render the study of religion repulsive, and the attainment of sound Christian knowledge almost impossible to the masses of mankind. And all these things become occasions of unbelief. "So long as Christian preachers and writers are limited so much to human creeds and systems, or to stereotyped phrases of any kind, and avail themselves so little of the popular diction of literature and of common life, so long must they repel many whom they might convince and win." Dr. Porter, President of Yale College.

5. Then again: the divisions of the Church, and the uncharitable spirit in which points of difference between contending sects are discussed, and the disposition sometimes shown by religious disputants to impugn each other's motives, to call each other offensive names, and to consign each other to perdition, are occasions of stumbling to some.

6. And again: many advocates of Christianity, more zealous than wise, say more about the Bible and Christianity than is true, and attempt to prove points which do not admit of proof; and by their unguarded assertions, and their failures in argument, bring the truth itself into discredit. Others use unsound arguments in support of the truth, and when men discover the unsoundness of the arguments, they are led sometimes to suspect the soundness of the doctrine in behalf of which they are employed. The pious frauds of ancient and modern fanatics have proved a stumbling-block to thousands.

Albert Barnes says, "There is no class of men that are so liable to rely on weak and inconclusive reasonings as preachers of the Gospel. Many a young man in a Theological Seminary is on the verge of infidelity from the nature of the reasoning employed by his instructor in defence of that which is true, and which might be well defended: and many a youth in our congregations is almost or quite a skeptic, not because he wishes to be so, but because that which is true is supported by such worthless arguments."

7. Again; theological students sometimes adopt erroneous principles or unwise methods of reasoning in their search after truth, and do not discover their mistake till they are landed in doubt and unbelief. They find certain principles laid down by men in high repute for science, and adopt them without hesitation, not considering that men of science are sometimes mad, fanatical infidels, and that they manufacture principles without regard to truth, for the simple purpose of undermining men's faith in God and religion. Writers on science of one school tell you, that in your study of nature, you must be careful never to admit the doctrine of final causes; or, in other words, that you must never entertain the idea that anything in nature was meant to answer any particular purpose. You must, say they, if you would be a true philosopher, shut out from your mind all idea of design or contrivance in the works of nature. You must just look at what is, and not ask what it is for. You may find wonderful adaptations of things to each other, all tending to happy results; but you must never suppose that any one ever designed or planned those adaptations, with a view to those happy results. You must confine yourself entirely to what you see, and never admit the thought of a Maker whom you do not see. You must limit your observations to what is done, and not dream of a Doer. You may see things tending to the diffusion of happiness, but must not suppose that there is a great unseen Benefactor, who gives them this blessed tendency. And if you feel in yourself a disposition to gratitude, you must treat it as a foolish, childish fancy, and suppress it as irrational.

A sillier or a more contemptible notion—a notion more opposed to true philosophy and common sense,—can hardly be conceived. How any one could ever have the ignorance or the impudence to propound such an unnatural and monstrous absurdity as a great philosophical principle, would be a mystery, if we did not know how infidelity perverts men's understandings, and, while puffing them up with infinite conceit of their own wisdom, transforms them into the most arrant and outrageous fools.

Yet this monstrous folly has found its way into books, and papers, and reviews, and, through them, into the minds of some Christian students; and when the madness of the notion is not detected, it destroys their faith, and makes them miserable infidels.

Some adopt the principle that reason is man's only guide,—that reason alone is judge of what is true and good, and that to reason every thing must be submitted, and received or rejected, done or left undone, as reason may decide. This sounds very plausible to many, and there is a sense in which it may be true; but there is a sense in which it is fearfully false; and the youth that adopts it, and acts upon it, will be likely to land himself in utter doubt, both with regard to religion and morals. There are numbers of cases in which reason is no guide at all,—in which instinct, natural affection, and consciousness are our only guides. You can never prove by what is generally called reason alone, that man is not a machine, governed entirely by forces over which he has no control. You cannot therefore prove by what certain philosophers call reason, that any man is worthy of reward or punishment, of praise or blame, of gratitude or of resentment; or that there is any such thing in men as virtue or vice, according to the ordinary sense of the words. The ablest logicians on earth, when they take reason alone as their guide, come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as liberty or moral responsibility, in the ordinary acceptation of the terms, but that all is fixed, that all is fate, from eternity to eternity. They accordingly come to the further conclusion, that there is no free, voluntary Ruler of the universe,—that there is no Almighty Judge and Rewarder,—that there is neither reward nor punishment, properly speaking, either in this world or in the world to come. They become atheists.

You can never prove by reason that a woman ought to love her own child better than the child of another woman. You cannot prove by reason that she ought to love it at all. You may say no children would be reared if mothers did not love their children, and even love them better than the children of other mothers. But how will you prove that children ought to be reared? Can you show that the mother will confer any advantage on her child, or secure any advantage to herself, or any one else, by rearing it? Can you prove that it will not be a torment to her,—that it will not bring her to want, and shame, and an untimely death? The fact is, a mother's love, a mother's partiality for her own child, is not a matter of reason. The hen loves her chickens, the she bear loves its cubs, the mother dog loves its whelps, and the ewe loves her lambs, without any regard to reason. Their affections and preferences are governed by something infinitely wiser than reason; infinitely higher, at least, than any reason that man can boast. And men love women, and women love men, and men and women marry and form new families, not at the bidding of reason, but under the influence of instincts or impulses that come from a wisdom infinitely higher than the wisdom of the wisest man on earth. And so it is with many of our beliefs. They are instinctive; and reason, when it becomes reasonable enough to deserve the name, will advise you to cherish those instinctive beliefs as your life, in spite of all the infidel philosophy and reasoning on earth.

But even honest and well-disposed men of science sometimes form bad, defective, or one-sided habits of thought and judgment unconsciously, which render it impossible for them to do justice either to Nature or Christianity as revelations of the character and government of God. And these faulty habits of thought and judgment, and the anti-Christian conclusions to which they lead, pass on from men of science to literary men; and literature is vitiated, and books and periodicals which should lead men to truth, cause them to err. Thus skeptical principles pervade society. They find advocates at times even among men who call themselves ministers of Christ. The consequence is, that well-disposed, and even pious young men, are perplexed, bewildered, and some who, like John the Baptist, were "burning and shining lights," become "wandering stars," and lose themselves, for a time at least, amidst the "blackness and darkness" of doubt and despair.

CHAPTER III.

ANOTHER CAUSE OF UNBELIEF—BAD FEELING. THE AUTHOR'S CASE.

There are several other causes of doubt and unbelief which we might name, if we had time; but we have not. There is one however which we must notice, because it had considerable influence in our own case; we refer to the bad feeling which sometimes takes possession of the minds of Christians towards each other, or of the minds of ministers towards their brother ministers.

You are aware, perhaps, that if you scratch the skin, and introduce a little diseased animal matter to the blood, it will gradually spread itself through the system, and in time poison the whole body. And if you do not know this, you know, that if you take a little leaven, and place it in a mass of meal, and leave it there to work unchecked, it will in time leaven the whole lump. And as it is with things natural, so it is with things spiritual. If you allow a little leaven of bad feeling to get into your minds towards your fellow Christians or your brother ministers, and permit it to remain there, it will in time infect your whole soul, impair the action of all its faculties, and after alienating you from individuals, separate you first from the Church, and then from Christ and Christianity.

There is a passage in the Bible which says that judges are not to take gifts; and the reason assigned is, not that if a judge accepts a present he will, with his eyes open, wilfully condemn the innocent or acquit the guilty; but that "a gift blindeth the eyes," even "of the wise," so that he is no longer able to see clearly which is the guilty and which the guiltless party. And there is another passage in the Bible which says that "oppression driveth a wise man mad." The feeling a man has that he has been wickedly, cruelly treated, excites his mind so painfully and violently, that it is impossible for him to think well of the character or views of his oppressor, or of any party, institution, or system with which he may be connected.

As some friends of mine were canvassing for votes one day, previous to an election, they came upon a man who could not, for a time, say for which candidate he would vote. At length a thought struck him, and he said, "Who is John Myers going to vote for?" "Oh," said my friends, "he's going to vote for our man." "Then I'll vote for the other man," said he, "for I'm sure Myers will vote wrong." Myers had swindled him in a business transaction; and his feelings towards him were so strong, and of so unpleasant a kind, that he could not think anything right that Myers did, nor could he think anything wrong that he himself did, so long as he took care to go contrary to Myers.

It is very natural to smile at such weakness when we see it in others, and yet exhibit unconsciously the same weakness ourselves under another form. There are some Christians who, when their minister pleases them well, are quite delighted with his discourses. They are "marrow and fatness" to their souls. And every sermon he preaches seems better than the one that went before; and they feel as if they could sit under that dear good man for ever. But a change comes over their feelings with regard to him. While going his round of pastoral visits some day, he passes their door, but calls at the house of a richer neighbor a little lower down: or on visiting the Sunday-school, he pats someone's little boy on the head, and speaks to him kind and pleasant words, while he passes their little son unnoticed. He has no improper design in what he does; but it happens so; that is all. The idea of partiality never enters his mind. But they fancy he has got something wrong in his mind towards them; and it is certain now that they have got something wrong in their minds towards him. And now his sermons are quite changed. The "marrow and fatness" are all gone, and there is nothing left but "the husks which the swine should eat." And every sermon he preaches seems worse than the one which went before, until at length they get quite weary, and their only comfort is, if they be Methodists, that Conference will come some day, and they will have a change. And all this time the preacher is just the same good man he ever was, and his sermons are the same; only they are changed. They have misjudged him, and become the subjects of unhappy feeling, and are no longer capable of doing either him or his sermons justice.

And the longer the unhappy feeling is allowed to remain in their minds, the stronger it will become, and the more mischievous will it prove. After disabling or perverting their judgments with regard to their pastor, it will be in danger of separating them from the Church; and when once they get out of the Church into the outside world, no wonder if they make shipwreck both of faith, and of a good conscience.

And so it is continually. Our views of men's characters, talents, sentiments, are always more or less influenced by our feelings and affections. If we like a man very much, we look on his views in the most favorable light, and are glad to see anything like a reason for adopting them ourselves. We give his words and deeds the most favorable interpretation, and we rate his gifts and graces above their real value. On the other hand, if we dislike a man,—if we are led to regard him as an enemy, and to harbor feelings of resentment towards him, we look on what he says and does with distrust; we suspect his motives; we under-rate his talents, and are pleased to have an excuse for differing from him in opinion.

We see proofs of this power of feeling and affection over the judgment on every hand. The mother of that ordinary-looking and troublesome child thinks it the most beautiful and engaging little creature under heaven; while she wonders how people can have patience with her neighbor's child, which, in truth, is quite a cherub or an angel compared with her's. You know how it is with natural light. You sit inside an ancient cathedral, and the light from the bright shining sun streams in through the painted windows. Outside the cathedral the light is all pure white; but inside, as it falls upon the pulpit, the pillars, the pews and the people, it is purple, orange, violet, blue, red, or green, according to the color of the glass through which it passes. It is the same with moral or spiritual light; it takes the tint or hue of the painted windows of our passions and prejudices, our likes and dislikes, through which it enters our minds. The light that finds its way into men's minds, says Bacon, is never pure, white light; but light colored by the medium through which it passes. Look where we will, whether into books or into the living world, we see differences of opinion on men and things that can be accounted for on no other principle than that the judgments of people are influenced by their passions and feelings, their prejudices and interests. The Royalists looked on Cromwell through spectacles of hate and vengeance, and saw a monster of hypocrisy and blood. The Puritans looked at him through spectacles of revolutionary fanaticism, and saw a glorious saint and hero. The clergy looked on Nonconformists through conservative glasses, and saw a rabble of fanatics and rebels. The Nonconformists looked on the clergy through revolutionary glasses, and saw a host of superstitious formalists, and blind, persecuting Pharisees. The man who looks through the unstained glasses of impartiality, sees much that is good, and something that is not good, in all.

Who, that knows much of human nature, expects Catholics to judge righteously of Protestants, or Protestants to judge righteously of Catholics? Who, that knows anything of the world, expects revolutionary Radicals to do justice to the characters and motives of Conservatives, or ejected Irishmen to see anything in Englishmen but robbers and tyrants? I know that all this is great weakness, but where is the man that is not weak? The man who thinks himself free from this weakness, has probably a double share of it. The man who is really strong is some one who is keenly sensible of his weakness, and who feels that his sufficiency is of God. Weakness and humanity are one.

I dwell the longer on this point because, as I have already intimated, a right understanding of it will go far towards explaining the disastrous change which took place in my own mind with regard to Christianity. One great cause of my separation from the Church, and then of my estrangement from Christ, was the influence of bad feeling which took possession of my mind towards a number of my brother ministers.

CHAPTER IV.

ORIGIN OF THE UNHAPPY FEELING—CHARACTERISTICS OF THE AUTHOR'S MIND—RATIONALIZING TENDENCY.

How came I to be the subject of this bad feeling? I will tell you.

As a young minister I had two or three marked tendencies. One may be called a rationalizing tendency. I was anxious, in the first place, clearly to understand all my professed beliefs, and to be able, in the second place, to make them plain to others. I never liked to travel in a fog, wrapped round as with a blinding cloud, unable either to see my way, or to get a view of the things with which I was surrounded. I liked a clear, bright sky, with the sun shining full upon my path, and gladdening my eyes with a view of a thousand interesting objects. And so with regard to spiritual matters. I never liked to travel in theological fogs. They pressed on me at the outset of my religious life, on every side, hiding from my view the wonders and the glories of God's word and works; but I never rested in the darkness. I longed and prayed for light with all my soul, and sought for it with all my powers. Regarding the Bible as God's Book, given to man for his instruction and salvation, I resolved, by God's help, to find out both what it said and what it meant, on every important point of truth and duty.

1. I became sensible, very early in life, that the doctrines I had received from my teachers were, in some cases, inconsistent with each other, and that they could not therefore all be true; and I was anxious to get rid of this inconsistency, and to bring the whole of my beliefs into harmony with each other.

2. I was also anxious to bring my views into agreement with the teachings of Christ and His Apostles. I wished every article of my belief to rest, not on the word of man, but on the word of God. I believed it to be my duty to come as near to Christ as possible, both in my views and character. And I wished my style of preaching and teaching to be, like His, the perfection of plainness and simplicity. I felt that my chief mission was to the masses,—that I was called especially to preach and teach the Gospel to the poor; and it was my wish to be able to make it plain to people of the most defective education, and of the humblest capacity.

3. I was further wishful to see an agreement between the doctrines which I gathered from the Sacred Scriptures, and the oracles which came to me from the works of God in nature. If nature and Christianity were from the same All-perfect God, as I believed, their voices must be one. Their lessons of truth and duty must agree. They must have the same end and tendency. Christian precepts must be in harmony with man's mental and bodily constitution. They must be conducive to the development of all man's powers; to the perfection and happiness of his whole being. They must be friendly to the improvement of his condition. They must favor every thing that is conducive to his personal and domestic happiness, and to the social and national welfare of the whole human race. And the doctrines of Christianity must be in harmony with the constitution, and laws, and phenomena of the visible universe. If there be one Great, All-perfect Creator and Governor of the world and of man, then man and the universe, the universe and religion, science and revelation, philosophy and Christianity, the laws of nature and the laws of Christ, must all be one. I wanted to see this oneness, and to feel the sweet sense of it in my soul.

4. I wanted further to see the foundations on which my belief in God and Christ and in the Sacred Scriptures rested, that I might be able to justify my belief both to myself and to others. I wished to have the fullest evidence and assurance of the truth of Christianity I could get, that I might both feel at rest and happy myself, and be able to give rest and comfort to the souls of others.

5. With these objects in view I set to work. I prayed to God, the Great Father of lights, and the Giver of every good and perfect gift, to lead me into all truth, and to furnish me to every good work. I read the Bible with the greatest care. I searched it through and through. I studied it daily, desirous to learn the whole scope and substance of its teachings, on every point both of truth and duty. I marked on the margin of the pages all those passages that struck me by their peculiar clearness, and their fulness of important meaning. These passages I read over again and again, till I got great numbers of them off by heart. I gave each passage a particular mark according to the subject on which it treated. I then copied the whole of these passages into large Note Books, placing all that spake on any particular subject together. I also arranged the passages so far as I was able, in their natural order, that they might throw light on one another, and present the subject on which they treated, in as full and intelligible a light as possible. I divided the pages of my Note Books into two columns, placing the passages which favored one view of a subject in the first column, and those which seemed to favor a different view in the second. I placed in those Note Books passages on matters of duty, as well as on matters of truth. In this way I got nearly all the plainer and more important portions of the Bible arranged in something like systematic order. Having done this, I went through my Books, and put down in writing all that the passages plainly taught, and marked the bearing of their teachings on the various articles of my creed, with a view to bringing my creed, and the teachings of Scripture, into agreement with each other.

6. To help me in these my labors, and to secure myself as far as possible from serious error, I read a multitude of other books, on almost every subject of importance, by authors of almost all varieties of creeds. I read commentaries, sermons, bodies of divinity, and a host of treatises on various points. To the best of my ability I examined the Scriptures in the original languages, as well as in a number of translations, both ancient and modern, including several Latin and French versions, four German ones, and all the English ones that came in my way. I had a number of Lexicons, and of Theological and Bible Dictionaries of which I made free use. I went through the Commentaries of Baxter, Wesley and Adam Clarke with the greatest care, as well as through a huge and somewhat heterodox, but able and excellent work, published by Goadby, entitled, Illustrations of the Sacred Scriptures. I do not think I missed a single sentence in these commentaries, or passed unweighed a single word.

I read and studied the writings of Wesley generally, and the works of Fletcher, Benson and Watson. I read Hooker and Taylor also, and Wilkins, and Barrow, and Tillotson, and Butler, and Burnet, and Pearson, and Hoadley. I read the writings of Baxter almost continually. I went through, not only the whole of his voluminous practical works, but many of his doctrinal and controversial ones, including his Catholic Theology, his Aphorisms on Justification, his Confessions, and his most elaborate, comprehensive and wonderful work of all, his Methodus Theologiæ, in Latin. In Baxter alone I had a world of materials for thought, on almost every religious and moral subject that can engage the mind of man. And on almost every subject of importance his thoughts seemed rich and wholesome, scriptural and rational in the highest degree. His Christian spirit held me captive, and I never got tired of his earnest, eloquent, and godly talk. Even the old and endless controversies on which he spent so much time and strength, were often rendered interesting by the honesty of his heart, by the abundance of his charity, by the moderation of his views, and by the never-failing good sound sense of his remarks. None of the works I read had such a charm for me as those of Baxter, and no other religious writer exerted so powerful and lasting an influence either on my head or heart. Taylor was too flowery, and Barrow too wordy, and Tillotson was rather cold and formal; yet I read them all with profit, and with a great amount of pleasure. Hooker I found a wonder, both for excellency of style and richness of sentiment; and his piety and wisdom, his candor and his charity, have never been surpassed since the days of Christ and His Apostles. And Hoadley too I liked, and Butler, and Thomas a Kempis, and William Law. And then came Bolton and Howe, and Doddridge and Watts. Then Penn, and Barclay, and Clarkson, and Sewell, and Hales, and Dell caught my attention, giving me interesting revelations of Quaker thought and feeling.

And I was edified by Lactantius and Chrysostom, the most eloquent, rational and practical of the Christian Fathers. By and by came Priestley and Price, and Dr. John Taylor, and W. E. Channing, and a host of others of the modern school of heterodox writers. I also read a number of celebrated French authors, including Bossuet and Bourdaloue, Flechier and Massillon, Pascal and Fenelon, and the eloquent, Protestant preacher and author, M. Saurin. I read the principal works both of Catholics and Protestants, of the Fathers and Reformers, of Churchmen and Dissenters, of Quakers and Mystics, of Methodists and Calvinists, of Unitarians and Infidels.

I read several works on Law and Government, including Puffendorf's Law of Nature, Grotius on the Laws of Peace and War, Bodin on Government, Montesquieu's Spirit of Laws, Blackstone's Commentaries, and Jeremy Taylor's Ductor Dubitantium. I had read works on Anatomy, Physiology and Medicine, when I could get hold of them, from the time when I was only twelve years old. I never went far into any other sciences, yet I studied, to some extent, Astronomy, Geology, Physical Geography, Botany, Natural History, and Anthropology. I read Wesley's publication on Natural Philosophy, and I gave more or less attention to every work on science and natural philosophy that came in my way. Works on natural religion and natural theology, in which science was taught and used in subservience to Christian truth and duty, I read whenever I could get hold of them. They interested me exceedingly. For works on Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, I had not the least regard. They seemed to have no tendency to help me in the work in which I was engaged, and I had no desire to talk respectable nonsense on such subjects. I was fond of Ecclesiastical and Civil History, and read most greedily such works as threw light on the progress of society in learning, science, and useful arts; in freedom, morals, religion and government. I read many of the works of the ancient Greeks and Romans, and the history of the wonderful periods in which they flourished. I was especially fond of Cicero, Seneca, and Epictetus. All subjects bearing on the great interests of mankind, and all works revealing the workings of the human mind and the laws of human nature, seemed to me to bear important relations to religion and the Bible; and the writings of the great philosophers, lawyers, and historians, appeared to be almost as much in my line as Baxter's Christian Directory, or Wesley's Notes on the New Testament.

Tales of wars and intrigues, and of royal and aristocratic vices and follies I hated. Yet I was interested in accounts of religious controversies, and read with eagerness, though with pain and horror, the tragic and soul-harrowing stories of the deadly conflicts between Christian piety and anti-Christian intolerance. Above all I loved well-written books on the beneficial influence of Christianity on the temporal interests and the general happiness of mankind. I liked good biographies, especially of celebrated students, great philosophers, and remarkable Christian philanthropists. Of works of fiction I read very few, and evermore still fewer as I got older, until at length I came to view them generally as a great nuisance. There are few, I suppose, that can say they read the whole, not only of Wesley's works, but of his Christian Library, in fifty volumes; yet I went through the whole, though one of the books was so profound, or else so silly, that I could not find one sentence in it that I could properly understand. I read the greater part of the books of my friends. I went through nearly the whole library of a village about two miles distant from my native place. My native place itself could not boast a library in those days. I read scores, if not hundreds of books that taught me nothing but the ignorance and self-conceit of the writers, and the various forms of literary and religious insanity to which poor weak humanity is liable.

There was a large old Free Library at Newcastle-on-Tyne, left to the city by a celebrated clergyman, which contained all the Fathers, all the Greek and Roman Classics, all the more celebrated of the old Infidels, all the old leading skeptical and lawless writers of Italy, and France, and Holland, all the great old Church of England writers, and all the leading writers of the Nonconformists, Dissenters, and Heretics of all kinds. To this library I used to go, day after day, and stay from morning to night, reading some of the great authors through, and examining almost all of them sufficiently to enable me to see what there was in each, that I had not met with in the rest. Here I read Hobbes and Machiavel, Bolingbroke and Shaftesbury, Tindal and Chubb. Here I first saw the works of Cudworth and Chillingworth, and here too I first found the entire works of Bacon and Newton, of Locke and Boyle. Here also I read the works of some of the older defenders of the faith. Grotius on the truth of the Christian religion I had read much earlier. I had used it as a school book, translating it both out of Latin into English, and out of English back into Latin, imprinting it thereby almost word for word upon my memory. I had also read the work of his commentator on the causes of incredulity. Leland on the deistical writers, and Paley's Evidences, and others, I read after. But in this great old library I met with numbers of interesting and important works that I have never met with since. And here, in the dimly lighted antiquated rooms, I used to fill my mind with a world of facts, and thoughts, and fancies, and then go away to meditate upon them while travelling on my way, or sitting in my room, or lying on my bed. Day and night, alone and in company, these were the things which filled my mind and exercised my thoughts.

And having a rather retentive memory, and considerable powers of imagination, I was able at times to bring almost all the things of importance which I had met with in my reading, before my mind, and compare them both with each other, and with all that was already in my memory. And whatever appeared to me most rational, most scriptural, I treasured for future use, allowing the rest to drift away into forgetfulness.

No one can imagine the happiness I found in this my search after truth, except those who have experienced the like. I seemed at times to live in a region of the highest and divinest bliss. Every fresh discovery of truth, every detection of old error, every enlargement of my views, brought unspeakable rapture; and had it not been for the narrow-mindedness of some of my friends, the restraints of established creeds, and the thought of the trials which my mental revels might some day bring on me and my family, my life would have been a heaven on earth.

Perhaps I read too much, or too greedily and variously. Would it not in any case have been better for me to have refrained from reading the writings of such a host of heretics, infidels, and mere natural philosophers? It is certain that what I attempted was too much for my powers, and too vast for one man's life. But I was not sufficiently conscious of the infinitude of truth, or of the narrow limits of my powers, or of the infinite mysteries of which humanity and the universe are full. And my desire for knowledge was infinite, and my appetite was very keen, and I was so desirous to be right on every subject bearing on the religion of Christ, and on the great interests of mankind, that nothing that I could do seemed too much if it seemed likely to help me in the attainment of my object.

Then I had no considerate and enlightened guide; no friend, no colleague, with a father's heart, to direct me in my studies or my choice of books. There was one minister in the Body to which I belonged that might have given me good counsel, if he had been at hand, but he and I were never stationed in the same neighborhood. And he had suffered so much on account of his superior intelligence and liberal tendencies, that he might have felt unwilling to advise me freely. The preachers generally could not understand me, and they had no sympathy with my eager longings for religious knowledge. They could not comprehend what in the world I could want beyond their own old stereotyped notions and phrases, and the comfortable provision made for the supply of my temporal wants. Why could I not check my thinking, enjoy my popularity, and rejoice in the success of my labors? And when I could not take their flippant counsels, they had nothing left but hints at unpleasant consequences. There was nothing for me therefore, but to follow the promptings of my own insatiate soul, and travel on alone in the fear of God, hoping that things would get better, and my prospects grow brighter by and by.

So I moved on in my own track, still digging for truth as for silver, and searching for it as for hidden treasure. And I worked unceasingly, and with all my might. I lost no time. I hated pleasure parties, and all kinds of amusements. My work was my amusement. I hated company, unless the subject of conversation could be religion, or something pertaining to it. When obliged to go out and take dinner, or tea, or supper, I always took a book or two with me, and if the company were not inclined to spend the time in useful conversation, I would slip away into some quiet room, or take a walk, and spend my time in reading. I always read on my walks and on my journeys, if the weather was fair, and on some occasions when it was not fair. My mind was always on the stretch. I had no idea that I needed rest or recreation. It never entered into my mind that I could get to the end of my mental strength, and when I was actually exhausted,—when I had wearied both body and mind to the utmost, so that writing and even reading became irksome to me, I still accused myself of idleness, instead of suspecting myself of weariness. I wonder that I lived. If my constitution had not been sound and elastic to the last degree, I should have worn myself out, and been silent in the dust, more than thirty years ago.

7. All the time that I was laboring to correct and enlarge my views of Christian truth and duty, I was endeavoring to improve my way of speaking and writing. I wished, of course, to be able to speak and write correctly and forcibly, but what I longed for most of all, was to be able to speak with the greatest possible plainness and simplicity to the poorer and less favored classes. If there were things in Christianity that were inexplicable mysteries, I had no wish to meddle with them at all; if there was nothing but what was explicable, I wished to be able to speak in such a manner as to make the whole subject of religion plain to them. My belief was that there were not any inexplicable mysteries in Christianity; that though there were doctrines in Christianity which had been mysteries in earlier times, they were mysteries now no longer, but revelations; that the things which were inexplicable mysteries, belonged to God, and that none but things that were revealed belonged to us. My impression was, that all things spiritual could be made as plain to people of common sense and honest hearts, as things natural; that all that was necessary to this end, was first to separate from Christianity all that was not Christianity, and secondly, to translate Christianity out of Latin and Greek, Hebrew and Gibberish, into the language of the common people.

To qualify myself for this work of translation was the next great object of all my studies. Paul regarded the unnecessary use of unknown tongues in the assemblies of the Church, as a great nuisance. He demanded that everything said in those assemblies, should be spoken in a language that all could understand. Whether men prayed, or sang, or preached, he insisted that they should do it in such a manner as to make themselves intelligible. His remarks on this subject are the perfection of wisdom, and deserve more attention from religious teachers than they are accustomed to receive. Paul's wish was, that Christians should not only all speak the same things, but that they should speak them in the same way, so that they might all be able to understand each other, and that outsiders might be able to understand them all. "Above all gifts," says he, "covet the gift of plain and intelligible speaking. Never use an unknown tongue so long as you can use a known one. He that speaketh in an unknown tongue speaketh not unto men but unto God: for no man understandeth him. He may talk about very good things, but no one is the better for his talk. But he that speaketh in a known tongue can be understood by all; and all are instructed, and comforted, and strengthened. And even God can understand a known tongue as well as an unknown one. He that speaketh in an unknown tongue may edify himself perhaps; but he that speaketh in a known one, edifieth the Church. I do not grudge you your unknown tongues, but I had a great deal rather you would use a known one; for greater is he that speaketh in a known one, than he that speaketh in an unknown one. True greatness does not consist in saying or doing things wonderful; but in saying and doing things useful,—in talking and acting in a loving, condescending, self-sacrificing spirit, with a view to the comfort and welfare of our brethren. Suppose I were to come to you speaking in tongues that you did not understand, what good should I do you, unless I should translate what I said into a tongue you could understand? And why should I say a thing twice over when saying it once would do as well, and even better? Everything should be made as plain as possible from the first. When you have made things as plain as you can, there will be some that will find it as much as they can do to catch your meaning. If you talk in an unknown tongue they cannot get at your meaning at all, but only sit, and stare, and sigh. Some poor silly souls may admire and applaud you; for there are always some who, when they hear a man that they cannot understand, will cry out, What a great preacher! But what good or sensible man would wish for the praise of such creatures as those? Talk intelligibly. Talk so that folks can tell what you are talking about. If you have nothing worth saying, hold your tongues. If you have something worth saying, say it so that people can understand it. Make everything as clear as possible. We might as well be without tongues as talk unintelligibly. Even things without life, giving sound, whether pipe or harp, except they give a distinction in the sounds, how shall it be known what is piped or harped? For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle? So likewise ye, except ye utter by the tongue words easy to be understood, how shall it be known what is spoken? for ye shall speak into the air. There are, no one knows how many voices in the world; and none of them without signification. The voices of birds and the voices of beasts are endless in variety; yet each has its own distinct intelligible meaning. All creatures, though destitute of language like that of man, make themselves properly understood by their mates, their kindred, and their associates. They even make themselves intelligible to men. Talk of great preachers;—why the man that cannot or will not preach so as to make himself understood, is smaller, lower, less in the esteem of God, and of good, sensible, Christian men and women, than the lowest animal, or the smallest insect, on the face of the earth. Every sheep that bleats, every ox that lows, every ass that brays, every bird that sings, and every goose that gabbles, is more of a sage, if not more of a saint, than the great preachers! The things so-called by a certain class of simpletons, are about the most pitiable, if not the most blameable creatures, in all God's universe. What then is the upshot of what I am saying? It is this. Whether I sing, or pray, or talk, I will make myself understood. I thank my God, I can speak with tongues more than you all; and I do speak with them when it is necessary to do so in order to make myself understood: but in the Church, I had rather speak five words in a tongue and a style that my hearers can understand, that by my voice I may teach others, than ten thousand in an unknown tongue."

And so the great, good, common-sense Apostle goes on.

My wish and purpose were to carry out his principles to the farthest possible extent. If I had tried hard, I could have preached in Latin. With a little more effort I could have preached in Greek. I could have preached in the ordinary, high-sounding, Frenchified, Latinized, mongrel style, without an effort. It required an effort to keep clear of the abomination. And I made the effort. I wanted to feel when speaking, that I had not only myself a proper understanding of what I was talking about, but that I was conveying correct and clear ideas of it to the minds of my hearers. To utter words which I did not understand, or words which I could not make my hearers understand, was a thing I could not endure; and to this day, the very idea of such a thing excites in me a kind of horror. I had no ambition to preach what were called great sermons, or to be what was called a great preacher. My great desire was not to astonish or confound people, but to do them good; to convey religious truth to their minds in such a way, and so to impress it on their hearts, that they might be converted, edified, and saved.

When I first began to preach I had a cousin who was commencing his career as a minister at the same time. He was ambitious to shine, and to astonish his hearers by a show of learning. He knew nothing of Latin and Greek, but he was fond of great high-sounding words of Greek and Latin origin. He carried about with him a pocket dictionary, which he used for the purpose of turning little words into big ones, and common ones into strange ones. My taste was just the contrary. My desire was to be as simple as possible. Like my companion, I often carried about with me a pocket dictionary, but the end for which I used it was, to help me to turn big words into little ones, and strange and hard ones into common and easy ones. And whenever I had to consult a dictionary in translating Latin, or Greek, or any other language, into English, I always took the simplest and best known words I could find to give the meaning of the original. My cousin's desire to shine betrayed him at times into very ridiculous blunders. I once heard him say, after having spent some time in explaining his text, "But that I may devil-hope the subject a little more fully, I would observe, that the words are mephitical." He, of course, meant to say, metaphorical, figurative, not mephitical which means of a bad smell. My plan secured me against such mistakes.

To assist me in gaining a knowledge of the true meaning, and of the right use of words, and to correct and simplify my style as much as possible, I read whatever came in my way on grammar and philology, on rhetoric and logic. I also collected a number of the best English dictionaries, including a beautiful copy of Johnson's great work in two thick quarto volumes. I read and studied the works of nearly all our great poets, from Spenser and Shakespeare, down to Cowper and Burns. I read two or three later ones. I had already committed to memory the whole, or nearly the whole, of the moral songs of Dr. Watts; and many of them keep their places in my memory to the present day. And though it may seem incredible to some, I actually committed to memory every hymn in the Wesleyan Hymn Book. I never knew them all off at one time, but I got them all off in succession. And I never forgot the better, truer, simpler, sweeter ones. I can repeat hundreds of them still, with the exception of here and there a stanza or two. And I committed to memory all the better portion of the new hymns introduced into the hymn book by the Methodist New Connection. And I committed to memory choice pieces of poetry without number. I read Shakespeare till I could quote many of his best passages, including nearly all his soliloquies, and a number of long conversations, as readily as I could quote the sacred writings.

I read all Bunyan's works. I could tell the story of his Pilgrim from beginning to end. I read Robinson Crusoe, and some of the other works of Defoe. I read Addison and Johnson, Goldsmith and Swift. To get at the origin and at the primitive meaning of words, I studied French and German, as well as Latin and Greek. When I met with passages in English authors that expressed great truths in a style that was not to my taste, I used to translate them into my own style, just as I did fine passages from Latin, Greek, or French authors. I also translated poetical passages into prose. I tried sometimes to translate things into the language of children, and in some cases I succeeded. I did my best to keep in mind how I felt, and what I could understand, when I was a child and a boy, and endeavored to keep my style as near as I could to the level of my boyish understanding. My first superintendent did not approve of my plan. "The proper way," said he, "is, not to go down to the people; but to compel the people to come up to you." He was fond of a swelling, high-sounding, long-winded style. How far he succeeded in bringing people up to himself, I cannot say, but I recollect once hearing a pupil of his talk a whole hour without uttering either a thought or a feeling that was worth a straw. An old woman, with whom he had once lived, and with whom he was a great favorite, said to me after the service, 'Well, how did you like our young man?' 'He talked away,' said I. 'I think he did,' she answered, 'he grows better and better. I couldn't understand him.' His teacher, my superintendent, published a volume of sermons; but I never met with anybody that had read them. I read one or two of them myself, and was astonished;—perhaps not so much astonished as something else,—to find, that at the end of one of his tall-worded, long-winded, round-about sentences, he contradicted what he had said at the beginning.

CHAPTER V.

CHANGES IN THE AUTHOR'S VIEWS.

My studies led me to make considerable changes both in my views and way of speaking.

1. With regard to my views. I found that some of the doctrines which I had been taught as Christian doctrines, were not so much as hinted at by Christ and His Apostles,—that some doctrines which Christ and His Apostles taught with great plainness, I never had been taught at all; and that some of the doctrines of Christ and His Apostles which I had been taught, I had been taught in very different forms from those in which they were presented in the New Testament.

I found that some doctrines which I had been taught as doctrines of the greatest importance, were never so much as alluded to in the whole Bible, while in numbers of places quite contrary doctrines were taught. While unscriptural doctrines were inculcated as fundamental doctrines of the Gospel, some of the fundamental doctrines themselves were not only neglected, but denounced as grievous heresies.

Many passages of Scripture which were perfectly plain when left to speak out their own meaning, had been used so badly by theologians, that they had become unintelligible to ordinary Christians. While professing to give the passages needful explanations, they had heaped upon them impenetrable obscurations. Words that, as they came from Jesus, were spirit and life, had been so grievously perverted, that they had become meaningless or mischievous.

I met with passages which had been used as proofs of doctrines to which they had not the slightest reference. There were the words of Jeremiah for instance: "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" The prophet is speaking of the impossibility of men, after long continuance in wilful sin, breaking off their bad habits; as the closing words of the passage show; "Then may ye who are accustomed to do evil, do well." But the theologians took the words and used them in support of the doctrine that no man in his unconverted state can do anything towards his salvation,—a doctrine which is neither Scriptural nor rational. Again; Isaiah, referring to the calamitous condition of the Jewish nation, in consequence of God's judgments, says: "The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot to the head, there is no soundness; but wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores," &c. This, which the prophet said with regard to the state of the Jews, the theologians applied to the character, not of the Jews only, but of all mankind. What Paul said about the law of Moses, and the works or deeds required by that law, the theologians applied to the law of Christ. And so with regard to multitudes of passages. I was constantly coming across passages that the theologians systematically perverted, taking them from their proper use and meaning, and forcing them into the support of notions to which they had not the slightest reference. The liberties taken with the words of Paul went far towards turning the writings of that great advocate and example of holiness into lessons of licentiousness.

It was plain that, on many points, theology was one thing, and Christianity another; and that many and important changes would have to be made in the creeds and confessions of Christendom, before they could be brought into harmony with the truth as taught by Jesus.

Some theological doctrines I found rested on the authority of Milton's Paradise Lost, or of the Church of England Prayer Book, or on the authority of earlier works from which Milton or the authors of the Prayer Book had borrowed.

One day, about forty-two years ago, I was travelling homewards from Shields to Blyth on foot, when a man with a cart overtook me, and asked me to get in and ride. I did so. The man and I were soon busy discussing theology. We talked on saving faith, imputed righteousness, predestination, divine foreknowledge, election, reprobation and redemption. We differed on every point, and the man got very warm. He then spake of a covenant made between God the Father and His Son before the creation of the world, giving me all the particulars of the engagement. I told him I had read something about a covenant of that kind in Milton's Paradise Lost, but that I had never met with anything on the subject in the sacred writings, and added that I doubted whether any such transaction ever took place. He got more excited than ever, and expressed some uneasiness at having such a blasphemous heretic in his cart. Just then one of the cart wheels came off and down went the vehicle on one side, spilling me and the driver on the road. I was quickly on my feet, but he lay on his back sprawling in the sand. "That's a judgment," said he, "on your blasphemies." "You seem to have got the worst part of the judgment," said I. I asked him if I could help him. He seemed to hint that I ought to pay for the damage done to the cart; but as that was not in the covenant, I did not take the hint; and as he was in a somewhat unamiable temper, I left him to himself, and trudged on homeward. The carter and I had no more discussions on covenants. But many a bit of theology has been built on Milton since then.

Other doctrines I found to be new versions of old pagan imaginations.

Some seemed to have originated in the selfish and sensual principles of human nature, which make men wishful to avoid self-denial and a life of beneficence, and to find some easy way to heaven.

In some cases Protestants had run into extremes through a hatred and horror of Popery, while in others orthodox teachers had run into extremes through hatred and dread of Socinianism.

In other cases doctrines seemed to have been rested on no authority but the facts, or supposed facts, of individual experiences.

Some great doctrines were rendered incomprehensible, repulsive, or incredible, in consequence of not being accompanied with other doctrines, which were necessary to explain their use, and make manifest their reasonableness and worth. There was no lack of attention among theologians to the doctrine that Christ was an incarnation of the Deity; but little or no regard was paid to the kindred doctrine, its necessary accompaniment, that Jesus was the 'image,' the 'likeness,' of God, the revelation or manifestation of His character. Yet this is essential to a right understanding and a due appreciation of the other. The revelation or manifestation of God, and especially of His eternal and infinite love, was the great design and end of the incarnation. Taken apart from this doctrine the incarnation becomes a dry hard fact, without use or meaning. It is when viewed as a means of revealing God,—of making manifest His infinite goodness, and by that means melting and purifying man's heart, and transforming his character, that it is seen to be full of interest and power and glory.

The doctrine that Jesus is God's image, God manifest in the flesh, is the one great doctrine of Christianity,—the sum, the substance of the whole Gospel,—the Gospel itself,—the power of God to the salvation of every one that truly believes and contemplates it. It is a world of truth in one,—a whole encyclopædia of divine philosophy; the perfection of all wisdom and of all power; the one great revelation needful to the salvation of the world.

Yet I never met with this doctrine for the first thirty years of my life, in any theological work. I have no recollection that I ever heard it mentioned in a sermon. I certainly never heard it explained and applied to the great purposes for which it was designed. I never was told that to know the character of God, I had only to look at the character of Christ,—that what Christ was during His life on earth in the circle in which He moved, that God was throughout all worlds, and towards all the creatures of His hands,—that the love which led Jesus to suffer and die for the salvation of the world, lived and moved in the heart of the infinite, invisible God, prompting Him to plan and labor throughout immensity to promote the happiness of the whole creation. In short, the Gospel was never preached to me in its simplicity and beauty, in its glory and power, nor was it ever properly explained to me in catechism, creed, confession, or body of divinity.

And generally, no sufficient stress was ever laid by theologians on the value and necessity of personal virtue,—of religious and moral goodness. It was believed that Christians would have goodness of some kind, in some degree,—that they would be, on the whole, in some respects, better than the ungodly world; and there was a feeling that they ought to be so: but it was rare to meet with a preacher or a book that put the subject in any thing like a Scriptural Christian light. No one contended that goodness was everything, that it was the one great all-glorious object for which the world was made, for which the universe was upheld, for which prophets spake, for which the Scriptures were written, for which God became incarnate, for which Jesus lived and labored, for which He suffered and died, for which He founded His Church and appointed and endowed its ministers, for which Providence planned, and for which all things continued to exist. No one taught that goodness was the only thing for which God cared, the only thing which He esteemed and loved, and the only thing He would reward and bless. Books and preachers did not use to tell us, that faith, and knowledge, and feeling,—that repentance, conversion, and sanctification,—that reading the Scriptures, and hearing sermons, and singing hymns, and offering prayers,—that church fellowship, and religious ordinances, were all nothing except so far as they tended to make people good, and then to make them better, and at last to perfect them in all divine and human excellence. No one taught us that goodness was beauty, that goodness was greatness, that goodness was glory, that goodness was happiness, that goodness was heaven. The truth was never pressed on us that the want of goodness was deformity, dishonor and shame,—that it was pain, and wretchedness, and torment, and death,—that goodness in full measure would make earth heaven—that its decline and disappearance would make earth hell. Yet a careful and long-continued perusal of the Scriptures left the impression on my mind, that this was really the case. When I compared the eternal talk about all our goodness being of no account in the sight of God,—of all our righteousness being but as filthy rags,—with the teachings of Scripture, I felt as if theologians were anti-christ, and their theology the gospel of the wicked one. I have no wish to do injustice to theology, or to theologians either; but the more I knew of them, the less I thought of them. And even when the Christian and theologian got blended, as they did, to some extent, in such men as Baxter and Wesley, I pitied the theologian while I esteemed and loved the Christian. Theological works are poor contemptible things. It would have been no great loss to the world if nineteen-twentieths of them had been burnt in the Chicago fire.

I was often grievously harassed with prevailing theories of Scripture inspiration. All those theories seemed inconsistent with facts,—inconsistent with what every man of any information, knew to be true in reference to the Scriptures. They all lay open to infidel objections,—unanswerable objections. They made it impossible for a man to argue with the abler and better informed class of infidel assailants with the success and satisfaction desirable. The theories did not admit of a successful defence. And when the theories were refuted, the Bible and Christianity suffered. On searching the Scriptures I found they gave no countenance to those theories. They taught the doctrine of Scripture inspiration, but not the prevailing theories of the doctrine. The doctrine I could defend with ease: the defence of the theories was impossible. I accordingly laid aside the theories.

Again; I heard and read continually about the influence and work of the Holy Spirit; but I seldom heard and read of the influence of the truth. Yet in Scripture we read as much and as often of the latter as of the former.

I had been led, in some way, to believe that Adam was the federal head of all mankind,—that God made a covenant with him that was binding on all his posterity,—that the destinies of the whole human race were placed in his hands,—that it was so arranged that if Adam did right, his posterity were to be born in a state of perfection and blessedness, incapable of sin and misery,—that if he did wrong they were to be born depraved and miserable, under the curse of God, and liable to death and damnation—that as Adam did do wrong, we all came into the world so depraved that we were incapable of thinking a good thought, of feeling a good desire, of speaking a right word, or of doing a right thing,—that Jesus came into the world to redeem us from the guilt of Adam's sin, and from the punishment due to us for that sin, and to put us on such a footing with regard to God as to render possible our salvation. I had been led to believe a hundred other things connected with these about the plan of redemption, the way of salvation, imputed righteousness, saving faith, &c. When I came to look for those doctrines in the Bible, I could not find one of them from the beginning of the Book to the end. I was in consequence led to regard them as the imaginations of unthinking, trifling, or dreamy theologians.

There are few doctrines more generally received than the doctrine of types,—the doctrine that persons and things under the older dispensations were intended to direct the minds of those who saw them to things corresponding to them under the Christian dispensation. In McEwen's work on Types, which appears to have had an immense circulation, is this sentence,—'That the grand doctrines of Christianity concerning the mediation of Christ, &c., were typically manifested to the church by a variety of ceremonies, persons and events, under the Old Testament dispensation, is past doubt.' And it is very plainly intimated, that those who affect to call this notion in question, and yet pretend to be friends of a divine revelation, are hypocrites. It is added: 'The sacrifices were ordained to pre-figure Christ,—and were professions of faith in His propitiation.'

There are but few preachers or religious books which do not go on the supposition that this doctrine is taught in Scripture. And you may hear sermon after sermon from some preachers, the chief object of which is to point out correspondences between the paschal lamb, the scape-goat, and other sacrifices under the Law, and Jesus and the sacrifice which He offered. Some preachers and religious writers take almost all things under the law to be types of Christ, or types of things pertaining to Him. They make Noah, and Isaac, and Melchisedec, and Joseph, and Moses, and Joshua, and David, and Samson, and Solomon, and the brazen serpent, and the rod of Aaron, and the manna, types of Christ, and almost all the sacrifices they make types of His great sacrifice of Himself.

I could see no warrant for this doctrine. I could find no proof that any of the sacrifices under the law were intended to direct the minds of those who offered them to the sacrifice of Jesus. There is nothing in the law, and there is nothing in the prophets to that effect. There is no passage of Scripture which says that any one ever did look through the old Levitical sacrifices to Christ. There is no passage which says it was men's duty to do so; none which commends any one for doing so, or which blames any one for not doing so. The prophets often rebuke the Israelites for their injustice, intemperance, deceit and cruelty, but they never rebuke them for not looking through their sacrifices to the sacrifice of Jesus. They often exhort people to 'cease to do evil and learn to do well;' but they never urge them to regard their sacrifices as types or manifestations of the sacrifice of Christ. Christ nowhere teaches the ordinary doctrine of types. He never refers to anything as a type of His sacrifice, or of anything else connected with His work. Nor do the Apostles say anything to countenance the prevailing notion. For anything the Scriptures say to the contrary, the whole doctrine of types, as set forth in such books as that of McEwen, is a human fiction. Indeed, I see no hint in Scripture that any one had the least idea that the Messiah would offer Himself a sacrifice for sin till after the sacrifice had taken place. Isaiah and Daniel spake on the subject, and 'They inquired and searched diligently,' says Peter, 'what, or what manner of time the spirit of Christ which was in them did signify, when it testified beforehand the sufferings of Christ and the glory that should follow; unto whom it was revealed, that not unto themselves, but unto us they did minister the things, which are now reported unto you by them that have preached the gospel unto you with the Holy Ghost sent down from Heaven.' And we know that Christ's own disciples did not believe that Christ would die at all. So far were they from having any thought of such a thing, that when Jesus told them, in the plainest words imaginable, they did not understand Him. The fact had to reveal itself. And even now the nature and end of Christ's sacrifice are but very imperfectly understood.

And if the doctrine of types falls to the ground, some other doctrines, which rest upon it, must go down. Certain notions about the faith of the ancient saints must give way, and the views of saving faith presented in the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews must take their place.

Great numbers of religious teachers and writers attribute to Adam and Eve, in their first state, an amount of knowledge, and a perfection of righteousness, which the Scriptures nowhere ascribe to them, and which, if they had possessed them, would have rendered it impossible, one would think, that they should have yielded so readily to temptation.

They represent the first sin as having effects which are never attributed to it in the Bible.

They give an unwarrantable meaning to the word death contained in the first threatening.

They attribute to man's first sin inconveniences of the seasons, and of the different climates of the globe, as well as a thousand things on the earth's surface, and in the dispositions and habits of the lower animals, which are not attributed to that cause by the sacred writers.

They spend a vast amount of time and words in trying to prove that the reason why Abel's sacrifice was more excellent than that of Cain, and was accepted by God, was that Abel offered animals, and had an eye to the sacrifice of Christ, while Cain offered only the fruits of the ground, that did not typify or symbolize that sacrifice; a notion for which there is no authority in Scripture. The story in Genesis seems to intimate that the sacrifice of Cain was rejected because he was a bad-living man, and that the sacrifice of Abel was accepted because he was a good-living man. Hence the words of God in His address to Cain, 'Why art thou wroth? And why is thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door.' And hence too the statement of John, that Cain slew his brother because his own works were evil and his brother's righteous. And the faith attributed to Abel, as well as to Enoch, Moses and others, in the Epistle to the Hebrews, is not faith in the sacrifice of Christ, but simply a belief in God; a belief that 'He is, and that He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him, or lovingly serve Him.'

There were many definitions and descriptions of saving faith common in religious books for which I could find no authority in Scripture.

I also met with a multitude of cold hard things about the Trinity and the Atonement in works on Theology which I never was unhappy enough to find in the Bible. All seemed pleasant and natural and of heavenly tendency there. I read books which seemed to require me to believe in three Gods; but I met with nothing of the kind in Scripture. I heard prayers and forms of benediction worded in a way altogether different from the prayers and benedictions found in the Bible. The Scriptures allowed me to think of God, in the first place, as one, as I myself was one. They did not tell me He was three in the same way as I was three; but they left the doctrine of the Trinity in such a state or shape that I found no more difficulty in receiving it, than I found in receiving the fact of a Trinity in myself. I left accordingly the hard repulsive representations of the theologians to their fate, and accepted and contented myself with the living, rational and practical representations of Scripture in their stead.

The work of Christ was generally represented by theologians as exerting its influence directly on God. His death was generally spoken of as a satisfaction to divine justice, or as an expedient for harmonizing the divine attributes, or maintaining the principles of the divine government. God was represented as being placed in a difficulty,—as being unable to gratify His love in forgiving men on their repenting and turning to Him, without violating His justice and His truth, and putting in peril the principles of His government. There were several other theological theories of the design or object of the death of Christ. All these theories may be true in a certain sense. They may, perhaps, be so explained as to make them harmonize with the teachings of Scripture. But I found none of them in the Bible. I found multitudes of passages which represented the death and sufferings of Christ as intended to influence men, but not one that taught any of the theological theories,—hardly one that even seemed to do so. Here again I took the Scripture representations, and allowed the theological ones to slide.

There was a hymn which said of Christ, 'Our debt He has paid, and our work He has done.' I could find nothing in Scripture about the Saviour paying our debt, or doing our work. I could find passages which taught that our debts or sins might be forgiven, on our return to God. So far were the Scriptures from teaching that Christ had done our work, that they represented Him as coming into the world to fit us to do it ourselves,—as redeeming us and creating us anew that we might be zealous of good works.

I could find nothing in Scripture to countenance the common notion about the efficacy of the death-bed repentances of old, wilful, hardened sinners. The Bible left on my mind the impression that 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'

Some preachers and writers spoke as if God the Father was sterner, less tender and loving, than the Son. But as we have seen, the Bible taught that Jesus was God's image, His likeness, the incarnation and revelation of God,—God manifest in the flesh.

I read in books, and heard it said in sermons, that God did not answer men's prayers, or grant them any blessing, or receive them at last to heaven, on account of anything good in themselves, or of anything good they did. Yet on looking through the Scriptures I found such passages as these: 'Beloved, if our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. And whatsoever we ask, we receive of Him, because we keep His commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight.' In the parable of the talents I found God represented as saying, 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant, because thou hast been faithful in a very little, have thou authority over ten cities.' And in the Prophet I read, 'Again, when the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive. Because he considereth and turneth away from all his transgressions that he hath committed, he shall surely live, he shall not die.' I found the whole Bible going on the same principle. God loves what is good for its own sake. It would be strange if He did not. And how any one can think He is honoring God by teaching the contrary we cannot understand.

CHAPTER VI.

JOHN WESLEY AND HIS VIEWS ON CERTAIN POINTS.

How easy it is for men to mix up their own fancies, or the vain conceits of others, with divine truth,—or rather, how hard it is to avoid doing so,—we may see by the case of John Wesley. Wesley was one of the most devout, and conscientious, and, on the whole, one of the most rational, Scriptural, practical and common-sense men the Christian Church ever had. Compared with theologians generally, he was worthy of the highest praise. He had the greatest reverence for the Scriptures. He early in life declared it to be his determination to be a man of one Book, and that one book the Bible; and he acted in accordance with this determination to the best of his knowledge and ability. The Bible was his sole authority. Its testimony decided all questions, settled all controversies. Yet such was the influence of prevailing custom in the theological world, operating on his mind unconsciously from his earliest days, that he unintentionally acted inconsistently with this good resolution in cases without number. Shakespeare makes one of his characters say, "If to do, were as easy as to know what is fittest to be done, beggars would ride on horses, and poor men's cottages would be princes' palaces. I could more easily tell twenty men what it was best to do, than be one of the twenty to carry out my own instructions." And we need no better proof or illustration of the truth of this wise saying, than the case of the good and great John Wesley.

We have seen what his resolution was. Look now at one or two of his sermons. Take first the sermon on God's Approbation of His Works. In that discourse, referring to the primeval earth, he speaks as follows: "The whole surface of it was beautiful in a high degree. The universal face was clothed with living green. And every part was fertile as well as beautiful. It was no where deformed by rough or ragged rocks: it did not shock the view with horrid precipices, huge chasms, or dreary caverns: with deep, impassable morasses, or deserts of barren sands. We have not any authority to say, with some learned and ingenious authors, that there were no mountains on the original earth, no unevennesses on its surface, yet it is highly probable that they rose and fell, by almost insensible degrees.

"There were no agitations within the bowels of the globe: no violent convulsions: no concussions of the earth: no earthquakes: but all was unmoved as the pillars of heaven. There were then no such things as eruptions of fire: there were no volcanoes, or burning mountains. Neither Vesuvius, Etna, nor Hecla, if they had any being, then poured out smoke and flame, but were covered with a verdant mantle, from the top to the bottom.

"It is probable there was no external sea in the paradisiacal earth: none, until the great deep burst the barriers which were originally appointed for it; indeed there was not then that need of the ocean for navigation which there is now. For either every country produced whatever was requisite either for the necessity or comfort of its inhabitants; or man being then (as he will be again at the resurrection) equal to the angels, was able to convey himself, at his pleasure, to any given distance.

"There were no putrid lakes, no turbid or stagnating waters. The element of air was then always serene, and always friendly to man. It contained no frightful meteors, no unwholesome vapors, no poisonous exhalations. There were no tempests, but only cool and gentle breezes, fanning both man and beast, and wafting the fragrant odors on their silent wings.

"The sun, the fountain of fire, 'Of this great world both eye and soul,' was situated at the most exact distance from the earth, so as to yield a sufficient quantity of heat, (neither too little nor too much) to every part of it. God had not yet 'Bid his angels turn askance this oblique globe.' There was, therefore, then no country that groaned under 'The rage of Arctos, and eternal frost.' There was no violent winter, or sultry summer; no extreme either of heat or cold. No soil was burned up by the solar heat: none uninhabitable through the want of it.

"There were then no impetuous currents of air, no tempestuous winds, no furious hail, no torrents of rain, no rolling thunders or forky lightnings. One perennial spring was perpetually smiling over the whole surface of the earth."

Speaking of vegetable productions, he says,

"There were no weeds, no plants that encumbered the ground. Much less were there any poisonous ones, tending to hurt any one creature."

Referring to the living creatures of the sea, he says,

"None of these then attempted to devour, or in any wise hurt one another. All were peaceful and quiet, as were the watery fields wherein they ranged at pleasure."

Referring to insects, he adds,

"The spider was then as harmless as the fly, and did not then lie in wait for blood. The weakest of them crept securely over the earth, or spread their gilded wings in the air, that wavered in the breeze and glittered in the sun, without any to make them afraid. Meantime, the reptiles of every kind were equally harmless, and more intelligent than they."

Referring to birds and beasts, he says,

"Among all these there were no birds or beasts of prey: none that destroyed or molested another."

All this may be very beautiful poetry, such as one might expect from the "fine frenzy" of a loving, lawless genius, but it is not Scripture, nor is it science or philosophy. We have not a doubt but that God made all things right,—that all His works were very good; the Scriptures tell us that very plainly: but they do not tell us that the things named by Wesley constituted their goodness. He thinks that the earth could not be good if it had on its surface rough or rugged rocks, horrid precipices, huge chasms, or dreary caverns, with impassable morasses, or deserts of barren sands. We think otherwise. We think the earth is all the better, and even all the more beautiful for rough and rugged rocks, for horrid precipices, huge chasms, and dreary caverns. So far from regarding the rough and rugged rocks as deformities, we look on them as ornaments. So far from appearing to us as an evil, they appear a good. Even the impassable morasses, and the deserts of barren sands may have their use. If man had met with nothing in the state of the earth that stood in the way of his will or pleasure; if he had met with nothing in the shape of difficulty or inconvenience, it would have been a terrible calamity. All man's powers are developed and perfected by exertion; and without exertion,—without vigorous exertion—he would not, as at present constituted, be capable of enjoying life. Man cannot be happy without work. We therefore believe that it was wise and kind in God, independent of Adam's sin, to make impassable morasses, and barren deserts, &c., to exercise man's powers of mind and body in draining the morasses, and fertilizing the deserts. We believe that the earth was very good; but we believe that the rough and rugged rocks, the horrid precipices, huge chasms, dreary caverns, with the deep impassable morasses, and the deserts of barren sands, were parts of the earth's goodness,—were manifestations both of the wisdom and goodness of God.

Wesley thinks there were mountains on the earth before sin was committed, but that their sides were not abrupt or difficult of ascent; that they rose and fell by almost insensible degrees. This passage also goes on the false supposition, that whatever things would be likely to render great exertion necessary on the part of man, would be an evil; whereas such things are among man's greatest blessings.

Wesley farther tells us, that there were no agitations within the bowels of the earth, no violent convulsions, no concussions of the earth, no earthquakes, no eruptions of fire, no volcanoes, or burning mountains. There is proof however, that there were all these things, not only before sin was committed, but before man himself was created.

Nor do we regard earthquakes and volcanoes as evils. They are calculated even at the present to answer good ends. They tend to make men feel their absolute dependence upon God, and thus lead them to obey His law. They are sinking revelations of God's power, and perpetual lessons of piety. And they have other uses.

He says, "If Vesuvius, Etna, or Hecla, existed before sin was committed, they were covered with a verdant mantle from the top to the bottom." But is a mountain either better or more beautiful for being covered with a verdant mantle from the top to the bottom? Is it either better or more beautiful for having no abrupt sides, difficult of ascent,—for rising and falling by almost insensible degrees? We think the contrary. The variety of scenery presented by mountains in their present state, is most beautiful. The abruptness of the sides of mountains contributes infinitely both to the beauty of the mountain, and to the beauty of the earth in general; and the toil of climbing up the steep ascent of a mountain is one of the blessings and pleasures of life. We should be sorry if there were no hills so steep as to be difficult of ascent. We should be sorry if the earth had no mountains with abrupt sides, and black, and brown, and rugged faces. We should be very sorry if the face of the earth were covered with one unvaried mantle of green. Green is very pleasant, and it is well that the greater part of the earth is covered with green; but variety also is pleasant; and green itself would cease to be pleasant if there were nothing else but green.

Wesley adds, that there was probably no sea on the surface of the earth in its paradisiacal state, none until the great deep burst the barriers which were originally appointed for it; and he adds, that there was not then that need of the ocean for navigation which there is now, as every place yielded all that was necessary to man's welfare and pleasure. We answer. The idea that the ocean was given to facilitate communication between different nations, makes us smile. Suppose there had been no ocean, should we have had a long way to go to get into the next country, the country nearest to us? Just the contrary. If there had been no ocean, there would have been land in its place, and we should neither have had to cross water nor land to get to it. It would have come up close to our own country. We have all the same travelling in order to have communication with the inhabitants of other countries when we have crossed the ocean, that we should have had, to obtain communication with neighboring countries, if there had been no ocean at all. The ocean was intended for other purposes. The use of the ocean, one of its principal uses at least, is to temper the climates and seasons of the earth. If the earth were one unbroken continent, the summers would be intolerably hot, and the winters would be intolerably cold, and the changes from winter to summer would be so violent, and work such fearful havoc, as to render the earth uninhabitable. By means of the ocean, those intolerable inconveniences are avoided. The sea, which is never so cold in winter as the land, tempers the air as it blows over it, and thus moderates the cold of the land. The sea also, which is never so warm in summer as the land, tempers the air again, and breathes coolness and freshness over the heated land. Neither heat nor cold affects the sea so suddenly or so violently as it affects the land. A few days of summer heat are sufficient to make the solid earth quite hot,—so hot, in many cases, that you cannot bear your naked hand upon it long. Yet this same amount of summer heat will make scarcely any perceptible difference in the waters of the ocean. Then again, in winter, a few days severe frost will make the solid earth, and especially the stones and metals, so cold, that they would blister a delicate skin, if pressed against them; while they make scarcely any perceptible difference upon the waters of the ocean. The ocean sits on its low throne like the monarch of this lower world, controlling the elements, tempering the heat and the cold, and thus preserving the earth and its living inhabitants from harm.

Wesley tells us farther, that before the sin of Adam, "The air was always serene and always friendly to man." Now the air is still always friendly to man. Even when it comes in the form of hurricanes and tempests, it is so. It is doing work, even then, good work, which gentle breezes are unable to do. It is carrying away dangers which gentler currents of air would not have the power to carry away. And even when they cause destruction in their course, they are still performing friendly offices to man. They are inspiring him with a livelier consciousness of his absolute dependence upon God, and of the folly of resisting His will. They are exercising his intellectual powers, by leading him to devise means for his protection from their fury, and obliging him also to exert his bodily powers in carrying out the devices of his intellect. They are, in fact, contributing to make him a wiser, a stronger, a better, a happier, and in all respects, a completer, and a diviner being than he otherwise would be. We agree therefore with Wesley that the air before Adam sinned was always friendly to man; but we do not agree with him in his notions as to what constituted its friendliness; nor do we agree with him in the notion, that since the sin of Adam the air has ceased to be friendly, or even proved to be less friendly, to man. We believe that the air is as friendly to man now as it ever was,—that it does him as little mischief, that it contributes as much to his well-being and comfort, as it ever did.

Wesley further says, the sun was situated at the most exact distance from the earth, so as to yield a sufficient quantity of heat, neither too little nor too much, to every part of it. Ho further intimates that there was at first no inclination of the earth's axis, and that the seasons and the degree of heat and cold were, in consequence, the same all the world over, and all the year round. All these statements seem erroneous in the extreme. The supply of heat to the different parts of the earth does not depend altogether on the distance of the sun from the earth, as Wesley intimates, but on the motions of the earth around the sun and upon its own axis. Wesley seems to imagine that if the axis of the earth were not inclined, or elevated at one end, the earth would receive from the sun the same quantity of heat through every part; whereas nothing could be farther from the truth. If, as Wesley expresses it, "This oblique globe had not been turned askance," some parts of the earth would have received from the sun scarcely any heat at all; they would have received neither light nor heat, except in such slight measures as to be altogether useless. The arctic regions and the antarctic regions must have been alike uninhabitable. That turning of the oblique globe askance, which Wesley represents as the cause of extreme heat and cold, was the very thing to prevent those extremes, or to reduce them to the lowest possible point, and to secure to every part of the globe, as far as possible, an equal amount of light and warmth. I say as far as possible; for to secure to every part of the earth exactly the same amount of light and heat from one sun, is impossible. Place a little globe in what position you will with respect to a neighboring candle, and fix the axis of that globe as you please, and move that globe; give the globe a motion upon its own axis, and another motion round the light near which it is placed, and you will find it impossible to secure to every part of that globe exactly the same amount of light and heat. By inclining the axis of the globe, or as Wesley expresses it, turning it askance, as the axis of the earth is inclined or turned askance, you may secure the greatest possible equality of light and heat to every part; but still that greatest possible equality will be a considerable inequality. So far, therefore, from the polar regions being made colder or darker by the globe being turned askance, they are indebted to that very obliqueness of the earth's axis, and that apparent irregularity of its motions, for the chief portion of that light and heat which they receive. How Wesley came to speak so erroneously on this subject, I am at a loss to know, as he must, one would think, have understood the first elements of geography and astronomy. Yet his words are at variance with the first elements of those popular sciences.

But it would take up too much room to notice all the unauthorized statements of Mr. Wesley on this subject. We have said enough to show how the most conscientious and best-intentioned man may err on theological subjects, and what need young Christians have to be somewhat critical and careful in adopting and testing their religious opinions. There are other sermons of Wesley which are as much at variance with Scripture as the one we have had under notice. I have not his sermons at hand just now, but if I remember right, his remarks on the righteousness of the Scribes and Pharisees, in his sermon on that subject, are quite at variance with the statements of Christ.

And Wesley was one of the best, one of the most honest and conscientious, one of the most single-minded men on the face of the earth. No man, I imagine, was ever more anxious to be right,—no one was ever more desirous to know and teach God's truth in all its purity, and in everything to do God's will and bless mankind. And he knew and chose the right standard of truth and goodness, and honestly endeavored to conform to it both in thought and deed and word. Yet he could err in this strange and wholesale way. What then may we expect from other theological writers? Many of the theologians whose writings influence the Church were not very good men; they were selfish, ambitious, proud and worldly. Some were idle, dreamy, careless, godless. And others, who were piously disposed, never deliberately adopted the Bible as their rule of faith and practice. They never set themselves to conform to it, as the standard of truth and goodness. They adopted or inherited the faiths or traditions of their predecessors, never suspecting them of error, and never inquiring whether they were true or not. The idea of testing or correcting either their way of thinking or their way of talking on religious subjects, by the teachings of Christ, never entered their minds. They lived at ease, dreaming rather than thinking, and talking in their sleep, and filling great folios with their idle utterances. What kind of thoughts, and what kind of words were we likely to find in the writings of men like these? Robert Hall is reported to have described the works of the celebrated John Owen as "A CONTINENT OF MUD." There are others whose writings might be justly described as volumes of smoke. Mere wind they are not, but foul, black, blinding smoke. And writings of this description are published or republished in great quantities to the present day. And people read them, and fill themselves with wind and filthy fumes, and wrap themselves in smoky, pitchy clouds, and go through the world in a spiritual darkness thick enough to be felt.

This smoke, this blackness and darkness, I could not endure. I was anxious beyond measure to free myself from its bewildering and blinding power, and to get into the clear fresh air, and the bright and cheerful light, of simple Christian truth. And hence the freedom and eagerness of my investigations, and the liberty I took in modifying my belief.

It may be said that many of the doctrines which I have set down as unscriptural, are of little importance; and that is really the case. We ought, therefore, to be the more ready to give them up. Why contend for doctrines of no moment? But some of them are important. They are revolting and mischievous errors, and when they are regarded as parts of Christianity, they tend to make men infidels. And in many cases they stagger the faith, and lessen the comfort, and injure the souls of Christians. And even the less important ones do harm when taken to be parts of the religion of Christ. You cannot make thoughtful, sharp-visioned men believe that Jesus came into the world, and lived and died to propagate trifles. Trifles therefore are no longer trifles when set forth as Christian doctrines. And we have enough to believe and think about without occupying our minds with childish fancies. And we have things enough of high importance to preach and write about, without spending our time and strength on idle dreams.

And the apparently harmless fictions prop up the hurtful ones. And they lessen the influence of great truths. And they make religion appear suspicious or contemptible to men of sense. They disgust some. They give occasion to the adversaries to speak reproachfully.

And if you tolerate fictions at all in Christianity, where will you stop? And if you do not stop somewhere, Christianity will disappear, and a mass of worthless and disgusting follies will take its place. The new creation will vanish, and chaos come again.

And again. A large proportion of the controversies of the Church are about men's inventions. Christ's own doctrines do not so often provoke opposition as the traditions of the elders; nor do they, when assailed, require so much defending. They defend themselves. "The devil's way of undoing," says Baxter, "is by overdoing. To bring religious zeal into disrepute, he makes some zealous to madness, to persecution, to blood. To discredit freedom he urges its advocates into lawlessness. To discredit Christian morality, he induces some to carry it to the extreme of asceticism. To discredit needful authority, he makes rulers of the State into despots, and persuades the rulers of the Church to claim infallibility. To discredit Christianity, he adds to it human inventions." Wesley has a similar sentiment. "If you place Christian perfection too high, you drive it out of the world." And it is certain, that an infinite amount of hostility to Christianity is owing to the folly of divines in supplementing its simple and practical doctrines, by speculative and unintelligible theories. "The one great evidence of the divinity of Christianity," says one, "the master-evidence, the evidence with which all other evidences will stand or fall, is Christ Himself speaking by His own word." But if you add to His words foolish fancies, or revolting absurdities, or immoral speculations of your own, you destroy that evidence. You make men infidels.

There are multitudes at the present day to whom you must present religion in an intelligible and rational, and in a grave and commanding light, if you would induce them to give it their serious attention. You can no more interest them in mysteries and nonsense, in speculative and unpractical fictions, than you can change the course of nature. The time for theological trifling is gone by. The time has gone by for any form of religion to make its way which does not consist in solid goodness, or which teaches doctrines, or uses forms, that do not tend to promote solid goodness. If religion is to secure the attention of the world,—if it is to command their respect, their reverence and their love,—if it is to conquer their hearts, and govern their lives, and satisfy their souls,—if it is to become the great absorbing subject of man's thought, and the governing power of our race, it must be so presented, as to prove itself in harmony with all that is highest and best in man's nature, with all that is most beautiful and useful in life, and with all that is beneficent and glorious in the universe.

In a word, old dreamy theologies with their barbarous dialects and silly notions, must be dropped and left to die, and the Church and the ministry must live, and act, and talk as men who are dealing with the grandest and most interesting and important realities.

CHAPTER VII.

FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS AND THEIR RESULTS.

As my readers will have seen before this, the changes in my views were rather numerous, if not always of great importance. And the cases I have given are but samples of many other changes. The fact is, I pared away from my creed everything that was not plainly Scriptural. I threw aside all human theories, all mere guesses about religious matters. I also dismissed all forced or fanciful interpretations of Scripture passages. I endeavored to free Christian doctrines from all corruptions, perversions, or exaggerations, retaining only the pure and simple teachings of Christ and the sacred writings. I accepted only those interpretations of Scripture, which were in accordance with the object and drift of the writer, with common sense, and with the general tenor of the sacred volume. I paid special regard to the plainest and most practical portions of Scripture. I paid no regard to doctrines grounded on solitary passages, or on texts of doubtful meaning, while numerous texts, with their meaning on their very faces, taught opposite doctrines. I would accept nothing that seemed irrational from any quarter, unless required to do so by the plain unquestionable oracles of God. I could see no propriety in Christians encumbering their minds and clogging religion with notions bearing plain and palpable marks of inconsistency or absurdity. And if a doctrine presented itself in different religious writers in a variety of forms, I always took the form which seemed most in harmony with reason and the plainest teachings of Scripture. Some writers seemed to take pleasure in presenting such doctrines as the Trinity, the Atonement, Salvation by Faith, Eternal Punishment, &c., in the most incredible and repulsive forms, straining and wresting the Scriptures to justify their mischievous extravagances. Other writers would say no more on those subjects than the Scriptures said, and would put what the Scriptures said in such a light as to render it "worthy of all acceptation." As a matter of course, the latter kind of writers became my favorites. Indeed the Scriptures seemed always to favor what appeared most rational in the various creeds. The Scriptures and common sense seemed always in remarkable harmony. The doctrines which clashed with reason seemed also to clash with Scripture: and I felt that in rejecting such doctrines I was promoting the honor of God and of Christ, and rendering a service to the Church and Christianity.

I was sometimes rather tried by the unwarranted and inconsiderate statements of my brother ministers. Take an instance. A preacher one night, in a sermon to which I was listening, said, "How great is the love of God to fallen man! Angels sinned, and were doomed at once to everlasting damnation. No Saviour interposed to bring them back to holiness and heaven. No ambassador was sent with offers of pardon to beseech them to be reconciled to God. Man sins, and the Deity Himself becomes incarnate. All the machinery of nature and all the resources of Heaven are employed to save him from destruction. One sin shuts up in everlasting despair millions of spiritual beings, while a thousand transgressions are forgiven to man."

Now this doctrine, instead of reflecting peculiar glory on God, seemed to me to savor of blasphemy. It is no honor to be partial or capricious; it is a reproach. A father that should be tenderly indulgent to one of his children, and rigidly severe to the rest, would be regarded with indignation. The doctrine of Divine partiality shocks both our reason and our moral feelings. And it is not scriptural. The Bible says nothing about God dooming the rebellious angels to perdition for one sin, without any attempt to bring them back to obedience; but it does say that God is good to all, and that His tender mercies are over all His works. I accordingly rejected the doctrine. There was quite a multitude of doctrines which entered into the sermons of many of my brother ministers, which never found their way into mine. And there were doctrines which entered into my discourses, which never found their way into theirs. And the doctrines which we held and preached in common, we often presented in very different forms, and put into very different words. They could say a multitude of things which I could not say; things which I could find no kind of warrant for saying. When we met together after hearing each other preach, we had at times long talks about our different views and ways of preaching. I was free in expressing my thoughts and feelings, especially in the earlier years of my ministry, and our conversations were often very animated.

In some circuits, I induced my colleagues to join me in establishing weekly meetings for mutual improvement in religious knowledge. At each meeting an essay was read, on some subject agreed upon at a former meeting, and after the essay had been read we discussed the merits both of the sentiments it embodied, and of the style in which it was written. When it was my turn to prepare an essay, I generally introduced one or more of the points on which I and my colleagues differed, for the purpose of having them discussed. I stated my views with the utmost freedom, and gave every encouragement to my colleagues to state theirs with equal freedom in return. When my colleagues read their productions, I pointed out what I thought erroneous or defective with great plainness and fidelity. I was anxious both to learn and to teach, and it was my delight, as it was my duty and business, to endeavor to do both. I was not, however, so anxious to change the views of my friends as I was to excite in them a thirst for knowledge. And indeed I did not consider it of so much importance that a man should accept a certain number of truths, or particular doctrines, as that he should have a sincere desire, and make suitable endeavors to understand all truth. It was idleness, indifference, a state of mental stagnation, a readiness carelessly to accept whatever might come in the way without once trying to test it by Scripture or reason, that I particularly disliked; and to cure or abate this evil, I exerted myself to the utmost.

When I was stationed in Newcastle in 1831, I met with Foster's Essays, which I read with a great deal of eagerness and pleasure. One of these Essays is "On some of the Causes by which Evangelical Religion has been Rendered Unacceptable to Persons of Cultivated Taste?" Among his remarks on this subject, he has some to the following effect:—

1. Christianity is the religion of many weak, uncultivated and little-minded people, and they, by their unwise ways of talking about it, and by their various defects of character, make religion look weak, and poor, and unreasonable. And many receive their impression or ideas of the character of Christianity more from the exhibitions given of it by the religious people with whom they come in contact, than from the exhibition given of it in the life and teachings of its great Author, or from the characters and writings of His Apostles. An intelligent and cultivated man, for instance, falls into the company of Christians who know little either of the teachings of Christ, or of the wonderful facts which go to prove their truth and their infinite excellency—Christians who never trouble themselves about such matters, and who look on it as no good sign when people show a disposition to inquire seriously into such subjects. He hears those Christians talk about religion, but can find nothing in their conversation but strange and, to him, unintelligible expressions. The speakers give proof enough of excited feelings, but show no sign of mental enlightenment. If he asks them for information on the great principles and bearings of Christianity, they tell him they have nothing to do with vain philosophy.

2. The man of taste and culture hears other Christians harping eternally on two or three points, adopted perhaps from some dreamy author, and denouncing all who question the correctness of their version of the Gospel, as heretics or infidels, while all the time their notions have little or no resemblance either to the Gospel or to common sense; but are at best, only perversions or distortions of Christian doctrines, which have no more likeness to the religion of Christ than a few broken bricks have to a beautiful and magnificent palace.

3. In many cases the Christians with whom he meets have not only no general knowledge of religious subjects, but no desire for such knowledge. The Bible is their book, they say, and they want no other. And they make but a pitiful use of that. They do not go to the Bible as to a fountain of infinite knowledge, whose streams of truth blend naturally with all the truths in the universe, but merely to refresh their minds with a few misinterpreted passages, which ignorance and bigotry are accustomed to use to support their misconceptions of Christian doctrine. They use the book not to make them wise, but to keep them ignorant. They dwell for ever on the same irrational fancies, and repeat them for ever in the same outlandish jargon.

4. He meets with other Christians who read a little in other books besides the Bible; but it is just those books that help to keep them from understanding the meaning of the Bible. And the portions of the books which they admire most and quote oftenest, are the silliest and most erroneous portions. They put darkness for light, and light for darkness. The man of culture speaks to them, but they cannot understand him. His thoughts and style are alike out of their line, or beyond their capacity. If at any time they catch a glimpse of his meaning, they are frightened on perceiving that his thoughts are not an exact repetition of their own.

5. Another cause which has tended to render Christianity less acceptable to men of taste and culture, is the peculiar language adopted in the discourses and writings of its Teachers. The style of some religious teachers is low, vulgar. The style of a still greater number is barbarous. Men soon feel the language of the Law to be barbarous. They would feel the language of theology to be as barbarous, if they were not accustomed to hear it or read it so constantly. The way in which the greater number of evangelical divines express themselves is quite different from that in which men generally express themselves. Their whole cast of phraseology is peculiar. You cannot hear five sentences without feeling that you are listening to a dead or foreign language. To put it into good current English you have to translate it, and the task of translation is as hard, and requires as much study and practice, as that of translating Greek or Hebrew. The language of the pulpit and of religious books is a dialect to itself, and cannot be used in common life or common affairs. If you try to apply it to anything but religion, it becomes ridiculous, and a common kind of wit consists in speaking of common things in pulpit phraseology. A foreign heathen might master our language in its common and classical forms, and be able to understand both our ordinary talk and our ablest authors, yet find himself quite at a loss to understand an evangelical preacher or writer.

Even if our heathen understood religion in its simpler and more natural forms, he would still be unable to understand the common run of religious talkers and writers. If he had religion to learn from such teachers and writers, he would have a double task, first, to get the ideas, and then to learn the uncouth and unnatural language. This peculiar dialect is quite unnecessary. The style of a preacher or a religious writer might be, and, allowing for a few terms, ought to be, the same as that of a man talking about ordinary affairs, and matters of common interest and duty. The want of this is one great cause of the little success, both of our preachers at home, and of our missionaries abroad. They hide beneath an unseemly veil, a beauty that should strike all eyes, and win all hearts. Their style is just the opposite of everything that can instruct, attract, command. And it is vain to expect much improvement in the present generation of religious teachers. They could not get a good style without a long and careful study of good authors, and for this many of them have neither the taste nor the needful industry. They would have to begin life anew, to be converted and become as little children, before they could master the task. They cannot think of religion but in common words. They cannot think there can be divine truth but in the old phrases. To discontinue them, therefore, and use others, would in their view, be to become heretics or infidels. In truth, many of them seem to have no ideas. Their phrases are not vehicles of ideas, but substitutes for them. If they hear the ideas which their phrases did once signify, expressed ever so plainly in other language, they do not recognise them, and instantly suspect the man who utters them of unsoundness in the faith, and apply to him all the abusive terms of ecclesiastical reproach. For such the common pulpit jargon is the convenient refuge of ignorance, idleness and prejudice.

6. Speaking of certain kinds of religious books, Mr. Foster calls them an accumulation of bad writing, under which the evangelical theology has been buried, and which has contributed to bring its principles into disfavor. He adds: A large proportion of religious books may be sentenced as bad on more accounts than their peculiarity of dialect. One has to regret that their authors did not revere the dignity of their religion too much to surround it and choke it with their works. There is quite a multitude of books which form the perfect vulgar of religious authorship,—a vast exhibition of the most inferior materials that can be called thought, in language too grovelling to be called style. In these books you are mortified to see how low religious thought and expression can sink; and you almost wonder how the grand ideas of God and Providence, of redemption and eternity, the noblest ideas known, can shine on a human mind, without imparting some small occasional degree of dignity to its train of thought. You can make allowances for the great defects of private Christians, but when men obtrude their infinite littleness and folly on the public in books, you can hardly help regarding them as inexcusable. True, many of those worthless and mischievous books are evermore disappearing, but others as bad, or but little better, take their places. Look where you will you will meet with them. What estimate can a man have of Christianity who receives his first impressions of it from such books?

7. There are other religious books that are tolerable as to style, but which display no power or prominence of thought, no living vigor of expression; they are flat and dry as a plain of sand. They tease you with the thousandth repetition of common-places, causing a feeling of unspeakable weariness. Though the author is surrounded with rich immeasurable fields of truth and beauty, he treads for ever the same narrow track already trodden into dust.

8. There is a smaller class of religious writers that may be called mock-eloquent writers. They try at a superior style, but forget that true eloquence resides essentially in the thought, the feeling, the character, and that no words can make genuine eloquence out of that which is of no worth or interest. They mistake a gaudy verbosity for eloquence.

9. The moral and theological materials of many religious books are as faulty as their style, and the injury they do the Gospel is incalculable. Here is a systematic writer in whose hands all the riches and magnificence of revelation shrink into a meagre list of doctrinal points, and not a single verse in the Bible is allowed to tell its meaning, or even allowed to have one, till it has been forced under torture to maintain one of his points. You are next confronted with a prater about the invisible world, that makes you shrink away into darkness; and then you are met with a grim zealot for such a revolting theory of the Divine attributes and government, that he seems to delight in representing the Deity as a dreadful king of furies, whose dominion is overshadowed with vengeance, whose music is the cries of victims, and whose glory requires to be illustrated by the ruin of His creation. One cannot help deploring that the great mass of religious books were not consigned to the flames before they were permitted to reach the eyes of the public. Books which exhibit Christianity and its claims with insipid feebleness, or which cramp its majesty into an artificial form at once distorted and mean, must grievously injure its influence. An intelligent Christian cannot look into such works without feeling thankful that they were not the books from which he got his conceptions of the Gospel. Nothing would induce him to put them into the hands of an inquiring youth, and he would be sorry to see them on the table of an infidel, or in the library of his children, or of a student for the ministry.—Foster's Essays.

These sentiments answered so astonishingly to my own thoughts, that I read them with the greatest delight. I laid them, in substance, before my brethren. I explained them. I illustrated them by quotations from books and sermons. I gave them instances of the various faults pointed out by Foster, taken from their favorite authors, and in some cases from the discourses of living preachers. I wrote several essays on the causes of the slow progress made by Christianity, in which I embodied and illustrated many of Foster's views. I wrote essays on "Preaching Christ," in which I embodied and illustrated Wesley's views on the subject, including his condemnation of what, in his days, was falsely called "Gospel Preaching." I wrote quite a large volume on these subjects, and read the contents, so far as opportunity offered, to my colleagues at our weekly meetings. I was badly requited for my pains. In some cases my colleagues listened to me and stared at me with amazement. They thought I "brought strange things to their ears." One, who is now dead, said I should be really an excellent fellow, he believed, if I could only get the cobwebs swept out of my upper stories. Everything beyond his own poor standing common-places was cobwebs to him, poor fellow. The remarks on this subject in the LIFE of the preacher referred to, show that my ideas and plans at that time are not yet understood by all his brethren.

Travel, they say, frees men from their prejudices. The more they see of the wonders of other countries, and of the manners of other nations, the more moderate becomes their estimate of the marvels, and of some of the views and customs of their native land. And it is certain that the more a man travels through good books by men of different Churches from his own, the less important will some of the peculiarities of his own denomination appear. As ignorance of the world is favorable to blind patriotism and home idolatry, so ignorance of Churches, and systems, and literatures different from our own, is favorable to bigotry and sectarianism. And as free and extended intercourse with foreign nations tends to enlarge and liberalize the mind; so the more extensive a Christian's acquaintance is with different branches of the Church, and with their customs, and writings, and manners, the more likely will his sectarian bigotry and intolerance be to give place to liberal views and to Christian moderation and charity.

But just in proportion as he becomes the subject of this blessed transformation, will he be regarded with suspicion and dread by those who still remain the slaves of ignorance and bigotry.

It was so in my case. I travelled through extensive regions of religious literature different from that of my own Church, and I did so with an earnest desire to learn what was true and good in all. The consequence was the loss of many prejudices, and the modification of many more. I lost my prejudices against all kinds of Christians. I could believe in the salvation both of Quakers and Catholics, and of all between, if they were well disposed, God-fearing, good-living men. I could believe in the salvation of all, not excepting Jews, Turks, and Pagans, who lived according to the light they had, and honestly and faithfully sought for further light. I believed that in every nation he that feared God and worked righteousness was accepted of Him. I believed that honest, faithful souls among the pagans of old would be found at last among the saved. I regarded the moral and spiritual light of the ancient pagans as light from heaven, as divine revelation. I looked on all mankind as equally objects of God's care and love, as His children, under His tuition, though placed for a time in different schools, with different teachers, and with different lesson-books. I came to believe that God was as good as a good man, as good as the kindest and best of fathers, and even better, and I felt assured that He would not permit any well-disposed soul on earth to perish. I believed that some who were first in privileges, would be among the last in blessedness; and that some that were last in privileges would be among the first in blessedness.

Yet I believed in missions. I believed that it was the duty of all to share their blessings with others; to give to others the light that God had bestowed on them,—that though pagans might be saved without Christian light, if they lived according to the light they had, Christians could not be saved if they did not, as they had opportunity, impart their superior light to the pagans.

I respected the good moral principles, and the portions of religious truth that I found in the ancient Greek and Roman authors, just as I lamented and condemned the moral and religious errors that I found in Christian books.

"I seized on truth where'er 'twas found,
On Christian or on Heathen ground,"

and made it part of my creed: and I warred with error though entrenched in the strong-holds of the Church. I respected what was true and good in all denominations of Christians; and even in all denominations that called themselves Christians, whether they came near enough to Christ to entitle them to that name or not. If I saw anything good in the creeds or the characters of other denominations I accepted it, and tried to embody it in my own creed and character.

And I did, as I thought, see good in every one that I did not see in others. I could see things in some Protestants, which I thought Catholics would do well to imitate; and I could see things among Catholics, which I thought Protestants would do well to imitate. I could see things in Quakerism, which it would have been to the honor and advantage of other Christians to imitate; and I could see good things in other Churches which Quakers would have done well to copy. I could see even among Unitarians of the older and better class, an attention to matters practical, a naturalness of style, and a freedom from certain anti-christian expressions and notions, which it would have been well for orthodox Churches to have made their own; and I could see where Unitarians had both gone too far through their dislike of orthodox error, and fallen short of truth and duty through dread of orthodox weaknesses or imperfections. And I had an idea, that it would be well in all Churches, instead of avoiding, or scolding, or abusing one another, to study each other lovingly, with a view to find how much of truth and goodness they could find in each other, that they could not find in themselves, and how much of error and imperfection they could find in themselves, that they did not find in others. I saw that no Church had got all the truth, or all the goodness, and that no Church was free from anti-christian errors and defects. I saw that to make a perfect Christian creed, we should have to take something out of every creed, and leave other things in every creed behind; and that to secure a perfect exhibition of Christian virtue, and a perfect system of Christian operations, we should have to borrow from each other habits, customs, rules and machinery in the same way, and leave parts of our own to fall into disuse.

And I was willing to act on this principle. I saw that Christ and Christianity were more and better than all the Churches and all the creeds on earth put together, and that all the Churches had errors and faults or failings which Christ and Christianity had not; and I had an idea that one of the grandest sights conceivable would be to set all the disciples of Christ to work striving to get rid of everything anti-christian, and to come as near to Christ, and to each other, as possible, both in truth and virtue.

But to proceed with my story.

I frequently spoke on religious subjects with my colleagues when we met, along with the leading laymen, at the houses of our friends. Some new book, some particular sermon, or some article in the magazine, or perhaps the fulness of one's own mind with the subjects of one's studies, would turn the conversation on the state of the Church and the ministry, and the need of improvement in the theological systems and dialects of the day, and the manner of handling religious subjects generally, both in the pulpit and through the press. Whatever the subject under consideration might be, I expressed myself with the utmost freedom. I stated my beliefs and disbeliefs, my doubts and my convictions, without the least reserve. And I as readily gave my reasons for my views. I was generally prepared with the passages of Scripture bearing on the subjects introduced, and gave them, with my impressions of their meaning. And I did my best to draw my colleagues and friends into a thorough investigation of every point, in hopes that we might all come as near as possible in our views to a full conformity to the teachings of Christ. The results of these conversations, and of my other labors, were in some cases, very satisfactory. Some were led to exercise their minds on religious subjects who had never troubled themselves about such matters before. Some that had been accustomed to think and read a little were led to think and read more, and to better purpose. Some that had been helplessly and miserably perplexed had their minds put right, and were delivered from their distresses. Some had their minds directed more seriously to the practical requirements of Christianity, and labored more, and made more sacrifices, for the prosperity of the Church and the salvation of their fellow-men. In considerable numbers the standard of Christian knowledge and piety was raised, and the general tone of the churches improved.

In other cases the results were of a very different character. During the early years of my religious life I supposed that all professing Christians, and especially all ministers of the Gospel, were anxious to be as wise and good as possible, and that they would be delighted, as I was myself, to get any new, or larger, or clearer views of truth and duty. I judged of others by myself, and gave them credit for the same desires and longings that swelled my own soul. I gave them credit too for unlimited capacities to take in and appreciate the truth, and for any amount of ability to use it, when received, in doing good to others. I had seldom any difficulty in understanding them; and it never entered my mind that they would have much difficulty in understanding me. And I never felt myself even tempted, much less disposed, to misrepresent the words or sentiments of my friends, or to take advantage of the freedom with which they spoke, to injure them in the estimation of their friends. I had no intolerance myself, so far as I can recollect, and I had no disposition to cause intolerance in others towards my brethren. How it was with my brethren I will not undertake to say, but, as a person with any knowledge of human nature would have anticipated, I was greatly misunderstood and misrepresented. Some of my colleagues and friends were in a maze with regard to my views and intentions. Shut up within the narrow confines of some old stereotyped form of faith or fancy into which they had been born, or into which they had been brought they knew not how, and afraid to change or modify one iota of their blind belief, investigation, search after truth, enlargement of thought, or change of sentiment, was with them out of the question. The very idea of anything differing from their own traditionary or haphazard belief was, in the estimation of some of them, no less than heresy, treason, or infidelity. Others, who were not so much benighted, were afraid to venture on a free examination of religious matters, or a careful comparison of their views with the teachings of Scripture. Some trusted in their elders, and feared no error so long as they kept in the track of their predecessors. I am not certain that I should go too far if I were to say, that some were under the influence of worldly and selfish motives, and were resolved to take the course which promised to be most conducive to a quiet, easy, self-indulgent life. There were some whose conversations left this impression on my mind. One young minister, when I was pointing out to him some inconsistency between a statement he had made and the teachings of Christ, put an end to the conversation by saying, "I don't want to hear anything about such matters; I know what is expected of a minister of the Methodist New Connexion, and I am resolved to be one; and I shall just hold the doctrines necessary to keep me in the office, and nothing else." And I suppose he did not stand alone.

Some lacked the power to think. They were all but mindless. Whatever they might be able to do in reference to worldly matters, they were unable to think, to compare doctrine with doctrine, or to reason in any respect whatever on religious matters. One young man, a candidate for the ministry, told me that he never had thought matters over in his own mind, but taken what came in his way in books or sermons, never troubling himself, or finding himself able, to do more than to remember and to repeat what he heard or read. He had not the faculty to compare the sayings of men with the sayings of God; or the sayings of one man with the sayings of another. He was a mere dealer in words and phrases, and he aspired to nothing higher than to live by the ignoble occupation. How many of those with whom I came in contact, and in whose society I poured forth so freely the thoughts of my mind, were of the same stamp, I do not know. I never tested any other person so thoroughly as I tested him. There were others, however, that had been fashioned in a similar mould.

Others with whom I conversed had thought, and had embraced certain views believing them to be true; but they had fallen under the influence of teachers and books of a different cast from those by which my own mind had been chiefly influenced. And they had been led to fix their thoughts almost exclusively on one particular class of Scripture passages, and to neglect or overlook other portions of the sacred volume, though much more numerous, and much more clear in their meaning. They had also been led to adopt certain interpretations of the passages on which their attention had been specially fixed, which a consideration of other passages of Scripture had led me to reject. Thus our minds had run into different moulds, and taken different forms. We differed not only on certain points of doctrine, but in our tastes, and in our rules of judging. The consequence was, that we could never talk long on religious subjects without getting into a dispute, or coming to a dead stand. To make matters worse, this class of people had been led to believe that their peculiar notions were the essential doctrines of the Gospel, and that those who did not believe them could not be Christians. When therefore they found that I looked upon their theories as erroneous and unscriptural, they pronounced me at once an erratic and dangerous man. I imagined, at first, that I could bring these people to see things in a different light. I had such faith in the power of plain Scripture passages, and in the force of common sense, and was so ignorant of the power of prejudice, and of peculiarities of mental constitution, that I conversed and reasoned with them with the greatest freedom and the utmost confidence. But I found at length that my expectations were vain. I was conversing once with a colleague who belonged to this class, on man's natural proneness to evil. He was one of the best and most enlightened of that school of theologians, and he regarded me at the time with very kindly feelings. And we were agreed as to the fact of man's natural tendency to evil, but he had been led to rest his belief in the doctrine on somewhat different grounds from those on which my belief rested. And this was enough. He quoted the passage from Isaiah, "The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint: from the crown of the head, to the sole of the foot, there is no soundness, but wounds and bruises and putrefying sores." "Do you think that the Prophet refers in that passage to man's natural proneness to evil?" said I. "What can he refer to else?" said he. "I have been accustomed to regard the words as a figurative description of the miserable state of the Israelites under the terrible judgments of God," I replied. He instantly became red in the face, and said, "Do you mean to deny the natural depravity of man?" I said, "The question is not about the doctrine, but only about the meaning of that particular passage." But all was in vain. I had roused his suspicions and his anger, and the conversation came at once to an end, and he never afterwards regarded me with the same degree of confidence and friendliness as before.

On another occasion a brother minister quoted, as proof that men in their unregenerate state cannot do anything towards their own salvation, the words of Jeremiah, already once referred to, "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" "Do you really think," said I, "that the Prophet is speaking, in those words, of men generally?" "What else is he speaking of?" was the answer. "He seems to me to be speaking of a particular class of men, who have been so long accustomed to do wrong, that they have lost the power to do right—having made themselves the helpless slaves of their evil habits. He is not, I think, speaking of the state into which they were born; but of the state to which they had reduced themselves by long persistence in sin. Hence he says at the conclusion of the passage, 'Then may ye, who are accustomed to do evil, do well.'" "Oh! I suppose you deny the doctrine of natural depravity." "No, I do not," said I. "It is no use saying that," he replied, "when you explain away the passages of Scripture in which the doctrine is taught."

Such encounters between me and my brethren were at one time by no means uncommon. They took place at almost every meeting. The result was often unpleasant. My brethren generally did not like to be disturbed in their notions, or in their way of talking. But few, if any of them, were prepared or disposed to enter on the investigations necessary to enable them to ascertain what was the truth on the points on which we were accustomed to converse. Some had not the power to revise their creeds and their way of talking and preaching, and bring them into harmony with Scripture and common sense. And people of this class were sure to look on all who did not see things in the same light as themselves, as dangerous or damnable heretics. They, of course, concluded that I was not sound in the faith. They felt that I was a troublesome, and feared that I was a lost and ruined man. The remarks which I made to them, they repeated to their friends; and as they seldom succeeded in understanding me properly, their reports were generally incorrect. In some cases my statements were reported with important additions, and in others with serious alterations, and in some cases their meaning was entirely changed. And the change was seldom to my advantage. A difference of expression between me and my brethren was mistaken for a difference of belief; and the disuse of an unscriptural word, was mistaken for a renunciation of a Christian doctrine. A dispute about the "eternal sonship" was mistaken for a dispute about the divinity of Christ, and a difference of opinion about the meaning of a passage of Scripture, came to be reported as the denial of Christ's authority. In one case I gave it as my judgment that there were really righteous people on earth when Christ came into the world, and that it was to such that Christ referred, when He said, He "came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." This was made into an assertion that the coming of Christ was unnecessary. Inability to accept unauthorized definitions and unscriptural theories of Scriptural doctrines, was construed into a denial of those doctrines. My endeavor to strip religious subjects of needless mystery, was represented as an attempt to substitute a vain philosophy for the Gospel of Christ. An expression of dissatisfaction with a grandiloquent but foolish and mischievous sermon on the "Cross of Christ," was set down as a proof that my views on the sacrifice of Christ were not evangelical. My endeavors to show that Christianity was in harmony with reason, were mistaken for an attempt to substitute reason for faith, and became the occasion of a rumor that I was running into Pelagianism or Socinianism. My own conviction was, that I was coming nearer to the simplicity, the purity, and the fulness of the Gospel; and that is my conviction still. And those of my brethren in the ministry who were in advance of the rest in point of intelligence and piety, and who were least infected with foolish fear and jealousy, expressed to me their satisfaction with my views and proceedings. And the people listened to my discourses with the greatest delight. They flocked to hear me in crowds; and the crowds continually increased. And many were benefited under my ministry. Sinners were converted, and believers were comforted, and stimulated to greater efforts in the cause of God.

To those, however, who had come to believe that I was drifting towards heresy, all this was the occasion of greater alarm, and my great success and growing popularity led them to make increasing efforts to lessen my influence, or silence me altogether. Their conduct caused me great uneasiness, and it was this that first awakened in me unhappy feeling towards them.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SECOND TENDENCY. PRACTICAL PREACHING.

I had a second powerful tendency which helped to get me into trouble, and so became an occasion of unhappy feeling, namely, a practical tendency. This was bred in me. It was a family peculiarity; it ran in the blood. My father had it. Religion with him was goodness of heart and goodness of life; fearing God and working righteousness; loving God and keeping His commandments. And his belief and life were one. I never knew a more conscientious or godly man. And I never knew a man who could more truly have uttered the words of the Psalmist: "Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty; neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself as a child that is weaned of its mother; my soul is even as a weaned child." What God had left mysterious, he was willing should remain so; he found sufficient to meet his wants and to occupy his thoughts in what He had clearly revealed. He never troubled either himself or his children with those incomprehensible subjects on which many people are so prone to speculate and dogmatize. He read but few books, and those which he read he carefully compared with the sacred Scriptures. The Bible was his only authority, and by it he tested both books and preachers, receiving nothing but what he saw and felt to be in harmony with its spirit and teachings. He liked Bunyan, especially his Pilgrim's Progress; and he liked Wesley; but he liked the Bible best. There were no bounds to his love and reverence for the Scriptures. He regarded them as the perfection of all wisdom, the true and perfect unfolding of the mind and will of God. He read them every morning on his knees, before the rest of the family were up. Whatever might be the calls of business, he spent a full hour in this exercise. He read them every noon to his family. He read them at night before retiring to rest. He read them with a sincere desire to learn God's will, and with earnest prayer for Divine help to enable him to do it. He read them till all the plainer and more practical portions were safely lodged in his memory, and deeply engraven on his heart. He read them till their teachings became a part of his very nature, and shone forth in his character in all the beauty of holiness. He was a thorough Christian. The oracles of God were the rule both of his faith and conduct. They leavened his whole soul. They mingled with all his conversation. They were his only counsellors and his chief comforters. They were his law, his politics, his philosophy, his morals. They were his treasure and his song. And he received their teachings in their simple, obvious, common-sense meaning. He had quite a distaste for commentaries, because they would not allow the Scriptures to speak forth their own solemn meaning in their own plain, artless way. He hated the notes to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress for the same reason. He could understand the Bible, but he could not understand the explanations of it given by theologians. He would not study theology. He would study the Bible and Christ; he would study precepts and promises, exhortations and warnings, examples and historics; but not theology. And he never bothered us with theology. There was no theology in his conversation. There was none in his prayers. He never used theological terms. In all he said on religious matters, whether to God or man, he used the simplest Bible terms. He seldom talked much to his children about religion; he taught us more by his deeds and spirit than by words; but when he did say anything to us on the subject, it was the pure, unadulterated Word of God. The idea of making us theologians, in the ordinary sense of the word, never entered into his head. He wished us to think and feel and act like Christians, and that was all; and the end of all his counsels and labors was to furnish us unto every good word and work. If he had written a system of divinity, he would have left out most of the things which many put into such books, and put in many which most leave out. It would have been a book to help people to live right and feel right, and not to dream, or speculate, or wrangle. If he had been a preacher, he would have filled his sermons with the living words of Moses and the Prophets, of Christ and His Apostles, and pressed them on the consciences of his hearers with all his might. He would often have "reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and a judgment to come," but never troubled his hearers with human theories of Christian doctrines. The drift and scope of his sermons to the ungodly would have been, "Cease to do evil; learn to do well." "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon." "Repeat and be converted, every one of you, that your sins may he blotted out." The substance of his sermons to believers would have been, "I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service." "Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God with your bodies and your spirits, which are His." "For ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, such as silver and gold, from your evil way of life received by tradition from your fathers; but with the precious blood of Christ; who gave Himself for you, that He might redeem you from all iniquity, and purify you unto Himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works." "Be not deceived; God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to the flesh, shall of the flesh, reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not. As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially to those who are of the household of faith." He would have spoken of the love of God, and of the death of Christ, and of all the great moving facts and doctrines of the Gospel; but, like the sacred writers, he would have turned them all to practical account. His aim in everything would have been to bring men into subjection to God's will, and into full conformity with the teachings and character of Christ.

My eldest brother was a minister, and this was the character of his preaching. His favorite books were Baxter's works and the Bible. His favorite minister was William Dawson, one of the most practical, earnest, and common-sense preachers that ever occupied a pulpit. Like his father, he kept scrupulously to the simple teachings of the Scriptures, and he was once charged with unsoundness in the faith, because he would not be wise above what was revealed, nor preach more than the Gospel committed to him by Christ.

It was the same with myself. I looked on Christianity, from the first, as a means of enlightening and regenerating mankind, and changing them into the likeness of Christ and of God. In other words, I regarded it as a grand instrument appointed by God, for making bad men into good men, and good men always better, thus fitting them for all the duties of life, and all the blessedness they were created to enjoy. And I considered that the great business of a Christian minister was to use it for those great ends. And I think so still.

The Bible is the most practical book under heaven, and I cannot conceive how any one can read it carefully, with a mind unbiased by prejudice or evil feeling, without perceiving that its great object is to bring men to fear and love God, and to make them perfect in every good work to do His will. How any one can study Christianity without perceiving that its design is to bring men into harmony with God, both in heart and action, and to make them steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, is a mystery to me. Antinomianism is Antichrist. The preaching which tends to lessen men's sense of duty, or to reconcile people to a selfish, idle, or useless life, is contrary both to Christianity and common sense. And all interpretations of Scripture which favor the doctrine that men have nothing to do but to believe and trust in Christ, are madness or impiety. The impression which God seeks to make on our minds from the beginning of Genesis to the end of Revelation is, that if we would have His favor and blessing, we must do His will. The whole Bible is one great lesson of piety and virtue, of love and beneficence. Christ is "the Author of eternal salvation to those" only "who obey Him." Those who obey Him not He will punish with everlasting destruction. Christ and His Apostles agree that, if we would see God and have eternal life, we must be "holy as God is holy," "merciful as our Father in heaven is merciful," "righteous as Christ was righteous;"—that God, who is love, and Christ, who is God, must dwell in us, live in us, work in us;—that carnal, sinful self must die, and "grace reign in us through righteousness unto eternal life."