Make me, by thy transforming love, Dear Saviour, daily more like Thee.

And while the blessed process of transformation is going on, keep me, O Thou Friend and Saviour of mankind, from every evil word and deed, and from every great and grievous error.

Explanation Fifth. Theology and Theologians.

If any think I have been too severe in my remarks on theology and theologians, and on the preachers who mock their hearers with theological vanities, and puzzle them with their senseless theological dialect, let them read the remarks of the Rev. Joseph Parker, D. D., G. Gilfillan, Albert Barnes, John Wesley, Richard Baxter, and others on this subject. Quotations from their writings may be found farther on in the volume. We would give a few of their remarks here, but we must now hasten on with our story.



CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY CONTINUED. WHAT FOLLOWED EXPULSION. DESPERATE WORD FIGHTING. ABUSE.

I was expelled on a Saturday afternoon. I was unable to stay till the closing scene, as I had an engagement to preach anniversary sermons on the Sunday, some thirty miles away. But the news soon reached me, and I received it with strange and indescribable emotions. I felt that something very important had happened,—that I was placed in a new and serious position, and was entering on a new and untried way of life; but I little dreamt what the results would be. I expected an eventful future, but not the kind of future that was really waiting for me. I anticipated trials, and sorrows, and great changes; but how strangely different the realities have proved from what I anticipated in my fevered dreams! But I had strong faith in God, and a firm trust in His all-perfect Providence, and no one saw me tremble or turn pale.

I had not been expelled long when I found myself face to face with a terrible host of trials. Some who had promised to stand by my side took fright, and left me to my fate. Some found their interests were endangered by their attachment to me, and fell away. Some were influenced by the threats of their masters, and some by the tears and entreaties of their kindred, and reluctantly joined the ranks of my enemies. Some thought I should have yielded a point or two, and were vexed at what they called my obstinacy. There were fearful and melancholy changes. People who had always heretofore received me with smiles of welcome, now looked cold and gloomy. Some raged, some wept, and some embraced me with unspeakable tenderness; while some wished me dead, and said it had been better for me if I had never been born.

One man, a person of considerable influence, who had encouraged me in my movements, and joined me in lamenting the shortcomings of the Connexion, and in condemning the conduct of my opponents, no sooner saw that I was doomed, than he sent me a most unfeeling letter. I met the postman and got the letter in the street, and read it as I walked along. It pained me terribly, but it comforted me to think that it had not fallen into the hands of my delicate and sensitive wife. That no other eye might see it, and no other soul be afflicted with the treachery and cruelty of the writer, I tore it in pieces, and threw it into the Tyne, and kept the matter a secret from those whose souls it might have shocked too rudely for endurance.

Another man, who had said to me a short time before my expulsion, that whoever else might close their doors against me, his would always be open, proved as faithless as the basest. I called one day at his shop. As soon as he saw me, he turned away his eyes, and stood motionless and speechless behind the counter, as if agitated with painful and unutterable passion. I saw his family move hurriedly from the room behind the shop to another room, as if afraid lest I should step forward into their presence. The man kept his door open sure enough, his shop door; but his heart was closed, and he never spoke to me more as long as he lived.

One day I went with a brother of mine to the house of a tradesman near Gateshead, a member and a leading man in the New Connexion, on a matter of business. As soon as the person saw me, he began to abuse me in a very extravagant manner. I had always had a favorable opinion of the man, and I quietly answered, "I can excuse your severity; for you no doubt are acting conscientiously." "That is more than I believe you are doing," he answered, and turned away.

There was great excitement throughout the whole Connexion. And while many were transported with rage, great numbers took my part. The feeling in my favor was both strong and very general. One-third of the whole Connexion probably separated from my opponents, and formed themselves into a new society. Several ministers joined them, and had not the chapels been secured to the Conference, it is probable that the greater portion of the community would have seceded. As it was, the existence of the Body seemed in peril, and the leaders found it necessary to strain every nerve to save it from utter destruction.

And they were not particular as to the means they used. Before my expulsion even my enemies had considered me a virtuous, godly man, and acknowledged me to be a most laborious and successful minister. Now they fabricated and circulated all manner of slanderous reports respecting me. One day they gave it out that I had broken my teetotal pledge, and had been taken up drunk out of the gutter, and wheeled home in a wheelbarrow. Then it was discovered that I had not broken my pledge, but I had been seen nibbling a little Spanish juice, so it was said I was eating opium, and killing myself as fast as the poison could destroy me.

At another time it was said I had gone stark mad, and had been smothered to death between two beds. A friend came, pale and dismally sorrowful, to condole with my wife on the dreadful catastrophe, and was himself almost mad with delight when he found that I was in the parlor writing, as well and as sane as usual.

Then it was reported that I had applied for a place in the ministry among the Calvinists, though I had up to that time professed views at variance with Calvinism, and had even objected to be a hired minister. When I called for the names of the parties to whom I had made the offer, and engaged to give a large reward if my slanderers would produce them, they found it was another Joseph that had applied for the place, and not Joseph Barker. But the death of one slander seemed to be the birth of two or three fresh ones. And sometimes opposite slanders sprang up together. "If he had been a good man," said one, "he would have stopped in the Connexion quietly, and waited for reform!" "If he had been an honest man," said another, "he would have left the Connexion long ago, and not remained in a community that he thought in error." I had been "too hasty" for one, and "too slow" for another. One wrote to assure me that I should die a violent death in less than eighteen months. Another said he foresaw me lying on my death-bed, with Satan sitting on my breast, ready to carry away my soul to eternal torments. One sent me a number of my pamphlets blotted and torn, packed up with a piece of wood, for the carriage of which I was charged from four to five shillings. Another sent me a number of my publications defaced in another way, with offensive enclosures that do not admit of description.

At one time it was reported that I had died suddenly at Leeds. "After lecturing there one night," the story said, "a certain person got upon the platform to oppose me, and I was so frightened, that I first turned pale, then fainted, and in two hours breathed my last." I was preaching at Penrith, in Cumberland, some seventy or eighty miles away, at the time I was said to have died at Leeds.

Some weeks later it was rumored that I had destroyed myself at Otley. The maker of the tale in this case had been very particular, and given his story the appearance of great truthfulness. He said I had gone to lecture at Otley, and on my arrival there, was found to be more than usually thoughtful and depressed. I lectured with my usual freedom and power, but seemed oppressed with some mysterious sorrow. After the lecture, instead of going along with my host, I unaccountably disappeared, and though my friends sought for me and inquired for me all about the town, I was nowhere to be found. In the morning, as the son of my host was seeking for some cows in a wood on the side of the Chevin, he found me dead and cold, with my throat cut, and the razor in my hand with which I had done the deadly deed. The news soon spread, and my body was taken back to Otley, where an inquest was held. The verdict was that I had died by my own hand, in a fit of temporary insanity.

These stories were printed and published, and circulated through the whole country. They were shouted aloud in the street opposite my own door, in the hearing of my wife and family, during my absence. At first my wife and children were terribly alarmed when they heard men crying, "The melancholy death of Mr. Joseph Barker." But they got so used to me dying and destroying myself in time, that they took such matters more calmly, especially as I always came again, and appeared no worse for the terrible deaths through which I had been made to pass.

For a year or two my enemies published a periodical called The Beacon, every page of which they filled with malignant slanders. The loss of members exasperated them past measure. The danger which threatened the Connexion drove them mad. They took up evil reports respecting me without consideration. They looked on all I did with an evil eye, and recklessly charged me with wicked devices which had no existence but in their own disturbed imaginations. One charged me with having acted inconsistently with my views with regard to the use of money, and another with having acted inconsistently with my belief with regard to baptism. Any tale to my discredit was welcome, and the supply of slanderous tales seemed infinite. They wrested my words, they belied my deeds, they misinterpreted my motives, they misrepresented the whole course of my life, and the whole texture of my character.

One of the pitiful slanders circulated by my enemies was the following. My custom was, when I went out to lecture, or to preach anniversary sermons, to charge only my coach fares, rendering my services gratis. For eighteen years I never charged a penny either for preaching or lecturing. But the people of Berry Brow, near Huddersfield, said I had charged them thirty shillings for preaching their anniversary sermons, and the Conference party took the trouble to spread the contemptible charge through the Connexion.

The facts of the case were these: I had an engagement to preach anniversary sermons at Hanley, in the Staffordshire Potteries. The Berry Brow people heard of this, and as I had to pass their place on my way to Hanley, they requested me to spend a Sabbath with them, and preach their anniversary sermons. I did so, and charged them thirty shillings, about one-third of the expenses of my journey, taking the other two-thirds from the Hanley people. This was all.

Of course such matters would not be worth naming, if it were not to show how much there was in the conduct of my persecutors to give me a dislike to their character, and to prejudice me against their views.

That you may have an idea of my labors as a preacher, take the following account of one week's work, when I was lecturing against the infidel Socialists, previous to my expulsion. I had preached three times on the Sunday, walked six miles, and attended to several other duties. At half past ten at night I started by stage coach for Bolton, a hundred and fifty miles away. I travelled all night, and all next day, outside the coach. It was winter, and the weather was very cold. About six in the evening I reached Bolton. At half past seven I began my lecture, in a place crowded almost to suffocation. After the lecture, I had an hour and a half's debate. Between eleven and twelve I went to bed. I spent next day mostly in writing. At half past seven I began my second lecture, with a congregation more closely packed than the night before. The lecture was followed with a somewhat longer debate. This continued five nights. On Friday night I got to bed about twelve. At half past two I started in an open gig for Manchester, twelve miles off. The morning was very cold. There was a severe frost and a thick fog. At Manchester I took the coach for Newcastle, and I rode outside all day, until half past ten at night. The Sunday following I preached three times again. And in this way I labored for nearly two years. I paid all my own expenses. I also engaged and paid a person to preach for me, and to attend to my other duties in the circuit, during the week. If there was a loss at my meetings I bore it myself; never asking any one for aid. And at times I had heavy losses. At Manchester once, after giving five lectures, I was eleven pounds out of pocket. At Birmingham I had a loss of thirty-seven pounds on five lectures. That was about the hardest week I ever had. My tongue got rather white. My food lost its relish. My thoughts kept me awake after I lay down in bed sometimes, and sometimes awoke me after I had gone to sleep. I caught myself drawing long breaths at times. Money came into my head at prayer, though none came into my pocket. I did not even ask for that. I met with Combe's work on digestion and read it, but it did not help me much, either in digesting my food, or my heavy loss. But I made no complaints. I did not even tell my wife till long after, when I was prosperous and comfortable again. And none of those who heard my lectures, saw in me any sign of discouragement. I lectured to my small audience as earnestly as if the vast amphitheatre had been crowded. And I paid the whole loss out of my own pocket, asking help from neither stranger nor friend.

Just about this time Mr. Hulme, the son-in-law of my chief persecutor, set afloat a story that I was getting immensely rich by my lectures, and demanded that I should hand over my gains to the Connexional funds. I could hardly help wishing that he had been compelled to take one-half of my Manchester and Birmingham gains.

I never charged more than two-pence, I seldom charged more than a penny, for admission to my lectures: but such were the crowds that attended, and such was the readiness of my friends in different places to help me without charge, that in nine cases out of ten I had a surplus. I had forty pounds in hand with which to pay the loss of thirty-seven at Birmingham. Besides, I sold large quantities of my pamphlets, and they yielded me a profit, though I sold my works eighty or ninety per cent. cheaper than my envious brethren sold theirs.

After my expulsion I worked harder than I had done before. The following is only a part of one week's work. I preached three times on the Sunday; twice to immense crowds in the open air. The time between the three meetings I spent in talking, writing, and walking. I walked fifteen miles. On Monday I wrote a lengthy article for my periodical, the Christian Investigator. At night I lectured to a crowded audience, and had a three hours' discussion after. About one I got to bed. At five I was up to take the coach to Manchester. At Manchester I carried a heavy pack two miles to the railway station. I went by train to Sandbach, then walked about twenty-three miles to Longton, carrying my carpet bag, and some thirty pounds weight of books, on my shoulder. It was a hot day in June. At Longton I preached an hour and a quarter to about five thousand people in the open air, and had a lengthy discussion after. How I slept, I forget. I believe I was feverish through the night. In the morning my nose bled freely, and I was better. I walked six, eight, or ten miles daily, carrying my bag and books along with me, and preaching, or lecturing and discussing, every night. I did this daily for weeks, and months, and years. And I never charged a penny for my labors. And I had no salary. I supported myself and my family by the sale of my cheap publications.

Yet one of the slanders circulated by my enemies was, as I said, that I acted inconsistently with my published views on the use of money. I taught, as Wesley had taught, and as Jesus and Paul had taught, that a man should not lay up for himself treasures on earth,—that money was a trust from God, to be used in His service, for the good of mankind. And I acted on these principles. I did not lay up a penny for myself on earth. I employed all I received in doing good, hardly spending enough on myself and family to purchase the barest necessaries. But my enemies found I had placed fifty pounds on interest, in the hands of Mr. Townsend; and away went the charge of inconsistency, hypocrisy, and what not, through the country. There was no inconsistency at all in what I had done.

It was a principle with me, never to go into debt. And my plan was, never to begin to print a book, till I had, in the first place, got the money ready to pay the expense of printing, and, in the second place, reconciled myself to lose the money in case the book did not sell. At the time I placed the fifty pounds in the hands of Mr. T., I was preparing to print a book that would cost me thrice that amount. I did print it, and paid the expense in cash, according to my principles and plan. I follow the same plan still: my printers like it; and so do I. I owed a dollar and a half at the close of last year. The thought of it troubled me, not much, but still a little, during the watch-night services at Siloam church. I had only owed the sum ten hours, and I paid it next morning, but still, the thought of the debt made the ending of the old year, and the beginning of the new one, a trifle less happy than they might have been, if I had been entirely straight with all the world.

In some cases, when I went out to lecture, the leading ministers of the Connexion would come to my meetings, and exciting discussions followed. These injured the Connexion still more, for I invariably gained the sympathy of the audience. On some occasions my enemies behaved in such a manner as to provoke my audiences past endurance, and uproar followed; and the greatest coolness on my part, and the employment of all my influence, were necessary to keep the more excitable of my friends from resorting to violence.

Very curious incidents took place sometimes, strangely confounding my opponents, and making the impression on my friends, and on myself as well, that God had specially interfered on my behalf. On more than one occasion, when discreditable tales were told of me by my opponents, some one in the audience who knew the facts, would rise and testify in my behalf, and publicly convict my slanderers of falsehood. In one case, at Dudley, Mr. Bakewell, who had always taken a leading part against me, charged me before a crowded audience, with having baptized a child of certain parents, at Hawarden in Wales, a hundred miles away, after I had declared my belief that it was improper to baptize children. He adduced some testimony in support of his statement, which seemed to satisfy many in the audience that I had been guilty of inconsistency. What could I do? I had nothing to oppose to his testimony and his pretended proofs, but my solemn denial of the statement. Most happily for me, as soon as my opponent took his seat, a lady rose, towards the farther end of the room, with a baby in her arms. "I wish to speak," said the lady. The people near her helped her to step upon a seat, that she might be seen and heard to better advantage. "I am the mother referred to by Mr. Bakewell," said the lady, "and this is the child. Mr. Bakewell's statement is untrue. Mr. Barker did not sprinkle my child. He only named it, and asked God's blessing on it. Here is my husband, and he can testify to the truth of this statement." The lady stepped down and the husband rose. "I am the Richard Burrows mentioned by Mr. Bakewell. This is my wife, and that is our child. Mr. Barker did not baptize it. Mr. Bakewell's statement is false." That settled the question. The feeling against my slanderer was tremendous. The people would not hear him speak another word.

It had so happened that Mr. and Mrs. Burrows had been obliged to remove from Wales to the neighborhood of Dudley, and had just arrived at their new home. Hearing that I was lecturing at Dudley, they hastened to the meeting, and got there just in time to hear my opponent mention their names in support of his charge of inconsistency. What could be more natural than that I and my friends should regard this remarkable and happy incident as a gracious interposition of Providence in our behalf?

The conduct of my opponents had a most injurious effect not only on my own mind, but on the minds of my wife and children. We came to look on New Connexion Methodist preachers as some of the worst of men,—as the very essence or embodiment of deceit and malignity; and our respect for Methodist preachers generally, and even for Methodism itself, was greatly abated. The consequence was, we were prepared to move in almost any direction that would take us farther away from our old associates, and we all became, to some extent, anti-Methodistical in our feelings and sentiments.

Exciting meetings like the one at Dudley took place in almost every part of the country. The numbers attending them were so great that no room could hold them, so that I generally had to speak in the open air. And I lectured almost every night, and often through the day as well; and every lecture was followed with discussion. When opponents did not rise to assail me, friends rose to consult me, and our evening meetings often continued till nearly midnight. And I preached three times on a Sunday. And after every meeting there was a crowd of friends anxious to talk with me, or have my counsel about the formation or management of societies. Some had heard strange stories about me, and wanted to know whether they were true or not. Others had had discussions with opponents, and wished to tell me how they had fared. Some had been puzzled with passages of Scripture quoted by opponents, and they wished to know my views of their meaning. Some were sick, and wanted my prayers. Some wanted prescriptions as well as prayers, and I was obliged to be a physician as well as a preacher and reformer. Reports of cures wrought by my means led many to believe I had the gift of healing, and sufferers sought my aid wherever I made my appearance.

While one-half of each day was taken up with talking, another half was taken up with writing. I had hundreds of letters to write, and hundreds upon hundreds of all kinds of letters to read. I had, besides, a new periodical on hand, for which I was expected to provide the principal part of the articles. And special attacks on me or on my views required a constant succession of pamphlets.

In addition to my press of work, I had no small share of anxiety. My wife was greatly tried, and saw no prospect of a speedy end to her trials. When expelled I was living in the preacher's house, and had the preacher's furniture, and many in the circuit considered that I had a right to them, and advised me to keep them, and set the Conference partly at defiance. I however refused to retain possession of property with a doubtful title, and gave all up. And now I had not a chair on which to sit, nor a bed on which to sleep. And the little money I had was wanted for the printers. My friends provided for me in a way, but not in the way to satisfy an anxious mother. One child was taken by one family, and another by another, while I and my wife were accommodated by a third. And one of the children was unkindly treated, and the rest were not content; and no house could be a home to my wife which was not her own; and no condition could make her content while deprived of the company of her children. And I saw her heart was the seat of fearful conflicts.

For several months I went through my arduous and ceaseless labors, and my varied and exhausting trials, without apparent injury to my health. At length, however, continual excitement, intense thought, ceaseless anxiety, the foul air of close and crowded rooms, perpetual travelling, loss of sleep, lack of domestic comforts, unhealthy food, and trials of other kinds without end, so exhausted me, that I found it difficult to rise from my chair, or to steady myself on my feet. To walk was quite a task,—a really painful one. I had a difficulty in putting one foot before the other. It was a labor to drag myself along. A walk of two or three miles quite wearied me. And when I got to my journey's end, my lungs lacked power to utter words; my brain lacked energy to supply thoughts; and lecturing and preaching became a weariness. When I sat down to write, my pen seemed reluctant to touch the paper. My mind shrank back from its task. In my ignorance of the laws of life, I charged myself with idleness, and tried to spur myself on to renewed activity. The attempt was vain. One afternoon I ventured to lie down and treat myself to an after-dinner nap. I slept three hours. I had no engagement that night, and feeling still unaccountably sleepy, I slipped off to bed about eight o'clock. I slept till nearly nine next morning. I slept an hour or two more after dinner. At night I slept about ten hours more. Next day I felt as if my strength was running over. I could do anything. My pen seemed to point to the paper of itself, as if anxious to be writing. Walking was a pleasure. I could preach or lecture without effort. Words, thoughts, and feelings were all at hand to do my bidding. What I had charged on myself as idleness, was strengthlessness, the result of sheer exhaustion.

I had suffered so much from the intolerance of my old colleagues, that I now resolved to be subject to no authority whatever but God and my own conscience. And I kept my resolution. I would neither rule nor be ruled. The extreme of priestly tyranny, from which I had suffered so grievously, had begotten in me the extreme of religious license. I have seen since, that a man may have too much liberty, as well as too little; too little restraint as well as too much; and that a church without authority and discipline must inevitably lose itself in confusion and ruin. We are none of us fit for unlimited liberty: we all need the supervision, and counsels, and admonitions, of our Christian brethren.

After my separation from the Methodist New Connexion I became the pastor of a church in Newcastle, which had left the Connexion on account of my expulsion. The trustees had legal and rightful possession of the large and nice new chapel there, and they and the other officials of the church were both dissatisfied with the doings of Conference, and desirous to secure me as their minister. They were aware of my admiration of the Quakers, and of my leaning towards some of their peculiar views and customs. They were also acquainted with my way of preaching, for I had travelled in that Circuit some years before, and I had preached for them frequently while stationed at Gateshead. They knew my character too, and were acquainted with all my conflicts with the ruling party in the Connexion from which I had been expelled. And though they did not think exactly as I thought on every point, they saw nothing in my views but what they could freely tolerate. They were satisfied that I was conscientious; and they considered my general deportment to be highly exemplary. And they knew I was a hard-working and successful minister. One of the leading members was a printer, and had been consulted by the Annual Committee of the New Connexion in reference to my communications to them about the publication of cheap books by the Book-room. They thought my statements were extravagant; he told them they were very near the truth, if not the truth itself. This gentleman was one of the most eager now to arrange for my settlement as a minister in Newcastle. The officers and members of the church generally were disposed to consult my feelings and meet my views. They did not require me to be a hired or salaried minister. They knew the wants of my family, and they would provide for them. They would appoint a person to baptize children. They were not particular about theological niceties. They had read my writings; they were acquainted with the controversies that had taken place between me and my opponents; and they were satisfied that I was right on every point of importance; and that was enough. And they liked my simple, earnest, practical style of preaching. So everything was comfortably arranged.

We united on the principle laid down in my article on "Toleration, Human Creeds," &c. The Bible was our creed: the Bible was our law-book; though we were still, on the whole, methodistical, both in doctrine and discipline. Numbers of other churches were organized on the same principle, in various parts of the country; and several young preachers left the body to which I had belonged, or were expelled on account of their attachment to me, and became their ministers. And the churches prospered. Numbers of people joined them, both from the world and from other religious communities.

For nearly two years things went on very happily at Newcastle, and the church was very prosperous. I labored to the utmost extent of my powers. I preached twice every Sunday to my own congregation, and once to another congregation at Gateshead, or in the country. I visited the churches also in every part of the land, preaching and lecturing continually.

All this time my old opponents continued their abuse. Though I relinquished no Christian doctrine, and added to the truth no dreams or speculations of my own, but employed myself continually in preaching the great practical principles of the Gospel, and in urging my hearers to love and good works, they assailed me with the bitterest hatred. And the more the churches with which I was connected prospered, the more furiously my enemies raged.

And when people left other denominations to unite with my friends, ministers and members of those denominations joined my opponents in their evil work. They preached abusive sermons and published abusive pamphlets. There was eager, angry controversy on every hand. Hard words were used on both sides. The feelings of both parties were heated to a high pitch. And as is usual in such cases, both parties, under the influence of their passions, came to the conclusion that their opponents were neither sound in doctrine, nor good in character.

Towards the close of the second year I got into trouble at Newcastle. A religious reformer of the name of George Bird came to the town. His father was a clergyman in the Church of England, and he himself was rector of Cumberworth. He was recommended to me by some of my friends who lived near Cumberworth, and as he was wishful to spend some time in Newcastle and the neighborhood, I took him into my house, and gave him a home. He had published a book on the Reform of the Church of England, urging the abolition of a number of abuses, and recommending the restoration of what he considered true Christian discipline. His idea was, that Christians should meet for religious worship apart from people of the world,—that though preachers might preach to mixed audiences, they should reserve their singing and praying, and all that was strictly worship, for assemblies of Christians alone. He recommended that the members of the church should meet first, in a place apart, or in a part of the chapel marked off for themselves, and go through their devotions all alone, and that the sermon, addressed both to believers and unbelievers, should be quite a separate service. He had passages of Scripture, and church tradition, and considerations of fitness and propriety, by which he recommended his doctrine, and to some they proved convincing. I began myself, after thinking the matter over for awhile, to have a leaning towards his views. My friends could so far tolerate the new views, that they allowed Mr. Bird to preach in their chapels, letting some one else conduct the singing and praying parts of the service. But when they found that their own minister began to look with favor on the new plan, they became alarmed. They could tolerate peculiarities in others, but they were not disposed to appear before the world as reformers and innovators themselves. Nor would they allow their minister to go any farther in the way of reform than he had gone before they had accepted him as their pastor. They had reconciled themselves to the changes of which he had been the subject previous to his special connection with them, but they would have no new ones. He might go back a little if he pleased, but not forwards.

Both my friends and I were placed in a trying position. I was bent on compliance with whatever seemed to be the requirements of the Gospel, and my friends, who had no misgivings on the subject of public worship, were resolved not to tolerate a change. I kept the usual course as long as I could do so without self-condemnation, but at length was constrained to change. One Sunday night I preached from the concluding words of the Sermon on the Mount,—"Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of Mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these sayings of Mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it." I reviewed the sayings of Christ referred to in the text. I dwelt at some length on the passage about praying in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets. The congregation was very large, and the sermon was unusually impressive. Some said they had never heard me preach with so much power. As I drew towards a close, I referred again to the words on public prayer, and gave what appeared to me to be their meaning. I remarked, that I felt bound to comply with what I believed to be the command of the Saviour, and that I must therefore decline to conclude the service in the usual way, by a public prayer, and request the disciples of Christ to retire to their homes and secret places to pray.

The result was exceedingly painful. The confusion was dreadful. Some, who had never thought on the subject before, and who had probably listened to me that evening without comprehending properly my meaning, were horrified. The officers of the church, who had accepted me as their minister in the belief that I should never try them by anything new in my views or proceedings, were grieved beyond measure. One of them said to me at a meeting the following evening: "You have committed a crime, compared with which the sin of him who betrayed his Lord for silver, was honor and piety!" This, of course, was madness, if not blasphemy. But it helps to show the fearful difficulties that lie in the way of the man who feels himself called to be a religious reformer. And it tends to show the tempest of excitement in which, for so long a period, it was my lot to live.

The result of this last step in my reforming career was, that almost all the richer and more influential members of the church deserted me, and some even of the less influential followed their example. This however did not change my determination to do what I believed to be the will of God. Nor did it dispose me to hesitate longer before making changes when they seemed to be called for by the teachings of Christ. On the contrary, it led me to resolve, that I would hold myself more at liberty to follow the revelations of truth and duty than ever. I blamed myself for having accepted the situation of a regular minister, blamed myself for having allowed myself to be influenced so much by a regard to the judgments and feelings of others. I felt a kind of pleasure at length, when I found the leading friends who had held me so much in check, were gone. I attributed their departure to my fidelity to Christ, and to my growing conformity to His likeness; and I resolved to labor more than ever to come to the perfection of Christian manhood, "to the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ." I comforted myself with the thought that Jesus had been deserted, betrayed, and persecuted, before me; and felt happy in the assurance, that if I "suffered with Him, I should also be glorified with Him."

I now resolved to speak and write and act more freely than ever. I would no longer keep my thoughts to myself till I was thoroughly convinced of their truth, but submit them to the consideration of my friends as soon as they assumed the appearance of probability. I would think aloud. I would search to the bottom of all things, and make known the result without reserve. I would favor a free and fearless discussion of every subject. And I would reduce to practice everything inculcated by Christ and His Apostles, however much at variance it might be with the customs of the Church. I would rid myself of prejudice. I would take nothing on trust. Old things should now, at last, pass away, unless they were found to form part of the doctrine of Christ; and all things should become new. And what I purposed, I did, to the best of my ability. I arranged for meetings of the church, at which we sang and prayed, and endeavored to instruct and comfort one another, and provoke each other to love and good works. When this church meeting was over, I ascended the pulpit, and addressed the public congregation. We changed the manner of conducting class-meetings, encouraging the members to read hymns, or portions of Scripture, or extracts from any instructive book, or to speak to each other for comfort or improvement. I would be no longer the teacher of the church, but only one of its teachers.

That I might be able to support my family without the aid of the church, and so feel myself thoroughly free and independent, I resolved to commence business as a printer. I bought a press, and type, and all the other requisites of a printing-office, and set to work. Elizabeth Pease, a good kind Quakeress of Darlington, gave me thirty pounds to help me in my undertaking, and others, nearer at hand, assisted me according to their ability. I engaged a man to work for me, and teach me how to work myself, for I was quite a stranger to the business. I soon was able both to set up type and work the press, though the pressure of other work prevented me from excelling in either of those lines. Before long I had two men at work. But my workmen were not so faithful as they should have been, and it cost me more to print my works myself, than it had done to get them printed by others. I got a foreman, but he used my office to carry on a business of his own, instead of doing what he could for mine, and I was obliged to turn him off, and pay him a considerable sum to keep him from troubling me with a law-suit. A short time after, a very unpromising-looking young man came and asked me for a place in my printing establishment. He was hardly a young man, in fact, but just a half-taught random-looking kind of boy. I asked what he could do. To my unspeakable astonishment he told me that the place he wanted was that of foreman. I smiled, and looked on the poor creature as a simpleton. But though he seemed a little disconcerted, he was not to be abashed. He told me, that if I would give him a trial, he would let me see whether he could manage the office or not. "But how can you manage the men?" said I. Nothing however would satisfy the poor boy but a trial, and I, under some kind of influence, agreed to give him one. What the men thought when he took his place, I don't know; but they seemed to act on the principle, that as I had made him foreman, they must obey his orders; and obey him they did, and to my agreeable surprise, everything went on in a satisfactory manner. The youthful foreman, who turned out to be a sensible, modest, hard-working, honest young man, did well from the first, and improved every year, and remained with me, giving satisfaction both to me and to my men, so long as I continued in business.

I had many fearful trials to pass through after I offended the leading members of my congregation by giving up singing and prayer at public meetings, and a heavy loss entailed on me by the dishonesty of one of those leading members was not the least.

Ever since the time when I first became an author, I had acted as my own publisher and bookseller, sending out parcels to my friends, keeping accounts, and doing the whole work of a Book-room. When I engaged to be minister of the church in Newcastle, and became servant of the newly-formed churches all over the country, Mr. Blackwell, the printer referred to on page 175, advised me to put the book-selling business into the hands of Mr. Townsend, another leading official of the church. "You have work enough," said he, "and too much, in preaching, lecturing, writing, and travelling, and Mr. Townsend can do the book-selling better than you. He is a business man; he understands book-keeping; and he will conduct the business in an orderly and efficient manner." It had always been a principle with me never to go into debt, and I said to Mr. Blackwell, who was then my printer, "If you will give me a guarantee that no debt shall be incurred,—that you will never print anything till Mr. Townsend has paid you for all work previously printed, I will agree to your proposal." He gave me his word that he would do exactly as I requested. Mr. Townsend was accordingly made wholesale agent for my new periodical, and for all my other publications, and all my stock of books was placed in his hands. For fifteen or eighteen months I gave myself no concern about matters of business, trusting to Mr. Blackwell to keep things right, according to his pledge.

Mr. Townsend had another business besides my book concern, the china and earthenware business, and about eighteen months after my business was placed in his hands, he went into Scotland to dispose of a quantity of his surplus stock. He had only been gone a few days before word came that he was dead. It then came out that Mr. Blackwell had allowed him to run up a debt of nearly seven hundred pounds for printing. It also came out that Mr. Townsend was insolvent. He had been in difficulties for years, and he had used the money he had received for my books to prevent his creditors from making him a bankrupt. His journey to Scotland was his last shift, and failing in that, he had taken opiates, it was said, to such an extent, as to cause death. The dreadful revelations that were laid before me shocked and troubled me beyond measure, and I knew not what to do. Mr. Blackwell, through whose neglect or unfaithfulness the debt had been incurred, exhorted me not to be alarmed, assuring me that he should never trouble me for the money. So I set to work to gather up the fragments of my property, and re-organize the business. I got in what money I could from the agents, and gave it, along with all I could earn, to Mr. Blackwell, to reduce the debt, though it was not in reality a debt of mine. I gave him also a sum belonging to my wife, which she had just received as a legacy. I gave him all that came into my hands, except a trifle that I spent in procuring food for my family; and in eight months I had reduced the debt to two hundred and thirty pounds.

It was while I was exerting myself to pay off this debt that I offended the leaders of my congregation by giving up public worship. The person who said that in doing so, "I had been guilty of a crime, compared with which that of Judas in selling his Master, was honor and piety," was this same Mr. Blackwell. When I began to print for myself, he demanded the instant payment of the remaining two hundred and thirty pounds, and followed the demand by legal proceedings. A friend, Mr. John Hindhaugh, who had heard how I was situated, and who had also heard that Mr. Blackwell had said that he would soon put a stop to my printing, went and paid the amount demanded, and brought me the receipt, and said, that if ever I found myself able, I might repay him the amount, but that I must by no means put myself to any inconvenience. In course of time I repaid my friend, and was once more out of debt.

It was just while tried by this sad affair, that I formed the resolution to throw off all restraints of prevailing creeds and customs, and enter on a career of wholesale and untrammelled investigation and discussion. I was not in the fittest state of mind to do justice to the forms of Christianity in favor with the churches. On the contrary, the influences to which I had been long subjected, and the peculiar state of excitement in which I was still living, could hardly fail to carry me into extremes. No matter, I set to work. I printed thousands upon thousands of hand-bills, announcing a three months' convention and free discussion in my chapel, and had them posted and distributed all round the country. Free admission and freedom of speech were promised to all comers. Among the subjects announced for discussion were, the Trinity, the Godhead of Christ, the Atonement, Natural Depravity, Hereditary Guilt, Eternal Torments, Everlasting Destruction, Justification by Faith alone, the Nature of Saving Faith, What is a Christian? Trust in the Merits of Christ, Instantaneous Regeneration, Christian Perfection, the direct Witness of the Spirit, the Sabbath Question, Non-resistance, Peace, War, and Human Governments, Law-Suits, the Credit System, Toleration and Human Creeds, the Church, the Hired Ministry, Public Prayer, Public Worship generally, Preaching, Sunday Schools, Freedom of Thought, Freedom of Conscience, Class-Meetings, and the Duty of the Church to its Poor Members.

The chapel was kept open every day, and every day, when not called out of town, I delivered one or two lectures on one of those subjects, stating my own views on the point, and my reasons for holding them, and then calling on any one that might differ from me, to state his views in reply. The chapel was generally crowded, and the discussions were often very animated. Persons of various denominations took part in them, and people came from almost every part of the country to witness the proceedings. My principal opponent, for a portion of the time, was George Bird, the rector of Cumberworth, who had inoculated me with his views on public worship. He was very orthodox on many points, while I, on some points, was leaning towards Latitudinarianism. We had, at times, very exciting contests. Mr. Bird was exceedingly anxious to gain a victory, both for himself and for his views. And he was not particular as to the means he employed to accomplish his object. He was very unfair. He could not, or he would not, refrain from personal abuse, nor from misrepresentations of my views and statements. I was severe enough in my criticisms, but I never was knowingly, and I do not think I was often even unintentionally, unjust to an opponent. I never charged people with saying what they did not say, and I never forced a meaning on their words which they were not intended to express. And if at any time an opponent charged me with misquoting his words, or with misrepresenting his meaning, I always accepted his corrections or explanations. Nor did I indulge in personal abuse. Nor did I lose my temper. I did my utmost to be just to all, and when I could not exhibit much esteem or love for an opponent, I tried to be respectful.

The records of those long-continued and strange debates are, I am sorry to say, lost. But while they were proceeding I drifted further away, on some points, from the views maintained by orthodox communities. I am not aware however that I went much further than Wesley went during the latter years of his life. I found, not only in Scripture, but in the sermons of Wesley, and in the writings of Baxter, who was a favorite with Wesley, what seemed to me fully to justify all that I had taught on the great doctrines of Christianity up to this period.

I gave up the Christian Investigator at the end of two years, and as two of my friends were anxious to publish a periodical, I refrained for a time from commencing another, to give them a better chance of success. I also helped them by writing for them, at their request, a number of articles for the earlier numbers of their work. Their attempt however proved a failure. The work contained a heap of Antinomian and Millenarian nonsense, and my readers had no taste for such stuff; and the work was given up, and the Editors shortly after left me and my friends, and joined the Plymouth Brethren, repaying me for my kindness by treachery and abuse. One of them published a tract when he took himself away, exhorting my friends to be on their guard lest they should be led by me into anti-christian error. Their conduct towards me altogether, as I thought, was unjust and dishonorable, and though they are now both dead, I can think of no good excuse for the way in which they acted. But God is judge.

I now laid aside the name of Methodist and adopted that of Christian, and I commenced a new periodical, bearing the same title. I made it, as I had made my other periodicals, the organ of my own mind, the vehicle of my own thoughts on every subject of importance that engaged my attention. My writing was simply free and friendly talk with my readers on matters in which we were all greatly interested. And the work contains the history of the changes which took place in my views during the period of its publication.

While publishing The Christian, I published a multitude of pamphlets. In answer to a pamphlet by the Rev. W. Cooke, in which I was roughly and unjustly handled, I published seven letters entitled Truth and Reform against the World, signing myself A Christian. In these letters I spoke with the greatest freedom both of myself and of my opponents, as well as on a great variety of other subjects. I exposed a number of what seemed extravagant or unguarded statements made by my assailant with regard to the Scriptures. I also published a work on The Hired Ministry. My tracts on Saving Faith and The Atonement came out about the same time. My aim in these latter publications was to free the subject of Saving Faith and the doctrine of the Atonement from needless mystery, by separating from the teachings of Christ and the Apostles on those points, the bewildering and mischievous additions of ignorant theologians. I did not deny the doctrine of salvation by faith in Christ, but only showed that the faith in Christ spoken of in the New Testament was simply a belief in Him as the Messiah, leading us to receive and obey His teachings, and to trust in Him for salvation. Nor did I deny the doctrine of redemption or atonement; but simply endeavored to put what the New Testament said on these subjects in its true light. In most of those works, if not in all of them, there are evidences of undue excitement, and in many of them there are passages which, in one's calmer and more candid mood, one is obliged to condemn.

I extended my investigations to all religious subjects, endeavoring to bring my views and proceedings on every point into perfect harmony with the teachings of Christ and His Apostles. I also did my best, in connection with my friends, to carry into practice in our church at Newcastle what we regarded as the New Testament principles of discipline and church government. The following were among our regulations:—We would have no fixed payments. All must be given freely. There must be no charge for admission to the church feasts. We would support our poor members. We would deal with offenders according to the instructions of Christ: first, tell them of their faults between them and us alone, &c., &c.

We encountered many difficulties in our attempts to carry out some of our principles. Some, that were able to contribute, were too selfish to do so, and left the expenses of the church to be met by the generous few. They would eat like gluttons at the church feasts, but give nothing towards paying for the provisions. Some seemed to enter the church to get supported in idleness out of its funds. This seemed to be the case especially with a blind beggar. He spared no pains in making known his connection with the church, and its generosity in supporting him, to the public. This brought in a number of others who were wishful to be supported. But many of these people, after joining the church, refused to work. It was plain that we must either give up the attempt to carry out our generous principles, or else adopt some method of testing people before admitting them as members, and some wise system of discipline and government with regard to those already admitted. But we had said so much about unlimited liberty, that we could do neither the one nor the other without breaking up the church and building it up anew; and it seemed too late to do that. So we dragged along as well as we could. Some lost patience, and went to other churches. Some came to the conclusion that Christianity as laid down in the New Testament was impracticable, and so became skeptical. Some kept aloof from all the churches, but still retained their faith in Christianity, and their attachment to the principles to which we had given prominence.

At one period I lectured frequently on Peace. The Quakers aided me in obtaining rooms for my lectures, and supplied me with money to pay my travelling expenses; and the Backhouses and Peases of Darlington, and the Richardsons and others of Newcastle, contributed to the support of my family. I met with some of the best and most agreeable people I ever knew, among the Quakers. Many of them were remarkably liberal and enlightened in their views, not only on religion, but on many other subjects. I was astonished at the extent of their reading, and at the amount of knowledge they possessed. And they had a wonderful amount of charity towards other religious denominations. They believed the churches were doing much good, and rejoiced in their usefulness, though they could not always join them in their labors. I also found that in their dealings with each other, they were exceedingly conscientious. One Friend had recommended another, a lady, to invest her money in some mining speculation, which he believed was likely to prove profitable. She did so, and lost her money, or received no interest from it. The Friend who had counselled the investment, took the shares, and returned the lady her money. This, I believe, was not a thing by itself, but a sample of Quaker dealings with each other. I learned some useful lessons from the Quakers, and I received from them many favors. I retain many pleasant recollections of my intercourse with them, and expect to think of them with pleasure to my dying day.

After I ceased to receive a salary for preaching, I and my family were often in straits, and at times we seemed on the very verge of starvation. My printing business did not pay its own expenses at first, and for several years after it began to yield a profit, the profit was required for new presses, new type, or had to lie dead in the shape of increased stock of publications. And I had no income from property. Yet in every case when we seemed to be reduced to extremities, supplies came from some quarter or other. Sometimes I knew the hand by which assistance was sent, but at other times my benefactors remained unknown. There was one good Christian, John Donaldson, who was always ready with his help. He not only aided me by many gifts, but busied himself to induce his friends to send mo aid. He gave the first subscription towards a steam press; and when the press was bought, he sent a sum to purchase the first load of coals to get up the steam, to put the press in motion.

On one occasion, while I was lecturing in the South, nearly two hundred miles away from home, I failed to receive the supplies I expected from the agents for my publications, and my family seemed likely to be out of provisions before I could send them help. My wife and children had begun to feel uneasy and afraid. That day a man came up to the door with a cart-load of provisions. "Does Mr. Barker live here?" said the man to my eldest son, who had answered the knock at the door. "Yes," answered my son. "I have brought you some things," said the man, "some flour, and potatoes, and things." "They are not for us," said the poor little fellow, "my father is away." "But this is Mr. Barker's, is it not?" said the man. "Yes," said my son, "Then it is all right," said the man, "I was told to leave them here," and he began to unload. Both children and mother were afraid there was some mistake, but the man went on unloading, and stocked the house with food for weeks to come.

A day or two before, my wife and children had been talking to each other, and expressing their apprehensions, as I had not been able to send them any money, that they would soon be without anything to eat. One of the children said, 'Let us pray, mother: perhaps God will send us something.' They all knelt down, and both mother and children prayed: and when they saw the abundant supplies with which the cart had stocked the house, they believed that God had sent them in answer to their prayers.

I refused to buy paper, or type, or anything, on credit, and I was often at a loss, when my stock of paper was almost out, to know where the money was to come from to get a fresh supply. And I had not so much faith as G. Mueller of Bristol; at any rate, my faith did not give me the same pleasant assurances that I should receive what I desired, that Mueller's faith gave him. I am inclined however to think that I had not so much trust in Providence, as I ought to have had. I certainly had not so much as I have now. But then, I am better off now than I was then. But I was lacking, to some extent, in Christian trust in God, as well as in resignation to His will, and hence my uneasiness. Many a time when I laid myself down on my bed at night, instead of going to sleep, I spent long hours in thought about my business, looking in every direction for a prospect of supplies to enable me to pay the wages of my men, and purchase paper. The first thing was to think of all the men that owed me money,—to consider which of all the number would be likely to send me remittances in time, and to reckon up the sums, to see if they would enable me to meet the demands upon me. The next thing was to do the same thing over again; and the next, to do it over again a third time. All this was accompanied with long and deep-drawn sighs, which were listened to by a fond and wakeful bedfellow, who silently sympathized with me in all my trials, and who was as restless and anxious as myself. Sometimes I moaned, and sometimes I prayed; and when I was wearied out with my fruitless labors, I fell asleep. It would have been better, if I could have done it, to have "given to the winds my fears," and lost myself in peaceful and refreshing slumbers; for generally, on the following morning, the needful supplies arrived. They seldom came from the parties from whom I expected them, but they came notwithstanding.

One day, towards the close of the year, my stock of paper was very low, and I had nothing with which to purchase a fresh supply. Next morning a letter came, enclosing thirty-five pounds, a Christmas gift from friends in Ireland.

On one occasion, when I was unwell, a gentleman whom I had never seen, and whom I have not seen yet in fact, sent me forty pounds, to enable me to spend a month at some hydropathic establishment. He had read a number of my publications, and had been pleased with them, and having learned in some way that I was not well, had sent this proof of his kind regard.

There was one man in Newcastle, a wealthy man, who said to me, "Come to me whenever you are in difficulty, and you shall have whatever you need." I was often in difficulties, but hesitated to ask his help. One day, however, after having waited for supplies from other quarters as long as I durst, I went to him, and stated my case. He kept me waiting an hour or more, and then said, "No." I turned away ashamed and sad. A friend whom I encountered on my way home, said, "What is the matter with you? Are you ill? You look bad." I was obliged to tell him my story. "Is that all?" said he. "We can soon put that right." And he gave me, unasked, as much as I needed.

While we were struggling with our other difficulties, my wife was taken ill. The house in which we lived was badly drained, or rather, the drains being out of order, the offensive materials from other houses lodged under the floor of our cellar kitchen, and sent forth, through the floor, deadly effluvia. In this cellar kitchen we were obliged to live. I was so much from home, and when at home was so much in the open air, travelling to my appointments, and even when in the house, I spent so much of my time in an upper room writing, that I took no harm. It was otherwise with my poor wife. She had to be in this room almost all day long, and often till late at night. The result was a deadly attack of fever. She had felt unwell for some days, but had still gone on with her work, and sought no medical advice or help. At length, as she was going to bed one night, she fainted on the stairs. The stairs were very steep, and the point at which she lost her consciousness was a most dangerous one, and it seemed a miracle that she had not fallen back to the bottom and been killed. But somehow she fell only a step or two. My eldest son heard there was something the matter, and ran to see what it was. There he found his poor, darling mother apparently dead, in the middle of the steep and winding staircase. How he did it, I do not know, nor does he, but though he was only a child of about thirteen years of age, he took his mother, and by some mysterious means, carried her up the remainder of the stairs, placed her on her bed, and then stood sorrowing and trembling till she came to herself. She was ill thirteen weeks. For two or three weeks she seemed on the point of death. On my return, late one night, from one of my engagements, ten miles away in the country, I found her strangely changed for the worse. She looked at me with a look I can never forget. She thought she was dying. I thought so too. Her eye said, Death; her whole expression said, Death. I burst into tears, and gave what I thought was my last fond embrace. She had power to utter just one sentence: it was an expression of tenderness and kindness, more kind and tender than I deserved; and then fell back on her pillow, as if giving up the ghost. But she lived through the night, and she lived through the following day, helpless and speechless, yet still breathing. She recovered, and remained with us to comfort and guide and bless us for nearly thirty years, and then, alas, all too soon apparently, for those who loved and all but adored her, she passed in peace to the worlds of light.

I believed myself all this time engaged in the service of my Maker, and I regarded the arrival of seasonable help from time to time, as a proof that I was an object of His tender care, and that my labors had His smile and blessing. Why did I not trust Him more fully?

By the time I had carried on my printing business for four or five years, the outlay for type, and presses, and other kinds of printing apparatus, became much less, while my income from the sale of books became much greater, and I found myself able, at length, to purchase whatever I needed as soon as I wanted it. By-and-bye I had money always on hand. The relief I felt, when I found myself fairly above want and difficulty, was delightful beyond measure.



CHAPTER XIII.

CONTACT WITH UNITARIANS, AND DOWNWARD TENDENCY TO DEISM.

I had now for some time been gradually approaching the views of the more moderate class of Unitarians. Some of my friends, when they saw this, became alarmed, and returned to their old associates in the orthodox communities; others got out of patience with me for moving so slowly, and ran headlong into unbelief; while the great majority still chose to follow my guidance.

Two of my Quaker friends, who had aided me in my peace lectures, waited upon me and said, that it would be necessary for me, if I meant to continue to lecture in connection with the Peace Society, not to allow myself to be known as holding heterodox views. I answered that I would not submit to one hair's breadth of restraint, nor to a feather's weight of pressure; and the consequence was, the withdrawal of all assistance and countenance from the orthodox portion of the Quakers in every part of the country.

The Unitarians had long been observing our movements, and when they found us coming so near to their views, they began to attend our meetings, and to court our company. At first we were very uneasy at their advances, and shrank from them with real horror; but our dislike and dread of them gradually gave way. They were very kind. They lent us books, and assisted us with the loan of schools and chapels. They showed themselves gracious in many ways. And after the cruelty we had experienced from other parties, their kindness and sympathy proved very agreeable. I read their works with great eagerness, and was often delighted to find in them so many sentiments so like my own. I had read some of Channing's works before, and now I read them all, and many of them with the greatest delight. I read the work of Worcester on the Atonement, of Norton on the Trinity, and of Ware on a variety of subjects. I also read several of the works of Carpenter, Belsham, Priestley, and Martineau. Some of those works I published. I also published a work by W. Penn, "The Sandy Foundation Shaken," which some thought Unitarian. I came at length to be regarded by the Unitarians as one of their party. They invited me to preach in their chapels, and aided me in the circulation of some of my publications. I preached for them in various parts of the country. I was invited to visit the Unitarians in London, and I preached in most of their chapels there, and was welcomed by many of the ministers and leading laymen of the Metropolis at a public meeting. When my friends raised a fund to purchase me a steam printing press, many Unitarians gave liberal subscriptions. Several of their leading men attended the meeting at which the press was presented, and took a leading part in the proceedings.

I had not mingled long with the Unitarians before I found that they differed from one another very much in their views. Some few were Arian, some were Socinian, and some quite Latitudinarian. Some admired Priestley, some Carpenter, some Channing, and some Parker. Some looked on Channing as an old fogy, and said there was not an advanced or progressive idea in his writings; while others thought that everything beyond Channing bordered on the regions of darkness and death. Some looked on the Scriptures as of divine authority, and declared their readiness to believe whatever they could be proved to teach: others regarded the Scriptures as of no authority whatever, and declared their determination to accept no views but such as could be proved to be true independent of the Bible. Some believed Jesus to be a supernatural person, commissioned by God to give a supernatural revelation of truth and duty, and empowered to prove the divinity of His mission and doctrine by supernatural works. Others looked on Christ as the natural result of the moral development of our race, like Bacon, Shakespeare, or Baxter. They looked on miracles as impossible, and regarded all the Bible accounts of supernatural events as fables. They were Deists. One I found who declared his disbelief in a future life. There was a gradual incline from the almost Christian doctrine of Carpenter and Channing, down to the principles of Deism and Atheism.

While in London I became acquainted with Dr. Bowring, afterwards Sir John Bowring. He was one of my hearers at Stamford Street Chapel, and complimented me, after the sermon, by calling me the modern John Bunyan. He had been pleased with the simplicity of my style, and the familiar and striking character of my illustrations. He invited me to his house, showed me a multitude of curiosities, which he had collected in his travels round the world, made me a present of part of a skull which he had taken from an Egyptian Pyramid—the skull of a prince, who, he said, had lived in the days of Joseph,—he also made me a present of his works, including five volumes of translations from the Poets of Russia, Hungary, and other countries, and some works connected with his own eventful history. Dr. Bowring was a member of Parliament, and he took me to the House of Commons, introduced me to a number of the members, got me into the House of Lords, and did all in his power to make my stay in London as pleasant as possible.

Another London gentleman who was very kind was Dr. Bateman, the Queen's Assistant Solicitor of Excise. He took me to several assemblies, at one of which, besides a number of the great ones of the land, I was introduced to a New Zealand chief, a strong-built, broad-set, large-headed, lion-looking man. It was hinted that he knew the taste of human flesh, and was probably thinking at that moment, what rich contributions some of the youthful and well-fed parties who were paying their respects to him, would make to a New Zealand feast. At one of those assemblies there was a tremendous crowd, and I lost my hat, and some body else must have lost his, for I got a magnificent and strange-shaped head-cover, that might have distinguished, if not adorned, the greatest magnate of the land.

Dr. Bateman and Dr. Bowring showed me kindness in other ways, obtaining for me and my friends large grants of books, contributing to the fund for the purchase of a steam press to be presented to me, and inducing a number of their friends to contribute. I was also introduced to Dr. Hutton, minister of Carter Lane Chapel, and preached and lectured in his pulpit. And I visited the meeting-place of the Free-thinking Christians, was introduced to the leading members of the society, and was presented with their publications. I preached at Hackney Chapel, where I had William and Mary Howitt as hearers, who were introduced to me after the sermon, invited me to spend some time at their house, showed me the greatest possible kindness, and did as much as good and kind people could do to make my stay in London a pleasure never to be forgotten.

A meeting was called in the Assembly room of the Crown and Anchor, or the city of London Tavern, to give me a public welcome to London, and a great number, the principal part, I suppose, of the London Unitarians met me there, to give me a demonstration of their respect and good wishes. I spoke, and my remarks were very favorably received; and so many and kind were the friends that gathered round me, and so strange and gratifying the position in which I found myself, that I seemed in another world. The contrast was so great between the treatment to which I had so long been accustomed in the New Connexion, and the long-continued and flattering ovation I was receiving from so large a multitude of the most highly cultivated people in the country, that if I had lost my senses amid the delightful excitement it could have been no matter for wonder.

But it was more than I was able to enjoy. I longed for quiet. I wanted to be at home with my wife and children, and in the society of my less distinguished, but older and more devoted friends. I fear I hardly showed myself thankful enough for the honor done me, or made the returns to my new friends to which they were entitled. They must have thought me rather cool in private; but they knew that I had been bred a Methodist, a plain Methodist, and had lived and moved among Methodists of the plainer kind, and never before been fairly outside the Methodist world. And some of them knew that I had not much time for pleasure-taking, sight-seeing, and the current kind of chat, or even the multiplication of new friends and acquaintances. They knew too that I had a business which required my attention, and a vast quantity of letters to answer, and parties calling for my help in almost every part of the country.

I was happy at length to find myself at liberty to leave the metropolis, and my many new, agreeable and generous friends and acquaintances there, and return to quieter and calmer scenes, and more customary occupations, in the country.

But I never was permitted to confine myself within my old circle of acquaintances, and my old sphere of labor, after my visit to London. Accounts of my London meetings were given in the Unitarian newspapers and periodicals, and spread abroad through the whole country. The result was, I received invitations to preach and lecture from almost every town of importance throughout the kingdom, and from many places that were not of so much importance; and many of those invitations I was induced to accept. I visited Bristol, and had a welcome there as gratifying and almost as flattering as my London one. I was introduced to all the leading Unitarians there, and had a grand reception, and a course of lectures in the largest and most splendid hall in the city. And the place was crowded. I visited Bridgewater, Plymouth, Exeter, and Tavistock, with like results. And then I had calls to Yarmouth, Lynn, Bridport, Northampton, Taunton, Birmingham, Sheffield, Hull, Manchester, Liverpool, Bolton, Stockton, and other places without number. And everywhere I found myself in very agreeable society, and in every place I met with real, hearty, and generous friends. It is true I met with some who had little of religion but the name; but I met with others, and that in considerable numbers, who really feared and loved God, and who were heartily desirous to promote a living practical Christianity among their neighbors. These were delighted to see and hear a man who, while he held to a great extent their own religious views, was full of Methodistical zeal and energy, and who had power to attract, and interest, and move the masses of the people. They regarded me as an Apostle of their faith. They believed the millennium of enlightened and liberal Christianity was at hand. They hearkened to my counsels, and set to work to distribute tracts, to improve their schools, to establish new ones, to organize city missions, to employ local preachers, and to circulate books of a popular and rousing character. And both they and I believed that a great and lasting revival of pure unadulterated religion was at hand. And it took some time to dissipate these pleasant hopes, and throw the well disposed and more pious part of the Unitarians down into the depths of despondency again. But the melancholy period arrived at length.

You cannot kindle a fire and keep it burning in the depths of the sea. And it is as hard to revive a dead or dying church, especially when its ministers and schools are supported by old endowments, and when many of its most influential members have caught the infection of infidelity, and become mere selfish, flesh-pleasing worldlings.

And this was the case with Unitarians. Many of the trustees, and a considerable portion of the wealthier members, cared nothing for religion. Others had no regard for anything about Christianity but the name and a little of the form. Some had such a hatred of what they called Methodist fanaticism, that they shrank from any manifestation of religious life or earnestness. And they had such a horror of cant, that they canted on the other side. Their talk about religion was little else but cant. Their talk about cant itself was cant. They had quite a dislike of any thing like religious zeal, and had a dread of any one who had been a Methodist, especially if he retained any of his Methodistical earnestness. The word unction was a term of reproach, and the rich, invaluable treasure for which it stood was an offence. They wished to enjoy themselves in a quiet, easy, self-indulgent, fashionable way, and have just so much of the form and appearance of religion as was requisite to a first class worldly reputation. They had no desire to be regarded as skeptics or unbelievers; that would have been as bad as to have been reputed Methodists; but they would have nothing to do with any schemes or efforts for the revival of religious feeling in their churches, or with any interference with the customary habits or quiet worldliness of their peaceable neighbors. Some, and in certain districts many, even of the poorer members, were utterly indifferent, and in some cases even opposed, to any religion. In some cases both rich and poor had become grossly immoral. Their churches had degenerated into eating and drinking clubs. The endowments were spent in periodical feasts. There were also cases in which the chapel and school endowments had fallen into the hands of individuals or families, who looked on them and used them very much as private property. The schools and congregations had disappeared, and even the chapels and school-houses were rapidly hastening to ruin.

And there was everywhere a tendency downward from the Christian to the infidel level. If churches do not labor for the conversion of the world, and endeavor to become themselves more Christ-like and godly, degeneracy, and utter degradation and ruin are inevitable. And the tendency, at the time to which I refer, throughout the whole little world of Unitarianism was downwards to utter unbelief. In many minds there was as much impatience with old-fashioned moderate Unitarianism, as with old-fashioned Christianity or Methodism. They wanted preachers who would openly assail the doctrine of the divine or special inspiration of the Bible, and the supernatural origin of Christianity, and try to bring people down or up to the pagan or infidel level of mere sense and reason.

The Unitarians required no profession of faith; so that deists and atheists had the same title to membership as believers in Christ. They administered the Lord's Supper, but they had no church discipline, so that people defiled with the filthiest vices had the same right to communicate as people of the rarest virtues. Even the ministers were not required to make any profession of faith, so that deists and atheists were admitted, not only into the churches, but into the pulpits.

I was not aware of these things when I first became identified with the Body. It is possible that the Body was not so corrupt at that time as it was after. Any way, at the time of my return from infidelity to Christianity, both deists and atheists were among the ministers. If any find it hard to believe these things, let them read my pamphlet on Unitarianism, where they will find testimony from leading Unitarians themselves, to the truth of these statements.

Whatever encouragement therefore certain portions of the Unitarian Body might give to a man like me, the influence of the Body generally was sure to render my labors of little or no avail. If the more religious portion of the ministers and members had been willing to come out from the Body, and leave their old-fashioned buildings and endowments behind them, they might have done some good; but this they were not prepared to do. Many even of the better class of Unitarian ministers were fond of a quiet literary life. They were students, scholars, and gentlemen, rather than preachers and apostles. They were too good to be where they were, and yet not robust, and daring, and energetic enough to make their way into more useful positions. And their style of preaching was not popular. It never would have moved the masses. Indeed much of it would have been unintelligible to the kind of people who crowded to my meetings. They could not therefore have moved into my sphere without exposing themselves to want. If some one could have gone and helped them in their own work, in their own spheres, it might have answered for them; but it would not have answered for them to come out and battle with the rude, coarse, outside world. And even if good, earnest ministers had gone to their aid, it would have caused a rupture and division in the church.

My labors therefore could do little more than rouse the better portion of the Body to a temporary zeal and activity, and transfer a number of my friends to their communion.

And I and my friends were out of our place, and out of our element, in their society. The earnest words we spoke were not 'like fire among dry stubble;' but like sparks falling into the water. Instead of us kindling them, they extinguished us. The 'strong man armed' who had got possession of the Unitarian House, was too strong to be overpowered and cast out by anything short of a miracle of Omnipotence. And that was out of the question. Christ can save individuals, but not churches. To members of a dead or depraved church his words are, 'Come out of her, my people.' And there was, and there is, no revival, no salvation, for Unitarians, but by their abandonment of the Unitarian fellowship, and their return to Christ as individuals. So you may guess what followed. I had got where it was impossible for me to do others much good, even if I had been better myself, and where it was impossible for me to prevent others from doing me most serious harm. I was on an inclined plane, tending ever downward, with all surrounding influences calculated to render my descent every day more rapid.

Down this inclined plane I gradually slid, till I reached at length the land of doubt and unbelief. My descent was very slow. It took me several years to pass from the more moderate to the more extravagant forms of Unitarianism.

When I first read the works of Dr. Channing, though I was delighted beyond measure with many portions of his writings, I had a great dislike for some of his remarks about Christ and the Atonement. And when I first resolved to publish an edition of his works, I intended to add notes, with a view to neutralize the tendency of his objectionable views; but by the time I got his works into the press, those views appeared objectionable no longer.

I still however regarded portions of Theodore Parker's works with horror. His rejection of miracles, and of the supernatural origin of Christianity, seemed inexcusable. And many a time was I shocked while reading his "Discourse on Matters pertaining to Religion," by the contemptuous manner in which he spoke of portions of the sacred Scriptures. I was enchanted with many parts of the book; but how a man of so much learning, and with such amazing powers, and with so much love and admiration of Christ, and God, and goodness, could go to such extremes seemed a mystery. And I resolved, that if ever I published an edition of his works, I would add a refutation of his revolting extravagances. Yet time, and intercourse with the more advanced Unitarians, brought me, in a few years, to look on Parker as my model man.

When I first heard an Unitarian say, "Supernaturalism is superstition," I gave him to understand that I did not feel easy in his company. "You are right," said Dr. Bateman, "Pay no regard to such extreme views: preach your own old-fashioned practical doctrines." This made me feel more at ease. Yet the gentleman who spoke to me thus, as I afterwards found, was himself on anti-supernaturalist. But he saw that I had to be dealt with carefully,—that I was not to be hurried or argued, but led gently and unconsciously, into ultra views. This was the gentleman that busied himself more than any other in obtaining subscriptions towards the steam press. He professed to like my supernatural beliefs much better than the anti-supernatural views of the extremer portion of his brethren. And perhaps he did like them better, though he had lost the power to believe them himself. But whether he liked them or not, he won my confidence, and gained an influence over me, which an honest avowal of his opinions, and especially an open attempt to induce me to accept them, would have rendered it impossible for him to gain.

Strange as it may seem, I still retained many of my old methodistical habits, and tastes, and sensibilities. My mind was still imbued to a considerable extent with true religious feeling. My head had changed faster than my heart. And I still took delight in reading a number of my old religious books. And I had no disposition to indulge myself in worldly amusements. I could not be induced to go to a theatre, or even to a concert. I would not play at draughts or chess. I hated cards. And all this time I held myself prepared to defend, in public discussion, what I considered to be the substance of Christianity. An arrangement was actually made for a public debate on Christianity about this time, between me and Mr. Holyoake. It was to take place at Halifax, and I attended at the time, and stated my views in two lectures; but Mr. Holyoake did not attend. He was prevented from doing so by illness, it was said.

Some of the publications which I issued about this time, in reply to one sent forth by the Rev. W. Cooke, led to a public discussion between me and that gentleman, in the Lecture-room, Newcastle-on-Tyne. Mr. Cooke was a minister—the ablest minister—in the Body to which I myself had formerly belonged. The list of subjects for debate included the following:—"What is a Christian? What is the Scripture doctrine with regard to the Atonement? What is Saving Faith? What do the Scriptures teach with regard to Original Sin, or Natural Depravity, The Trinity, The Divinity of Christ, The Hired Ministry, and Future Punishment?"

The discussion lasted ten nights, and every night the room was crowded to its utmost capacity. The excitement was intense. And it pervaded the whole country. There were persons present from places nearly two hundred miles distant. Hugh Miller, the Scotch geologist, was there one night. As usual, both parties considered themselves victorious. And both were right. Neither the truth nor the error was all on one side; nor was the argument. Christianity was something different from the creed of either party, and something more and better. It was more and better than the creeds of both parties put together. My opponent, though something of a Christian, was more of a theologian. He was committed to a system, and could not see beyond it, or dared not accept any views at variance with its doctrines. Hence he went in direct opposition to the plainest teachings of the Scriptures, and the clearest dictates of common sense. He found it necessary also, to spend a portion of his time in foolish criticisms on Greek and Hebrew words, and in efforts to make the worse appear the better reason. As for myself, I was committed to change. I was travelling downwards at the time, at a rather rapid rate, and was not to be turned back, or even made to slacken my pace. The ordinary kind of theological vanities I regarded with the utmost contempt, and I had come to look on some portions even of Christ's own teachings as nothing more than doubtful human opinions. I held to the great foundation truths of religion, and to the general principles of Christian truth and duty, and, I will not say, defended them, for they needed no defence beyond their own manifest reasonableness and excellence,—but stated them both with sufficient clearness and fulness. But neither party was in a state of mind to learn from the other. War, whether it be a war of words, or a war of deadlier weapons, tends generally to widen the differences and increase the antipathies of the combatants. And so it was here. And one party certainly went further and travelled faster in the way of error after this exciting contest than he had done before.

And greater extremes produced more bitterness of feeling in my opponents. One man wished me dead, and said to a near relation of mine, "If there was a rope round his neck, and I had hold of it, I would hang him myself." And this was a man remarkable, in general, for his meekness and gentleness. Another said he "should like to stick me:" but he was a butcher. Another person, a woman, said, "Hanging would be too good for him: hell is not bad enough for him." There was one even among my relations that would not speak to me; a relation that before had regarded me with pride. At some places where I was announced to lecture, men organized and plotted to do me bodily injury, and in some cases they threatened me with death. On more than one occasion I had narrow escapes with my life. Once I was struck on the head with a brick, which almost took away my consciousness, and came near putting an end to my life. On another occasion I was hunted by a furious mob for hours, and had repeated hair-breadth escapes from their violence. One man advocated my assassination in a newspaper, and the editor inserted the article, and quietly gave it his sanction.

All this was natural, but it was not Christian, nor was it wise. "The wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God." Hard bricks have no tendency to soften a man's heart. These attempts to force me into submission made me more rebellious. They roused my indignation to the highest pitch, and fearfully increased my hatred of the churches and their creeds, and made me feel as if I ought to wage against my persecutors an unsparing and eternal war.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE BIBLE QUESTION. INSPIRATION, INFALLIBILITY. HISTORY OF MY VIEWS ON THE SUBJECT.

A PRAYER.

Help me, O Thou Great Good Father of my spirit, in the work on which I am now about to enter. Enable me, on the great and solemn subject on which I am now to speak, to separate the true from the false, the doubtful from the certain, the important from the unimportant. And may I be enabled to make all plain. And save me, O my Father, from going too far. Let me not run to any extreme. Yet enable me to go far enough. May I not, through needless fear, or through any evil motive, be kept from speaking anything that ought to be said. I am Thine, O my God; use me according to Thy will, for the service of Thy Church, and for the welfare of the world. I am every moment accountable to Thee; help me so to speak that I may be at peace with my own soul, and have a sweet assurance of Thy approbation. Fill my soul, O my Father, with the spirit of love, of truth, of tenderness, and of all goodness. Guide Thou my pen, and control my spirit. Grant that I may so write, that I may do some good and no harm. May Thy people endeavor to do justice to what I say. If any one, through error or evil disposition, should do me wrong, help me to bear the trial with Christian meekness and patience. And may the time at length come, when the religion of Christ, so full of truth and love, shall be understood and embraced by all mankind, and when by its blessed and transforming power the earth shall become the abode of purity, and love, and bliss. AMEN.

* * * * *

It may not be amiss to state now, how far I had gone at this time, with regard to my views on the Bible.

1. I remember a time, when I believed that the Bible in which my father read, came down direct from God out of heaven, just as it was. I looked on it as simply and purely divine.

2. I afterwards learnt that the Bible was printed on earth, and that it was a translation from other books which had been written in Greek and Hebrew.

3. But I still supposed that the Greek and Hebrew Bible was wholly divine, and that the translation was as perfect as the original.

4. I next learned that the translation was not perfect,—that the translators were sometimes in doubt as to the meaning of the original, and put one meaning in the body of the page, and another in the margin,—that in other cases they had misunderstood the original, and given erroneous translations. I sometimes heard preachers correcting the translation of passages, and when I came to read commentaries and other theological works, I found the authors doing the same thing.

5. I then found that there were several translations of the Scriptures, one by Wesley, one by Campbell, and others by other men, and that they all differed from each other, and that none of them could be regarded as wholly correct. When I read the Notes of Adam Clarke on the Bible, I found that he often differed from all the translators, and that in some cases he differed from them very widely.

6. I still supposed that the originals were perfect; that in them we had the words of God just as they came from His own mind.

7. But I afterwards found that there were several originals,—or at least several Greek and Hebrew Bibles,—and that they also differed from each other to some extent, and that none of them could be said to be entirely free from error.

8. I learnt from Adam Clarke and others that the printed Greek and Hebrew Bibles had been compiled from manuscripts,—or from Bibles, or portions of the Bible, written by the hand, before the art of printing was known.

9. I also found that those manuscripts differed from each other, in a great many places, and that in some cases they differed on points supposed to be of considerable importance, and that it was impossible to tell which of the manuscripts were most correct.

10. I also learnt, that all existing manuscripts were copies of other manuscripts, and that the real original books, the books written by Moses and the Prophets, and by the Evangelists and Apostles, were all lost, so that it was impossible to tell, with absolute certainty, whether any of the manuscripts were absolutely correct,—that when the best and ablest men on earth had done their utmost, there would still be room for doubt as to the true reading, as well as to the correct meaning, of various portions of Scripture.

11. I next learned that there were differences of opinion among critics and divines as to whether certain books ought to have a place in the Bible or not. In my father's Bible there were several books called the Apocrypha. Some of these were very interesting. I used to read them with a great deal of pleasure. And large portions of others, especially those called The Wisdom of Solomon, and Ecclesiasticus, seemed as good, as true, and as beautiful as anything in the Book of Proverbs. My parents however told me, that those books were not to be put on a level with the other books of the Bible,—that there was some mystery about their origin, and that there was some doubt whether they were really a part of the word of God.

12. I afterwards learnt though, that they were regarded as part of God's word by the Catholics, and I continued to read large portions of them with much satisfaction and profit.

13. I also learnt from Adam Clarke and others, that there had been doubts in the minds of some of the ancient Christians with regard to the right of some of the Epistles and of the Book of Revelation to be admitted as parts of the Bible. And I afterwards found that the Book of Revelation was excluded from the Bible by the Greek Church, and by Luther as well:—and that Luther had but little regard for the Epistle of James, one of the finest portions of the whole Bible as I thought.