Modern Skepticism: A Journey Through the Land of Doubt and Back Again Part 11

Considering that I was to a great extent self-taught, that much that I learned I learned after I had become almost a man, this perhaps was natural; but it was a disadvantage. It would have been better if I had sought only for the true, the good, the beautiful in what I heard, and read, and saw. I ought, perhaps, instead of exercising my critical powers on others, to have contented myself with exercising them on my own character and performances, and with endeavoring in all things to set an example of what was worthy of imitation. It may be that I was _naturally_, _const.i.tutionally_ critical; but that does not make it right or wise. I ought to have warred with my const.i.tutional propensities, and to have kept my critical tendencies within the bounds of prudence and charity.

But this wisdom was too high for me in my early days, and I fear that while I was pressing attention to practical matters on others, I was myself too much busied in doctrinal matters. I was too zealous _against_ certain doctrines while rebuking others for being too zealous _for_ them. While they were too doctrinal and controversial positively, I was too doctrinal and controversial negatively. They erred in going too far; I was too zealous in pus.h.i.+ng them back.

In many things my enemies were wrong: but there were other things in which I was not right. They were very foolish; and I was far from wise.

I see it, I feel it all, and I lament it too. And still I feel the remains of my old defects and vices clinging to me. I have still great need of the mercy of G.o.d, and of the forbearance and kind consideration of my brethren. G.o.d help me, if it be not too late, to improve both in wisdom and in Christian virtue. My Gracious G.o.d, it is Thy wish that Thy people 'should be conformed to the image of Thy Son, that He might be the first-born among many brethren.' Oh, if I could but approach that point, and be worthy to take some humble place as a brother of that glorious embodiment of all moral and spiritual excellence, what would I not give,--what would I not do! If it be possible,

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 Sat.u.r.day 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 antic.i.p.ated trials, and sorrows, and great changes; but how strangely different the realities have proved from what I antic.i.p.ated in my fevered dreams! But I had strong faith in G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sion. 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, G.o.dly 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 a.s.sure 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 s.h.i.+llings.

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 c.u.mberland, 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 pa.s.s.

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 s.h.i.+llings 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 Staffords.h.i.+re Potteries. The Berry Brow people heard of this, and as I had to pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+llings, 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 quant.i.ties 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sociates, 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 a.s.sail 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 pa.s.sages 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 princ.i.p.al 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 t.i.tle, 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.